David Gitin

A gentle American poet, under-regarded except by some other poets (Anne Waldman and Lyn Hejinian published blurbs for David's newist book, Woke Up This Morning,  a selected poems 1962-2014), died just yesterday.

His wife, Gloria Avner, posted for him on Facebook.

A mate from Buffalo days, here is his poem "Blessing" from that fine book of his.   



waters run gold with black silt
volcanic

yellow moon yellow moon
no matter the road





And from that same book:

Yer Blues

words
bound of dread

birth
not right

world
I did not do

not know



Horse Ankles

horse ankles
deer thighs

they say I have my mother's
eyes



The Sway of "A"

a life
alive all 





R.I.P., man....

MayPac

Sunday, May 3, London. - Monday May 4th..  Thinking of the people of Nepal - a poor but proud mountain people, and waiting to watch a rerun of the "big fight" which I saw last night "live" on TV ($35 to see in UK, and reruns allowed for 24 hours).

Never saw either before except Pacquiao being flat out cold on his face against Juan Marquez (a fighter Mayweather had defeated, but there was no rematch).  I assumed Mayweather would win unless Pacquiao knocked him out.  As has been said, he would have had to at least knock him down.  He no longer had the punch to do it, although he rocked him once or twice, and Mayweather said after the fight that he was "a good puncher."  But I was not impressed with either.  Am just a lifetime fan of the sport, that's all, by no means an afficionado -  "Greatest Fights of the Century" on black-and-white TV (10 p.m. east coast time saturdays was it..) when I was growing up sort of thing....   

The fight might have ended the same way even if both were in their primes as boxers.  (Paul Simon's song "The Boxer" comes to mind but one hopes that never happens, although I always relate that song to Joe Frazier, a good man, and the ferocity Smokin' Joe had in the first Ali fight, persistent and enduring, with the punch to back it up, would have been necessary for Pacquiao to break down Mayweather.)

I don't follow the sport much anymore.  I had never even heard of Pacquiao until De La Hoya, but I think his after-fight comment that Mayweather "didn't do anything" for him wasn't inaccurate, and personally, though Mayweather won, I thought it wasn't as clear-cut as the Judges and most others would have it/are having it.  Pacquiao was the aggressor, made the fight, but it was clear he wouldn't knock him out, and Mayweather was ready with his right as Pacquiao must have remembered Marquez was. Then there was that shoulder injury as he claimed. Since it became unlikely a knockdown of Mayweather was to be, it also became clear that Mayweather was bigger and stronger and had significant reach advantage although the left seemed to serve simply to keep Pacquiao out, and to measure.  

I heard that Willie Pep once won a round without ever throwing a punch, and Mayweather's own claim that he was as good as Sugar Ray Robinson (or even Sugar Ray Leonard), is a bridge too far.  Ali was faster as a young heavyweight than either of these it seemed, watching on TV or on the big screen in Buffalo the night he fought Cleveland Williams, whoa, - Ali's speed of hands not just feet, was unbelievable to see.  The hard straight left jab that got through the defense, etc.

But it was a good clean fight! Though Mayweather (on second viewing) did seem to wrestle a bit besides ducking and dodging.  



Well, never mind about all of that, all of this.  (and thanks to Allen Fisher, for publishing my previous short essay on a boxing match, "Frazier-Ali" - in SPANNER (number 6), and in the first SPANUAL anthology.  (For the best long and serious essays on boxing, there is Hazlitt's classic, "The Fight" and in a more modern era, Norman Mailer's pieces. )





("Same Day, Later")

My father died in 1984 and left me enough money to leave my dead-end part-time job as an Adjunct teaching Composition at Temple U. (a job I had held for 18 months to pay the rent, and for which I had been glad to have, returning to Philadelphia after a hard decade in London, much of it south of the river), and to travel for a time, so I collected myself, and was able, after two years, to journey to India via a stopover in London, and a pre-booked flight to Nepal from - where was it, from Calcutta or Varanasi....

