Search Results for: robert cording
“A Christmas Story “by Robert Cording
This poem is part of CavanKerry’s series for National Poetry Month. Every day in April, we post a poem from our community of writers.
A Christmas Story
by Robert Cording
Sure, I’d had too much wine and not enough
of the Advent hope that candles are lit for;
and I’ll confess up front, I was without charity
for our guest who, glassed in behind those black,
small, rectangular frames, reminded me
of those poems that coldly arrange a puzzle
of non-sequiturs to prove again how language
is defective and life leads to nothing more
than dead-ends. So, after a night of wondering
if our never-more-than-hardly-surprised guest,
a young professor whose field of expertise
seemed to be ironic distance, would give
a moment’s thought, as he took apart everyone’s
unexamined stances, to how and why his own
might be constructed, I blurted out a story
over our Christmas dinner dessert, about
Alexander Wat, how the Polish poet,
taken one day from his Soviet prison
to see a local magistrate, stood in the sun,
reveling in its warmth on his face and arms
and hands; as he took in the beauty
of a woman in a light green dress, he knew
he would soon be back in his prison cell.
He never forgot, he said, the irony of
his freedom, and yet he felt, standing there,
something like a revelation, the autumn day
surging in those silly puffiest white clouds,
and a hardly bearable blue sky, and the bell
of a bicycle ringing, and some people
laughing in a nearby café, and that woman,
her bare languid shoulders turning in the sun—
it was all thrilling, achingly alive, a feast
happening right there on the street between
the prison and a government office, nothing else
mattering, not even the moment he knew
was coming, and arrived, right on schedule,
when he stood woodenly before the magistrate.
And when I had finished, my face flushed,
my guest looked at me with astonishment,
unable to process where so much emotion
had come from, and then asked, calmly as ever,
what I meant when I’d used the word, revelation.
“A Christmas Story” is from Only So Far (CavanKerry Press, 2015).
Robert Cording teaches English and creative writing at College of the Holy Cross where he is Professor of English and Barrett Professor of Creative Writing. He has published seven collections of poems: Life-list (Ohio State University Press/Journal award, 1987); What Binds Us To This World (Copper Beech Press, 1991); Heavy Grace (Alice James, 1996); Against Consolation (CavanKerry, 2002); CommonLife (CavanKerry, 2006); Walking With Ruskin (CavanKerry, 2010); and A Word in My Mouth: Selected Spiritual Poems (Wipf and Stock, 2013).
Nin Andrews interviews Robert Cording

NIN ANDREWS
These are such profound and meditative poems (Only So Far), I wondered as I was reading them if you had a spiritual practice? Or if writing might be, for you, a kind of spiritual practice?
ROBERT CORDING
Yes, I do think of writing as a form of spiritual practice, if for no other reasons, that writing makes me look hard at the world and myself. For years now, I’ve tried to sit and look at the world immediately around me, or walk and note daily changes in the life of my neighborhood, both in the natural world and in houses and the activities of the people around me. I also have done the Jesuit Spiritual Exercises twice and still use their “Examen” daily, which is a series of short prayers that give praise, ask for help in the long process of self-honesty and self-examination, and ultimately in the even more difficult activities of loving and hoping. And I try to read a Hebrew Psalm each day.
NIN ANDREWS
Reading this collection, I had the desire to weep. It’s so beautiful and so full of sorrow and grief. Were most of these poems composed in the aftermath of your father’s death?
ROBERT CORDING
No, a good portion of the poems was written at a retreat called the Hermitage in Englewood, Florida on the west coast. I did two three-week stays in January over two consecutive years. The poems about my father came quickly about a year after his death just when I thought I had finished my grieving.
NIN ANDREWS
In the opening section, you have this lovely poem about your father, “Still Listening.” I was wondering if you might post a section from the poem here.
ROBERT CORDING
This is from the last section called “My Father’s Hearing Aids.”
Too costly to throw out,
my mother says, my father’s hearing aids,
some whole, some in various stages
of disassembly, lie in his top drawer
like a museum exhibit of a lost past—
when he was still living,
hand constantly raised to his ears,
trying to take hold of the sounds
that fell out of the air or floated
around him like apparitions.
I pick one up and fit it into my ear
as if, my own hearing amplified,
I might pick up something he is
still saying, but all I get is that loud hum
and screech, which, like a rip
in the scrim of memory,
bring him back—he’s at it again,
working to tune in the scramble
of insect chirr, rain chattering
on the trailer’s metal roof,
wind in the pines, a grandchild’s
high-pitched play, the buzz
of his wife’s voice. He wants to hear
again without thinking
of what he’s hearing, wants the Sinatra
song on the radio to sound exactly
the way he remembers it,
and not as if some damaged stylus
were sliding across the black ice
of an old LP. In the end,
nothing ever came to him clearly enough.
I see him spinning those little dials
on his hearing aids back and forth,
nearly frantic, nearly in tears,
the world he’s hearing
like the static of space, those gurgling,
stuttering, anomalous noises
we have our radar pointed at
as if we cannot imagine, being human,
the deep, enclosing silence
without another voice.
NIN ANDREWS
This collection moves seamlessly from poem to poem—almost as if they were composed in order. But I am betting that’s not the case?
ROBERT CORDING
No, that’s definitely not the case. In fact I had more trouble with the ordering of the poems in this book than I’ve ever had. Even after I hit on the ordering principle of the two epigraphs and the movement between sorrow and joy, or life’s dead-ends and those moments, which Woolf called “matches struck in the dark,” I didn’t see my way. The person who truly saw the pattern of organization that the book’s final form took was my editor and friend, Baron Wormser. I am deeply grateful for his help.
NIN ANDREWS
There’s a dialectical movement throughout the book, sometimes a linear divide—whether it be Kafka’s Fence, the North Korean border, Philippe Petit’s tightrope, or the road one is crossing in “Amnesty.” Was that a conscious choice?
ROBERT CORDING
Yes, I wanted the poems to vacillate between the poles of the Herbert poem that serves as one of the epigraphs to the book.
I will complain, yet praise;
I will bewail, approve:
And all my sowre-sweet dayes
I will lament, and love.
NIN ANDREWS
I love your lines about Emerson in the poem “Midwinter Emerson,” his belief/ we were made for ecstasy and his fear of just that, which reminds me of the lines in the poem about Camus, “Watching Cranes, I think of Camus,” who wondered how we could ever be // miserable, so much beauty in the world,/ but also, how we could ever be happy, / so much shit in the world. Do you share their feelings?
ROBERT CORDING
Yes, I do. I have always lived, it seems, in a kind of “in between” place. By that I mean: on the one hand, my experience tells me that I live in a creation that is a gift of love. On the other, I see quite well the more rationale understanding that the world we live may simply be the result of accident and Darwinian evolution. I think Keats’ notion of “Negative Capability” and Simone Weil’s idea about contradiction have always been touchstones for me: that we must live in the contradictions of our experience without an “irritable reaching out after fact and conclusion,” to quote Keats.
NIN ANDREWS
Tell me about the title.
ROBERT CORDING
The title, Only So Far, comes from a phrase in the poem “Like a Dream” about manatees. Here’s the ending:
Have they made some placid truce
with our noisy world above them,
unable to do more than what they do?—rise
to the surface, their buoyant peace
a kind of offering and sacrifice,
a story to be told thousands of years from now
on some cathedral wall—of creatures that passed
beneath us, at rest in their movement,
then disappeared from our world,
never needing anything from us,
their peace only able to bear us so far,
even if we always wanted to believe in it.
The larger idea in the book is that we can only “get so far.” Like Moses overlooking the Jordan River, we can see the Promised Land, but never get to cross the river. Our place is always that “in between” I spoke about: between the “wilderness” and the Promised Land; between what we can know and the mystery we must acknowledge.
NIN ANDREWS
Do you have a specific time of day or year that you write? Do you have any writing rituals? Are their poets whom you work with?
ROBERT CORDING
When I’m writing, I work each morning from 8-12. I tend to read and make notes for poems for months, then write for two months, a schedule that came from teaching no doubt. I was never able to do much more than make notes and do revisions once a semester started up. Then in May, when the second semester ended, I would write every day for four hours until school resumed at the end of August. In response to your second question, I exchange poems on a fairly routine basis with the poets Jeffrey Harrison and William Wenthe.
NIN ANDREWS
Who are your primary literary influences?
ROBERT CORDING
Because I loved and taught British and American literature for forty years, my influences range widely, but behind most of my poems and thinking you can find George Herbert, William Wordsworth and John Keats on the British side, Robert Frost and Wallace Stevens on the American.
NIN ANDREWS
I admire so many of these poems, I wanted to underline most of the book. “A Christmas Story” is one of my favorites, especially when you describe the Polish poet’s revelation. I wondered if we could close with the interview by posting the poem below.
ROBERT CORDING
A Christmas Story
Sure, I’d had too much wine and not enough
of the Advent hope that candles are lit for;
and I’ll confess up front, I was without charity
for our guest who, glassed in behind those black,
small, rectangular frames, reminded me
of those poems that coldly arrange a puzzle
of non-sequiturs to prove again how language
is defective and life leads to nothing more
than dead-ends. So, after a night of wondering
if our never-more-than-hardly-surprised guest,
a young professor whose field of expertise
seemed to be ironic distance, would give
a moment’s thought, as he took apart everyone’s
unexamined stances, to how and why his own
might be constructed, I blurted out a story
over our Christmas dinner dessert, about
Alexander Wat, how the Polish poet,
taken one day from his Soviet prison
to see a local magistrate, stood in the sun,
reveling in its warmth on his face and arms
and hands; as he took in the beauty
of a woman in a light green dress, he knew
he would soon be back in his prison cell.
He never forgot, he said, the irony of
his freedom, and yet he felt, standing there,
something like a revelation, the autumn day
surging in those silly puffiest white clouds,
and a hardly bearable blue sky, and the bell
of a bicycle ringing, and some people
laughing in a nearby café, and that woman,
her bare languid shoulders turning in the sun—
it was all thrilling, achingly alive, a feast
happening right there on the street between
the prison and a government office, nothing else
mattering, not even the moment he knew
was coming, and arrived, right on schedule,
when he stood woodenly before the magistrate.
And when I had finished, my face flushed,
my guest looked at me with astonishment,
unable to process where so much emotion
had come from, and then asked, calmly as ever,
what I meant when I’d used the word, revelation.
Robert Cording: Finalist for the 2012 Poets’ Prize
The Poets’ Prize of $3,000 honors a book of poems published two years prior to the award year. The annual prize is donated by a committee of about 20 American poets, who each nominate two books and who also serve as judges.
Winner of the 2012 Poets’ Prize:
NED BALBO
The Trials of Edgar Poe and Other Poems
Story Line Press (2010)
AND FINALISTS:
ROBERT CORDING, Walking with Ruskin, CavanKerry Press
MAURYA SIMON, The Raindrop’s Gospel:
The Trials of St. Jerome and St. Paula, Elixir Press
The prize was presented on
Thursday, May 17 at Nicholas Roerich Museum
(319 West 107th Street, New York, NY)
Funding for the Poets’ Prize is administered by the West Chester University
Poetry Center and is contributed by the members of the Poets’ Prize Committee:
Dick Allen
Colette Inez
David Mason
Lynn Emanuel
Major Jackson
Linda Pastan
Claudia Emerson
Allison Joseph
Robert Phillips
B. H. Fairchild
Julie Kane Marie Ponsot
Richard Foerster
Margaret Lally
Timothy Steele
R. S. Gwynn, Chair
Peter Makuck
Leon Stokesbury
Andrew Hudgins
Charles Martin
“We believe there is no greater honor than to be awarded a prize by a jury of one’s peers.”