After five days and nights in Kathmandu, I departed....I wrote this poem during my time there. (It was published in 1988 by John Rety (Hearing Eye) as part of my chapbook "Glimpses  of India and Nepal").

The allusion to "Rapunzel" is to the Kumari Devi.

There was the murder of King Birendra and his family by one of their own, and the attempted armed takeover by the latest version of Maoists and God knows what else, and the everyday life of the people, and now the earthquake. "Namaste" is a Nepali word which I was told translates literally as "I salute all divine qualities in thee" and is a greeting, like Shalom, or Iaorana.  Perhaps the "20 years" should have been 20 eons.



NAMASTE

for over twenty years & still
the restless yearning lonely souls
have come togther
on the streets of Kathmandu

King Birendra's in his Palace
But there are beggars on the street
White Lighnin's at the Red Square
Steaks are at KC's
Rapunzel's in the Durbar Square
rarely to be seen.
There are curries at Sunkosi
Tibet is not yet free.

And all the restless yearning souls of planet earth
Will come together one last time
In the Hindu Buddhist heart of Asia
in the streets of Kathmandu

And the children they go barefoot
In the Himalayan foothills
The women work like horses
In the mountains of Nepal.
The poor man always struggles.
His house is cold in winter
While the rulers live like Maharajahs.
But holy men are chanting
In the dusty night-time streets of Thamel
Electric bodies turn the prayer wheels
In Kantipur

And all the restless yearning souls
Will come together one more time
In the Hindu Buddhist heart of Asia
- the streets of Kathmandu

3 new poems

3 short new poems written in London this year and a photograph of how I look now at age 74 (2015) on the site of Prague Writers Festival (www.pwf.cz), in the subsection "Fear"....

These poems complement (sort of) the 2 poems on the same site in "Cafe Central" from February 2009, and a photo from younger/happier/more hopeful times.

Thanks to the President of Prague Writers Festival, American poet Michael March, for continuing to publish my work - if one can call it "work"....



earlier poems on-line in sites other than my six related blogsites can be accessed via www.poetrymagazines.org.uk.

(1) Poetry Review, numbers 3 and 4 (1976/77).

(2) Fire, numbers 9, 11, 12, 17, 26, and a guest editorial in #8.

on expatriation

"A day comes when these old people grow ill and helpless, far from the familiar sights and sounds of their youth, self-exiled for reasons which have become dim in their memories, in an alien place which they never saw as it is and quite understood...."

(Luigi Barzini)

(quoted by John Cohassey in his book "Hemingway and Pound")

Response to an e-mail from Pat Bohnet in Niagara Falls, NY

Who asked me (referring to the very brief excerpt from "The Later Letters of Charles Olson and Frances Boldereff" I had posted on New Year's Eve) why Olson was so desperate, and also asking (referring to the previous post): Why is "Moby Dick" so important. What follows is my edited response to her queries.

Olson imagined Frances Boldereff to be the great love of his life (though in my opinion, if they had gotten together for more than the very occasional fling it may not have worked (she wanted it to at first, but he wouldn't leave his wife).  Olson was quite lonely the last years of his life after his second wife  (both common law marriages) died in a car accident outside of Wyoming, N.Y. (about 40 miles from Buffalo) where they were living.  Some think it was suicide, but there is no evidence of that.  He was fortunate enough to have one child from each of the marriages, but after the death of Betty, his second wife, he was not able to look after them and they went to live with relatives.  He was never "himself" so to speak after 1965, and pretty much lived alone in his apartment at Stage Fort in Gloucester, Massachusetts, a working-class district of that city.  2 volumes of letters to Frances, the 1st volume embarrassing and does his reputation no good at all - just sentimental wallowing, but the later letters are much better, when he realized they were never going to get together (though she was a bit of a tease).  But simply he was very lonely.  "Charles Olson in Connecticut" by the late scholar Charles Boer, deals with some of Olson's compulsive behavior during a few of these latter years.

re: Melville.  Although Moby Dick can be boring and hard slog, it is more a work of philosphy and cosmology than it is a novel, really.  I recommend you buy Olson's "Call Me Ishmael" and only read Moby Dick when you have the psychological time and space, preferably on or looking at an ocean, though Niagara Falls will do nicely.  I'm sure you have read Billy Budd.  It is worth reading the best exegesis I know on Budd, a chapter in Andrew Del Banco's biography of Melville, which you can get at your library.  An excellent good read, but he skims over much too lightly Melville's quite formative years in the South Seas.