The Breath of Parted Lips: Voices from the Robert Frost Place, Volume 1
ADA Awareness Month: Robert Carr and The Cultural Access Network Project
As I mentioned in my first piece for ADA Awareness Month, I recently attended an ADA Plan training session facilitated by John McEwen and Robert Carr of the Cultural Access Network Project. John and Robert are passionate about helping New Jersey’s cultural organizations make their programs accessible to everybody. Robert generously agreed to answer some questions about the work of CAN and about the importance of accessibility for all. He asked John to field the last question. Thank you Robert and John!
-Teresa Carson, Associate Publisher
CavanKerry Press
What is the Cultural Access Network Project and why was it established?
Robert Carr
The Cultural Access Network Project, established in 1992 is a co-sponsored program of the New Jersey Theatre Alliance and the New Jersey State Council on the Arts. The Project provides a wide range of services and programs to assist theatres and cultural organizations in making their programs and facilities accessible to seniors and people with disabilities. It was created in response to the Americans with Disabilities Act signed into law in 1990.
It is comprised of a committee of arts administrators, advocates and professionals that are well versed in the field of accessibility.
CKP
Why is it important for NJ cultural organizations to make their programs and facilities accessible to seniors and individuals with disabilities?
CARR
According to the recent census, it is estimated that over 10% of NJ citizens identify themselves with having a disability. As organizations in the “audience business”, not to include this population in their audience development efforts makes little sense. Our population is aging and offering accommodation only ensures that this population will continue to consider attending the rich and wonderful programming our arts organizations offer.
CKP
Please give some examples of ways in which cultural organizations provide access to programs or services.
CARR
Many performing arts organization offer American Sign Language interpretation of plays and musicals as well as providing Open Captioning and Audio Description. Offering large print Programs are an easy way to accommodate those patrons with low vision. We have seen great examples in the visual art world whereby certain paintings in collection have been converted to raised line drawings for patrons who are blind to feel in order to get an idea of the content of the painting.
CKP
Have there been changes in technology that make it easier for organizations to provide access?
CARR
Technology in the access arena is developing rapidly. More and more technologies are being developed to harness the power of smartphones and other personal devices. The New Jersey Theatre Alliance purchases and loans Assistive Listening devices that work by transmitting an FM signal that is picked up by a personal receiver for use in either Audio Description or Volume Enhancement. I expect 3D printing technology to be a boon for Visual Arts organizations by offering samples of artwork and sculpture that may not be able to be handled directly but can be recreated by having the item be 3D printed as a facsimile.
CKP
How does the Cultural Access Network Project support cultural organizations in their efforts to make their programs and services accessible?
CARR
We offer a wealth of programs and services such as technical assistance workshops, sensitivity training and equipment loan to aid organizations as they develop their access efforts. We also administer in partnership with the NJ State Arts Council, the collection and evaluation of ADA plans that are a part of the Arts Council grant requirement.
CKP
How long have you been involved with the Cultural Access Network Project? What changes, particularly in how cultural organizations approach accessibility, have you seen since you began?
CARR
I am currently entering my 10th year of work with the Cultural Access Network. The greatest change I have witnessed is the growing sense of priority in the arts field. More and more organizations are “getting on board” with this work.
CKP
Please describe your vision for the future of the Cultural Access Network Project.
CARR
I would defer this question to the Founder and Chairman of the Cultural Access Network and Executive Director of the New Jersey Theatre Alliance, John McEwen. I have asked him to answer this one.
John McEwen
As a result of the work of The Cultural Access Network Project, I see a future where every cultural organization in New Jersey has an understanding and commitment to making its programs, services and facilities accessible to all patrons. In addition, I envision organizations, large and small, designing innovative programs to ensure a wide range of constituents, including older adults and people with disabilities, can enjoy and participate in the arts with dignity and independence.
About Robert Carr
Robert is a life-long resident of New Jersey, a spectacular cook and a seasoned veteran in the arts community. Since 2005, Robert has served as Director of Programs and Services/ADA Coordinator for the New Jersey Theatre Alliance, the award winning service organization for NJ’s professional theatres. Previously, Bob served as General Manager for the 12 Miles West Theatre Company. He called Playwrights Theatre home from 1998 to 2004 and in his professional career has worn many hats as producer, actor, director and teaching artist. He has also served on the faculty of New Jersey School of Dramatic Arts in Bloomfield. As a performer he has worked in many of the Alliance’s member theatres including 12 Miles West, The Bickford Theatre, The Growing Stage; The Children’s Theatre of NJ, Luna Stage Company and Playwrights Theatre. Carr is a graduate of the American Academy of Dramatic Arts, and is a proud member of Actors Equity Association. Robert is husband to Stephanie and father to Sabrina.
Against Consolation
CavanKerry Authors
The Birth of a Press Part 5: CavanKerry’s Commitment to the Art of Fine Literature
Words to Keep You Company
The Birth of a Press Part 4: Building Our Image
Without My Asking – Pre-Order Now!
Supporters
CavanKerry is deeply grateful for our community of friends and supporters, whose generosity builds and sustains our organization. We extend a heartfelt thank you to all who gave during the 2023 Fiscal Year:
Nin Andrews
Patricia Barone
Mary Lynn Broe
Carl Carlsen
Andrea Carter Brown
Barb and Doug Caruso
Alan and Valerie Catlin
Karen Chase and Paul Graubard
Susan Coppock
Catherine Doty
Roberta Enoch & Steve Canner
Meris & David First
Jean Flanagan
Anonymous $500 Donor
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Loren Graham
Lorraine and Frank Granza
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Anonymous $1,000 Donor
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Gina & John Larkin
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Marion Paganello
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Anonymous $250 Donor
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Anonymous $50 Donor, in Honor of Robert Cording
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Thank you also to the Handler Foundation and the New Jersey State Council on the Arts for your ongoing belief in us and for providing the financial bedrock that makes all we do possible.
Additional thanks goes to the following organizations and agencies for your past and/or current partnership and sponsorship of CavanKerry’s programming:
- New Jersey State Council on the Arts – www.njartscouncil.org
- Discover Jersey Arts – www.jerseyarts.com
- The Academy of American Poets – www.poets.org
- Community of Literary Magazines and Presses – www.clmp.org
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- National Book Foundation – www.nationalbook.org
- New Jersey Arts and Culture Recovery Fund – www.pacf.org/njartsculture
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Words truly do not capture how much your support means to us. We hold each of you close to our hearts.
With Gratitude,
Joan, Gabriel, Dimitri, Tamara, & Dana
If you would like to make a donation to CavanKerry Press, you may do so Here or send a check to 5 Horizon Rd #2403 / Fort Lee, NJ / 07024
Publisher’s Note
Book Press Release: Only So Far
Only So Far
Poems by Robert Cording
ONLY SO FAR (CavanKerry Press; October 2015; $16.00, paperback), the eighth collection of poems from Robert Cording, once more probes what Baron Wormser has identified in this poet’s work as “the rich borderland between spirit and religion.” In poems that find their poignancy and grace in the inevitability of loss, Cording seeks explanation and solace in the everyday miracles that both surround and sustain us. At once lyrical and uncompromising, these poems are about the humility of the human experience in the face of something greater that we can only try to understand.
Cording launches Only So Far with the reflective “Kafka’s Fence”:
In a drawing by Kafka, a man stands behind a fence,
looking out. He could easily step over
the fence—it is that low—yet we imagine him
pacing back and forth like a prisoner.
The man could have just come to this boundary,
or been here his entire life. Call him Moses, and call
the land on the other side of the fence, Canaan,
and it doesn’t matter how small the fence is, does it?
And you and I?—surely, we’ve spent a lifetime
arriving precisely at this fence. Haven’t we
always known we’d reach an end we couldn’t complete,
the promised land a step away, still unreachable?
This notion of reaching the Promised Land, of some paradise that may exist beyond our challenging lives, permeates the collection. A number of poems chronicle a father’s death, first the ignominy of the descent, then the passing—and later, a mother’s death, too. The memories of them survive in dreams, in nature, in their very absence. An inexplicable death, of a young nephew, prompts thoughts of the painter Constable, whose “canvases record what occurred/each day, as if there were nothing more/he could do” (“Reconfiguring”).
The natural world is never far in Cording’s work, and in Only So Far it once again illuminates our own, human, position in the greater scheme of things. A sojourn in Florida opens new vistas, as the poet explores new terrain that proffers both revelations and recognition. Life—and poetry—is always about discovery for Cording, about elusive truths gleaned from the ordinary manifestations of the extraordinary:
The tide’s going out, and the sand,
washed clean, could be a Zen garden plot
ready to quiet all thought in silence.
The fisherman has broken down his rods
and carries them off now in an empty bucket,
happy enough, it seems, with his few hours
of meditative practice. I used to worry
about running out of words for things.
Now I worry I won’t use up all the words
I’ve been given. Here, in my ill-lit cabin,
shadows moving across the walls,
I live for that poem or two that seem
to gather from the world, or my mind,
or both, what they have to give.
(from “Studio”)
Cording also shares a deep affinity with those who have come before, and his poems here are tied to Emerson and Thoreau, to Camus and Kafka, to Anne Ferry and Wallace Stevens—fellow seekers all, who “lived for that poem.” Often steeped in religion, Cording’s poems also spur philosophical ruminations from the Bible, from St. Augustine, and from the language of faith. In the final poem, “No-name Pond,” he writes, “I’m mostly a restorer, putting back/a few stones tumbled by time, /and thinking of the people who, like myself, /might have enjoyed an afternoon like this one—“
~~~
About Robert Cording
Robert Cording teaches English and creative writing at College of the Holy Cross where he is Professor of English and Barrett Professor of Creative Writing. He has published seven collections of poems: Life-list (Ohio State University Press/Journal award, l987); What Binds Us To This World (Copper Beech Press, 1991); Heavy Grace (Alice James, l996); Against Consolation (CavanKerry, 2002); Common Life (CavanKerry, 2006); Walking With Ruskin (CavanKerry, 2010); and A Word in My Mouth: Selected Spiritual Poems (Wipf and Stock, 2013).
~~~
ONLY SO FAR by Robert Cording
Publication Date: October 2015
Price: $16.00; ISBN: 978-1-933880-49-5
Distributed by: University Press of New England (UPNE), 800.421.1561 or 603.448.1533, Ext. 255
Sorry, We’re Closed: On Submitting Love’s Labors to CKP
In Track a Book, we follow one manuscript’s journey from creation to publication. This monthly series will look at Brent Newsom’s upcoming CavanKerry release Love’s Labors, which is scheduled for release in April 2015.

Sorry, We’re Closed:
On Submitting Love’s Labors to CKP
by Brent Newsom
Know your deadline, and don’t miss it. This is a cardinal rule for taxpayers filing their Form 1040, for patients enrolling in health insurance plans, and for writers sending off their manuscripts.
I knew the CavanKerry Press submission deadline in spring 2013. I’d written it on a Post-It note that stayed stuck to my desk for months: March 31. I’d decided to focus my publishing efforts on presses with an open reading period and a clear editorial vision I could connect with. CavanKerry was at the top of that list. They had published books by poets I deeply admire, like Laurie Lamon, Ross Gay, Nin Andrews, and Robert Cording. Their books are beautifully designed, pleasing to the touch and to the eye. And their slogan, “Lives Brought to Life,” gave me a hunch my work might fit CKP’s aesthetic.