There is what I think is a major vision change in his writing after Moby Dick to a very dark pessimsim after he realized (as I too have realized in my own life - though I am not in any way comparing myself except in this respect) he would never be able to return to the South Seas.  In fact his wife wanted to commit him to an insane asylum and went so far as to ask Oliver Wendell Holmes, Sr., to sign the commitment papers. Melville took off for the Middle East ("The Holy Land" as he put it) and except for Budd, wrote only poetry the last decades of his life.  In Moby Dick, the only Polynesian character is Queequeg, whereas in his first three books, Typee, Omoo (set mainly on Moorea then called Aimeo), and Mardi, there is Polynesian Romance to the nth degree.  

I would put Moby Dick favorably up against any other text, the Russian novelists, Marquez, even Shakespeare.  Melville was the greatest writer America has produced, and Moby Dick is his masterwork.   

John le Carre

Because of the cloak-and-dagger nature of his subject matter, his novels do not receive the praise of tastemakers and academics; however, his books investigate moral ambiguity in all of its deepest aspects. The protagonists, some of whom, like Melville's Bulkington, begin by being good men, and naive men, in a world of shadows. Melville disappears him from the Pequod and Moby Dick early on; le Carre makes him someone whose illusions are stripped bare, so that he cannot even utter "The horror!" as Conrad's Marlowe does since he is not looking into the abyss but is inside of it.  Nations as entities, imperialist entities, and men seeking power within these structures, cause chaos, downfall, and death.  His language is so precise in his novels that the noir-ness impales the reader in a web of conflict, a spider's web of confusion for the characters in his novels who are pawns, wittingly and unwittingly, willingly and unwillingly, for the forces which control the world and our lives in it.

His protagonists, like the haunted characters in the novels of David Goodis, for example, commit, in the end, to honorable action and even to love, but it destroys them.  Right from the beginning, from his first novel, Call For The Dead, le Carre is certain of his direction, and the character of George Smiley is introduced, and the figure of Mundt, who features prominently in his taut masterpiece, The Spy Who Came In From The Cold.  A friend had told me this novel was even better than the film, which I found hard to believe, but it is true. The characters played in the film by Richard Burton and Claire Bloom are portrayed in the novel in a way which make their transformations doomed, and, in the end Alex Leamas, counter-intelligence agent, opts for a humanity, despite the plea of Smiley, the head of "the circus" - MI5, and MI6, the British domestic and foreign spy networks, so called because the headquarters are in Cambridge Circus, a street near London's West End.  But this is no James Bond world; it is a black-and-white nightmare, where nothing is clear, only grey, where goodness is betrayed in the name of national security.      

Smiley suffers personal betrayal in Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy, the le Carre tale adapted into the extraordinary TV series with Alec Guiness as Smiley, and in Smiley's People as well, for which LeCarre wrote the screenplay. (Both these brilliant and engrossing TV program series feature Beryl Reid as "Connie" the Sovietologist who first brought the double agent activities of the "Cambridge five" to light, and who was the first to name Philby as a traitor.) Smiley's deep analytic intelligence and careful commitments allow him to rise above his masters and contemporaries, even if his coldness, his calculating nature and investigative mind and cynical disposition deprive him of his emotions due to love lost (in spite of his maintained loyalty to his country).