So, March 31 was marked on my calendar well in advance. I even knew that March 31 was a Sunday, so I’d actually have to mail my manuscript by March 30. I had the manuscript, titled Love’s Labors, ready in plenty of time. I’d sent earlier versions to first-book contests, and most of the poems I’d worked and reworked for several years. I set about working and reworking my cover letter in similar fashion: it had to summarize the book’s themes and describe my aesthetic approach and show my familiarity with the press and prove I was ready for the “first book” stage of a writing career, without sounding too desperate or pandering or self-important or aloof or showy or . . . Writing a good cover letter, I determined, is at least as hard as writing a good poem. Finally, it was done. I would print the manuscript, go through it one last time on Friday afternoon, and mail that sucker off first thing Saturday morning, postmarked March 30.
Only, when I got to my local post office Saturday morning—and there’s only one in Shawnee, Oklahoma, population 30,000—it was closed. In fact, it’s closed every Saturday. (I’d lived in Shawnee less than a year. I was still learning.) That’s how I wound up racing down Highway 177 with a big yellow envelope on the passenger seat of my car, my heart pounding, and praying that USPS.com was correct when it said that the P.O. in Tecumseh—population 6,500—was open for two precious, merciful hours on Saturday mornings. The whole drive down, though, I pictured the sign in the post office window, with the same message CavanKerry would give if the envelope wasn’t mailed today: “Sorry, We’re Closed.”
But they weren’t. I made it in time. The envelope was weighed and the postage paid. And then I drove home, at a decidedly unhurried pace, and began to wait.
News and Events: Week of September 30
Events
Sarah Bracey White, WVOX Radio/New Rochelle
Thursday, October 3rd, 3 pm.
Sarah will be interviewed by Linda Tarrant-Reid
Listen in via live streaming
News
Andrea Carter Brown will be a Fellow at the artist’s colony Moulin à Nef in Auvillar France from September 30 until October 17, 2013
Andrea Carter Brown
Two new poems, “Domestic Karma” and “Moving Day Odalisque,” were just published in the online poetry journal BigCityLit.
Other CKP writers in the issue are Robert Cording and Moyra Donaldson.
The Birth of a Press: Commitment to Art
Part 4 in our ongoing series, The Birth of a Press, CKP publisher Joan Cusack Handler discusses the ins and outs of running a poetry press.
Not surprisingly, at the forefront of CavanKerry’s concerns is/was the publication of FirstBooks or New Voices. Since the talent was so abundant and the doors mainly shut, we wanted to focus on this very worthy group of writers. Hopefully more publishers would pick up the cause; perhaps others would start presses. This concern included a commitment to no competitions and no reading fees. In their emphasis on winners and losers, competitions seemed to pit writers against each other and exacerbate the envy and insecurity that often already existed. And they are costly. As are reading fees. Unpublished poets as well as those with short publishing histories should have the same rights to have their books read as do poets of considerable reputation and fiction writers, neither of whom are charged reading fees.
Our commitment was/is to publish 2-3 First Books/New Voices every year; manuscripts would come from open submissions and recommendations as well as from the considerable array of worthy poets that the publisher already knew. In addition, due to the fact that publishing like so many other industries/arts seem to venerate the young, particular notice was/is given to older poets. (That said however, no generation has been neglected; our writers range in age from late twenties to early eighties.) Our first New Voices book was A Day This Lit by Howard Levy published in September of 2000. As of the Fall of 2012, of all the books we have published, we have introduced New Voices: Howard Levy, Karen Chase, Peggy Penn, Sherry Fairchok, Sondra Gash, Liz Hutner, me- Joan Cusack Handler, Christopher Matthews, Eloise Bruce, Celia Bland, Catherine Doty, Giorgianna Orsini, Joan Seliger Sidney, Laurie Lamon, Chris Barter, Andrea Carter Brown, Robert Seder, Richard Jeffrey Newman, Ross Gay, Joseph Legaspi, Christine Korfhage, and Teresa Carson.
CavanKerry’s interest in writers who are “under-recognized or rejected by the literary mainstream” came to include many more than previously unpublished poets. So too the seasoned poets at mid career (or beyond) mentioned earlier, many of whom have already published several books by as many publishers, and must, with each new book, solicit another. These are CavanKerry Notable Voices and include Robert Cording, Mary Ruefle, Kenneth Rosen, Jack Wiler, Baron Wormser and Sam Cornish.
Out of print books also concerned us. The plethora of exquisite work that is allowed to go out of print due to slow/limited sales is staggering. We added these to our list and committed to both publish reprints of fine books that we believe deserve permanence, and to do all we can to not allow any of our own books to go out of print. Martin Mooney’s Grub was our first. I was drawn to him first as a gifted writer; that interest deepened once I heard that his publisher had ‘pulped’ the 600 copies of Grub that remained in storage. Without informing Martin and at least inviting him to purchase them or simply remove them. He discovered that the books were destroyed when he contacted his publisher to purchase books for a reading. Grub and Moyra Donaldson’s Snakeskin Stilettos were our first reprints.
Another of our interests is intelligent, insightful works that focus on the creative process and the making of art; these are CK Critical Collections. Our Carolyn Kizer (introduction by Maxine Kumin) and John Haines (introduction by Dana Gioia) books collect the essays and poems of reputable poets and essayists across the country who have studied the works of these two brilliant writers and write in depth about it.
Rounding out our initial aesthetic commitment and introducing our community focus is our interest in special projects; CK published two collections to benefit another arts organization. The Breath of Parted Lips: Voices from the Robert Frost Place, Volumes 1 and 2 were published to honor the great work of The Robert Frost Place Center for Poetry and the Arts in Franconia, New Hampshire under the protective mantle of former executive director, Donald Sheehan, where many notable and fledgling artists, including myself, have made and shared poems.
Finally, it’s important to note that integral to CKP’s identity is our commitment to producing beautiful books. For CKP, books are art pieces whose visual/ physical art must equal the literary art that it frames.