Absolute Friends is an exceptionally ambitious novel attempting a kind of overview of what the world is really like when all illusions are shattered. It is a novel reminiscent of Fitzgerald in its precience - the knowledge that the wealthy phillistines have emerged victorious and have left a waste land behind them. Published in 2003, one of the two protagonists, Sacha, le Carre names him, was also the code nickname of Litvinenko, the secret agent who was the first victim of private nuclear terrorism, murdered in London via the ingestion of Polonium 210, in 2006.  An odd literary co-incidence or even a literary misprision (as Harold Bloom might say), but the world created by le Carre, seemingly old fashioned cold war and post cold war, is almost Burroughsian under the surface - a world where, as Burroughs had said (first to Eric Mottram): "A paranoid is a man in possession of all of the facts."  A world where Dr. Benway calls the shots.  A world where politics is for the naive, where people and nations are no longer in control of their destinies, where "no good deed goes unpunished" (Wilde), and where loyalty and friendship and family are consistently undermined, where the male bonding, a kind of Greek agape, between Sacha and the British recruit to the Secret Services, Ted Mundy, must be destroyed, inevitably.  le Carre, despite his distaste for what Britain has become, a nation steeped in secret hypocrisy,  reserves his greatest disdain for the CIA, picturing the shoot first ask questions later attitude of the American empire, as the most extreme form of coarse anti-intellectualism which the author despises, yet never denying its effectivness in the struggle to maintain a kind of "freedom" against overtly dictatorial regimes, and their servants, represented more often than not by the governments behind the old iron curtain.
                        
le Carre was employed as a spy for a time by British intelligence, and a biography is due out in October. Long after Kim Philby was exposed, le Carre was offered a meeting with him by the British secret service, but le Carre (whose cover Philby had blown resulting in le Carre's early retirement from British Intellgience) declined.  In his eighties now, his last two novels, A Perfect Spy (said to be his most autobiographical) and the most recent text, A Delicate Truth, reinforce and further explore earlier obsessions and continue to leave no doubt that to meet betrayal and desperation with a sense of fatalism is the most honest course of action.  Like Hawthorne, there is little light in his books, only a sounding of the darkness of man's heart, and the belated striving of his protagonists to understand and to transcend it.  

London, December 31, 2014

I can't remember ever being so lonely as I am tonight.  Here is a very tiny excerpt from "The Later Letters of Charles Olson and Frances Boldereff"


"I don't know what my own future holds, and these have been desperate days - (you can't imagine, I shdn't think, what an impossible effort it is for a man like myself, finally compulsive, to live alone...& I am strained beyond endurance..."

(Letter of 9 January 1968)

Return To Paradise : A Girl From The Taipai Valley, & other Melvilleanisms.. and literary interventions.

"I may succeed, perhaps, in particularizing some of the individual features of Fayaway's beauty, but that general loveliness of appearance which they all contributed to produce I will not attempt to describe."

Melville, from Typee




"All visible objects, man, are but as pasteboard masks.  But in each event - in the living act, the undoubted deed - there, some unknown but reasoning thing puts forth the mouldings of its features from behind the unreasoning mask.  If man will strike, strike through the mask!"

Ahab to Starbuck "The Quarter-Deck"  - Moby Dick


"On  the second day, a sail drew near, nearer, and picked me up at last.  It was the devious-cruising Rachel, that in her retracing search after her missing children, only found another orphan."

from  Epilogue to Moby Dick



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(posted February 15th)


STEPHEN CRANE



"This poor gambler isn't even a noun.  He is a kind of adverb.  Each sin is a result of a collaboration."          .....  from "The Blue Hotel"



There was a man with a tongue of wood
Who essayed to sing,
And in truth it was lamentable.
But there was one who heard
The clip-clapper of the tongue of wood
And knew what the man
Wished to sing.
And with that the singer was content.



I saw a man pursuing the horizon;
Round and round they sped.
I was disturbed at this
I accosted the man.
"It is futile," I said,
You can never - "

"You lie," he cried,
And ran on.