Nin Andrews Interviews Michael Miller

NIN ANDREWS
This book [Darkening the Grass] is so full of compassion and insight. It’s a very serene read, and yet you are writing about challenging and traumatic events. Can you talk a little bit about the process of writing this book, and about finding that balance? I’d especially love to hear you talk about the sequence of poems, “Each Day.”
MICHAEL MILLER
Thank you for your words about my poems–I’m solitary by nature and outside of the academic and poetry world so any time I get a response such as yours I feel very happy.
I’m glad you mentioned finding a balance in Darkening the Grass. I’ve never turned away from traumatic events, be they illness, death, war, or the conflict in relationships, but I try to find another side to them, or an extension of them, which, hopefully, will create a balance.
I seek the hope, joy, love, and this drives me to go beyond all the blackness out there. There is tension in unpleasant situations and that tension leads to an energy which can be creative or destructive.
I try to transfer it into the making of poems. I’ve been married for over thirty years and we still fight, but without our fighting we would be like two knives cutting through cream cheese, and what poetry gets written without conflict, without passion?
You ask about my sequence of poems “Each Day” which centers on a ninety-year-old man, who was a neighbor. After he died his wife told me he had been bedridden for a week and she checked on him frequently. Then she said, “Do you know what Bill said to me? He said, ‘Every time I see you I fall in love all over again.'”
It was this which urged me to write “Each Day,” what I saw and what I imagined about his life. Poetry is poetry and not truth, it’s an art, and very little of art is a true depiction of what has occurred. There’s an imaginative truth, which can be greater than the truth of experience, in that imagination lets you go into places where you have never been. I hope “Each Day” captures the character of an old man, his feelings and thoughts that are personal as well as universal.
NIN ANDREWS
I am completely with you, or with Bill, in these poems. And I love your use of nature as a metaphor, a focal point, and a presence. In section IX of the poem, “Each Day,” for example, Bill is watching this cat as it catches a finch. The cat turns and looks at him as if witnessing the witness. I particularly love that moment. I wonder if you could talk a little about the use of nature in your poetry.
MICHAEL MILLER
I was glad you liked that poem, as it’s one of my favorites.
All of us are a part of nature, and animals witness us as we witness them. I rise at four a.m. to write, it’s my favorite time without a single distraction or intrusion, and then I go for a walk, often before sunrise. I live near woods and a meadow where I’ve seen deer, coyotes, bears, and on one occasion a beautiful wolf. The wolf came out of the woods just as I was passing–both of us stopped, its tail rose like a plume of smoke, and with six yards between us we peered into each other’s eyes. I felt no fear, and sensed the wolf was curious. Then it turned and walked back into the woods–those ten seconds are memorable. I feel very comfortable on these early morning walks. I hope the use of nature in my poetry is as natural as I feel when I am close to it. Of course, nature can be violent and destructive, and so can we.
This goes back to the balance I look for in all things and in all places. Edward Albee wrote a play called “A Delicate Balance,” and that balance is difficult to maintain, in poetry and in our lives. Sometimes we have this balance naturally. Most often we have to work to attain it, but that work can be a sanctuary and salvation if we give ourselves to it.
NIN ANDREWS
And the poem, “The Wolf,” you talk about this wolf. And the wolf, at least the wolf in the poem, inspires both memories of birth, the birth of your son, and thoughts of death. In the fourth stanza, you write:
The wolf sits on his bed.
Its eyes reveal nothing
Of truth, of lies,
And he watches it draw closer,
Smells it breath of ashes
And clover, hears its heart
Drumming his name.
I especially love the last line:
Wherever the wolf has gone,
Outcast, cut off
From all thing human,
It waits for the dark to return.
NIN ANDREWS
I was wondering if you would say a word or two about that poem. And about those who might have influenced you along the way.
MICHAEL MILLER
I am delighted that you liked my wolf poem, as I think it’s one of my better ones.
NIN ANDREWS
Do you write poetry, stories, novels? Your sensibility makes me think you do, but good readers also have my high regard.
MICHAEL MILLER
I was consumed by books as a child and have never forgotten the Big Bad Wolf, Jack London’s White Fang and the werewolf howling beneath a full moon in that dark screen. A wolf must be in my unconscious from where this poem emerged, and using a wolf allowed me to go into places with my imagination where experience never would. Writing in the third person can also open and extend imagination into places where the “I” might never go, and this is also a way of exorcizing demons, finding a persona to do so with.
Ted Hughes has written about animals, and they’re wonderful poems. He was a poet with enormous depth, range, and passion. Yeats, Auden, and Dylan Thomas are poets I continually return to and find enriching; Richard Wilbur and Derek Walcott are the contemporary poets I Iike, both of them exemplify truth and beautiful language. My favorite novelists are Tolstoy, Hardy, and Melville.
NIN ANDREWS
Do you also read philosophy? Or religion? I was reminded of Thich Nhat Hanh, especially when I was reading the poem, “Cutting an Orange,” in which you ask, “If I can love this orange, what heights, / What horizons can I aspire to?”
MICHAEL MILLER
Yes, I’ve read a fair amount of philosophy and religion, and it began in the most unlikely of places–The Marine Corps where I served four years when I was eighteen. In whatever free time I had, which wasn’t much, there was always a small library on base, and that’s where I began with the dialogues of Plato, and then a paperback that I still remember–Huston Smith’s The Religions of Man. One thing leads to another so my list of influences is very long. What was wonderful is that it began at a very impressionable age.
I still read Emerson and am almost finished with his journals, selected and edited by Joel Porte, a simply wonderful book. I imagine the influence of philosophy and religion has always informed my poems, though not often consciously.
You’re right; it’s there in “Cutting an Orange,” which I hope says a great deal about my feelings about marriage without stating them.
It’s easy to make declarative statements in poetry, but for me the best poetry is where the statements are between the words or in the layers. I would love to read the early drafts of Emerson’s essays, as I imagined he overstated like most of us. Condensation in poetry is something I work at because I have found that this leads to depth.
What could be more condensed that Shakespeare’s sonnets, and with a modern poet I think some of Robert Lowell’s poems are tremendous–here’s the first line of “Colloquy in Black Rock”—“Here the jack-hammer jabs into the ocean”–I find that extremely powerful, and his work was certainly informed by religion and philosophy.
NIN ANDREWS
It makes sense to me that you would be reading philosophy and religion while in the Marine Corps. While reading your poems, I kept thinking of the Buddhist practice of looking directly at what is, whether it is war, old age, or the first light of the morning. Did you also start writing poems when you were in the Marine Corps?
MICHAEL MILLER
No, I started when I was out of the Corps and living in New York City–in those days you could live cheaply there. I had a quiet room in the back of a rooming house right next to Riverside Drive for twelve dollars a week.
It was an exciting time for poetry in the city. I heard John Berryman and Jean Valentine read at The Guggenheim Museum; I was very moved by her first book Dream Barker and got in touch with her and she was kind enough to invite me for tea. Galway Kinnell and James Wright read at a church somewhere above Columbia University and Allen Ginsburg read at The New School. At The 92nd Street Y I heard W.H. Auden, George Barker, Robert Lowell, Anne Sexton, Stanley Kunitz, James Dickey, Lawrence Durrell, Ted Hughes, Thom Gunn, and May Sarton. When Auden read you couldn’t find a seat, people were sitting in the aisles.
Then I went to the Gotham Book Mart and bought their books, and all the time I was reading about poetry. Eliot, Auden, Barker, Valery, Rilke, Muir, and Hughes wrote insightful essays and books about what they believed poetry should be. Auden defined poetry as “memorable speech,” and Poe said poetry was “the rhythmical creation of beauty.” Those words are embedded in my brain.
NIN ANDREWS
That is so interesting. How did your career evolve after that?
MICHAEL MILLER
I never thought of poetry as a career; it has always been something I’ve had to write. My father left when I was two, my mother worked, and I was raised by my grandmother. As soon as I could read, books became my world, and they were beautiful illustrated books of Treasure Island, Kidnapped, Swiss Family Robinson, Alice in Wonderland and The Call Of The Wild. When I was nine I asked for a bookcase for my birthday, at ten a desk, at eleven a typewriter; it was a Royal Portable and now I use an Olympia Portable.
Typing came in handy because I worked for an Office Temps agency when I got out of the Marine Corps and landed in the copywriting department of The MacMillan Company. Ruth Brown Murray, one of the great ladies of publishing, liked my work and hired me to write book jackets and space-ads for The Times.
One day I walked into Arthur Gregor’s office, he edited their poetry list, and asked if he would read my poems. Gregor, a fine poet, wanted to publish a book called Four Young Poets and include my work. However a new managing editor overruled that–I mean, MacMillan had published Yeats and Marianne Moore and was not interested in unknown poets. But Gregor encouraged me and suggested I submit to the better journals and soon Carolyn Kizer accepted poems for Poetry Northwest and then Andrew Lytle took two for The Sewanee Review. Throughout the years I continued to publish in such places as The Kenyon Review, The Southern Review, Ontario Review, The Yale Review, The American Scholar and The New Republic.
When I was sixty-seven Stephen Haven of Ashland Poetry Press chose my first book The Joyful Dark for their McGovern Prize. My wife Mary, a perceptive reader, saw a poem by Robert Cording on Poetry Daily and asked if I had heard of him. Twenty-five years ago I read his first book Life-list and have admired his work ever since. Then Mary asked, “Have you heard of CavanKerry Press?” I said no and she said they were having an open submission period. I asked how much for their submission fee and when Mary said twenty dollars I said, “Forget it.” Her reply was quick, “Don’t be stupid!”
So I sent and was fortunate that the people who read my manuscript liked it. One night after dinner when I had had too much wine the phone rang and it was Joan Cusack Handler saying she wanted to publish my book. I remember going on and on and then apologizing and Joan said, “A lot of poets go crazy when they get a call so don’t feel bad.”
NIN ANDREWS
I’d love to close the interview with a poem. Maybe “Cutting an Orange” because we’ve been talking about it?
CUTTING AN ORANGE
Each morning I cut an orange into halves
And the halves into quarters, trying to make
Each segment equal, cutting evenly, precisely,
Beginning the day with this small claim
To order. You turn from a dream
At the noise I make in the kitchen.
Valencia, Seville, I whisper,
As though we were making love,
Then place the wedges on a plate,
This orange which has been picked
In Florida, then shipped north
And unpacked by alien hands.
If I can love this orange, what heights,
What horizons can I aspire to?
Can we eat it together,
Facing each other in Massachusetts
With nothing else between us?
"A Garden State of Poetry" from Mary Rizzo
On April 6, 2014, the Hoboken Historical Museum was abuzz. One hundred people crowded the exhibit floor, overflowing the chairs and standing wherever a space could be found. What brought so many people out on a beautiful Sunday afternoon? A poetry reading, organized by CavanKerry Press and funded by the New Jersey Historical Commission.
But “Something Old, Something (New) Jersey” was more than a typical poetry reading, as suggested by its poster which included Walt Whitman and William Carlos Williams as readers. As part of the commemoration of the 350th anniversary of New Jersey taking place throughout 2014 (https://officialnj350.com/), this event had contemporary NJ poets reading the works of iconic NJ poets and then pieces they wrote that were inspired by these icons. Two living iconic poets, Alicia Ostriker and Herschel Silverman, read their own works.