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(posted February 18th/19th)


"Melville...deserted the Acushnet, his first whaleship, at the Marquesas.  He was one of eleven mutineers aboard his second, a Sydney ship the Lucy Ann, at Tahiti.  Nothing is known of his conduct on the third,  except that he turned up after it, ashore, at Honolulu. ..... Like Timon Melville found only disappointment. He lost Jack Chase, and Hawthorne, shyest grape, hid from him.  In a poem of his later years Melville wrote:

'To have known him, to have loved him
After loneness long
And then to be estranged in life
And neither of us wrong
Ease me, a little ease, my song.' "

(Charles Olson, from Call Me Ishmael)





(Maybe re: Hawthorne it was for the best.  Perhaps Melville picked up the shadow of anti-semitism which does surface in his writing, from Hawthorne, who, in The Marble Faun manuscript under golden chain and lock and key in the British Museum, compares Jews to cockroaches.  In the following century, most first generation modernists shared their dislike and distrust and even hatred of Jews, from Fitzgerald in The Great Gatsby, to T.S. Eliot's viciousness throughout his poetry and in his unexpurgated prose essays, to Gertrude Stein, whose anti-semitism after her rejection of her inherited Judaism, and her overt support of Hitler, has been whitewashed by many contemporary feminists and poets. Not even Pound in his writings or his broadcasts in Italy ever praised Hitler to the best of my knowledge.  Of the Americans it was only Hemingway who was able to transcend his prejudices in this respect.

In England, anti-semitism seems almost to be hard-wired, and the medieval massacre of Jews at York, has been obliterated from English history as "not part of our story" as one Englishman put it to me.  Of course, in English religious education at a primary and secondary (high school) level, only Christianity and, more recently, Islam, are taught. Philip Roth in his "Christendom" chapter of his novel, The Counterlife, delineated the anti-semitism which has pervaded English culture.  You might be hard-pressed indeed to name an English writer prior to WWII who did not share and perpetuate an anti-Jewish point of view.

As Leslie Fiedler has written of encountering Shylock: "Shylock is the product of their guilt and fear, a stratagem for projecting what they must needs recognize as evil in themselves onto an alien Other....And how, after the experience of Hitlerism, is it possible not to be aware that even smoldering ashes of those myths can be blown into flame when will and circumstance conspire."




Edward Dahlberg in Can These Bones Live writes: "Melville had come to deny woman as a planetary creature.  In the brief pagan heyday in Omoo, Typee, Mardi, he believed he had moulded nude female cannibals; however, he had limmed insubstantial and aerated phantoms of sensuality, Fayaway and Yillah....In Pierre it was incest; but Isabel, the beloved of her brother Pierre, is an air-substanced leafy, bowered Yillah - only more Atlantic and fjord-like in speech and temper....What was Melville's quest?  His insatiate hunger for absolutes, for the Platonic forms of gentleness, mercy and understanding, was taking him whither?  In his pilgrimage for the "heart's virgin experience," Melville, in his last year, had conceived in Billy Budd pure Male manhood, but had drawn a vestal maiden in the likeness of one of Fra Angelico's seraphs."


Olson again, in Call Me Ishmael: "The three great creations of Melville and Moby-Dick are Ahab, The Pacific, and the White Whale."



-----------------------------

(posted March 1st)


"Who knows what true loneliness is - not the conventional word but the naked terror? To the lonely themselves it wears a mask. The most miserable outcast hugs some memory or some illusion."

"Do you understand what I say?  Not one to go to.  Do you conceive the desolation of the thought - no one - to - go - to?  .....  'How did this old man come here' he muttered, astounded."  

Joseph Conrad,  Under Western Eyes



--------------------------------------------------------

(posted March 7th)

"In the 'Withheld' Letter 27 he had laid out, in a resounding epistolary voice...the distinguishing thing of (his) zoe-life....The poet sees the connection between his own zoe-life and geography, which is the purchase he had needed for Maximus to address the bios-life of the citizens of Gloucester....In the congruent mapping of 'spacial nature' he had found a way to express that which to Kerenyi is inexpressible, the thing that watches you in your drunken bios-life, the intoxication of Merry as Maximus IV V VI opens."

-----Jack Clarke in intent. (vol. 2 no, 4 / vol 3. no. 1) Winter/Spring 1991.



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