As this suggests, New Jersey has an impressive legacy of poetry that dates back to the colonial period with the work of Philip Freneau (1752-1832), whose politically themed poems earned him the sobriquet “poet of the Revolution.” But when most people think about the importance of New Jersey, they probably think of Washington crossing the Delaware or the invention of the light bulb, movies, and sound recording technology, rather than poetry. As a historian, I’m interested in two related questions: why are there so many poets from New Jersey? And why doesn’t anyone associate poetry with New Jersey?
One answer to the first question has to do with New Jersey’s unique history, which has made it, without exaggeration, one of the most diverse places in the U.S. since its founding. If we look back to that founding moment in 1664, we see how diversity became part of our state. The British crown took New Jersey from the Dutch and split the territory in half. The east half, really the shore and South Jersey, was given to Sir George Carteret and the west half to Lord John Berkeley. They wrote the “Concessions and Agreement,” which provided freedom of religion in the colony of New Jersey, making it quite different from other colonies, like Massachusetts, which was extremely intolerant in terms of religious ideas. Because New Jersey allowed its settlers to have religious freedom—which equated with political freedom in those days—it drew diverse peoples to it. Also, Berkeley and Carteret sold land at low prices to encourage people to settle there bringing a variety of classes to the colony.
In addition to that diversity, New Jersey is a small, crowded state. Although in the 2nd half of the 19th century, New Jersey sank in terms of its rank by population, by the 1920s, this was reversed, suggesting the importance of immigration, industrialization, the Great Migration, and suburbanization on the state. Now, of course, New Jersey is the most densely populated state in the U.S., with a higher population density than India or China, suggesting how tightly packed in we all are.
Diversity plus density means that we’re constantly rubbing shoulders with people who think differently than we do. New ideas are being created, challenged, and modified, which is perhaps part of the reason New Jersey has been home to so many inventions. That diversity means, very literally, that there are lots of languages, dialects, accents, and ways of speaking which have inspired poets like William Carlos Williams, from Rutherford, immeasurably.
Think of Walt Whitman, who spent the last part of his life in Camden. His writing is full of the flavor of diverse peoples and voices, which is why he’s cited as the poet of democracy. While he lived in Camden he wrote a prose piece called “Scenes on Ferry and River-Last Winter’s Nights” (1891) that captures the feel of the Camden ferry through its people. “Mothers with bevie of daughters, (a charming sight)—children, countrymen—the railroad men in their blue clothes and caps—all the various characters of city and country represented or suggested. Then outside some belated passenger frantically running, jumping after the boat….Inside the reception room, business bargains, flirting, love-making, eclaircissements, proposals—pleasant, sober-faced Phil coming in with his burden of afternoon papers—or Jo, or Charley (who jump’d in the dock last week, and saved a stout lady from drowning,) to replenish the stove, after clearing it with long crow-bar poker.” That diversity of people leads Whitman and so many other NJ poets, to an empathetic interest in their stories and lives.
But it would not be very New Jersey to only focus on the positive. Packing lots of people into a small space causes conflict, too. New Jersey’s poets have been at the forefront of analyzing those conflicts as a way to push our understanding of social structures, examining with razor-precision how we treat the working class and people of color and asking who has power and who does not—and what we can do about it. Amiri Baraka, the Newark poet, was a master at this, but so was another poet from New Jersey, Ntozake Shange. Shange, best known for her choreopoem For Colored Girls Who Have Considered Suicide When the Rainbow Is Enuf, was born as Paulette Williams in Trenton. Although she left Trenton when she was eight, her experience of growing up in that industrial city, especially in a middle-class black family, shaped her unflinching perspective that so beautifully connects race, gender and sexuality using a language infused by jazz in its riffing and improvisation. As in this piece, “Blood Rhythms, Blood Currents, Black n Blue Stylin’”
we gonna take this
new city neon light
sound
volumes for million to hear
to love themselves
enough to turn back the pulse of a whippin’ history
make it carry the modern black melody from L.A.
to downtown Newark City
freedom buses
freedom riders
freedom is the way we walk that walk
talk that talk
Such musicality of language shapes our musician-poets, too. I had the pleasure of being in a session led by Robert Pinsky on poetry and democracy for teachers a few years ago. One of them asked how to get boys interested in poetry and he recalled that when he was a young man he didn’t love poetry. He loved rock music. Lyrics were his first poems. Add to that the poetry of rap music (which one could argue began in Englewood with Sugar Hill Records) and now New Jersey’s poetry legacy has grown even richer—and become even more expansive.
Who else has captured the pathos of working-class New Jersey better than Bruce Springsteen? I remember being in 10th grade English class at Middletown South High School when my teacher Mr. Lynn had us analyze the lyrics to “Born to Run” as poetry. He was right, of course. Springsteen speaks to our more recent New Jersey, one in which the shift from an industrial economy to a postindustrial one combined with the rise of middle-class suburbs meant that the opportunities that had existed for working-class men and women that had existed during New Jersey’s “glory days” in the mid 20th century were ending. To take Camden, again, as an example, the city was once home to Campbell’s Soup’s manufacturing facilities, RCA-Victor, and New York shipbuilding. They are all gone and it is struggling to figure out what’s next.
Why Doesn’t Anyone Realize New Jersey’s Poetry Legacy?
Like Ben Franklin said, New Jersey is a keg tapped at both ends, with New York and Philadelphia draining us. Patti Smith, the punk poet from Woodbury, left NJ and helped create an art movement for disaffected youth everywhere. A poet like Allen Ginsberg, born in Newark, left New Jersey to join the beat movement and then the counterculture in New York and California. Ginsburg used New Jersey in his poetry, but also clearly suggested that he saw it as a place of dead ends. In “Howl” he describes those “who vanished into nowhere Zen New Jersey leaving a trail of ambiguous picture postcards of Atlantic City Hall, suffering Eastern sweats and Tangerian bone-grindings and migraines of China under junk-withdrawal in Newark’s bleak furnished room.” New Jersey can inspire, but its smallness can also be a limitation.
But I don’t think that we should be disappointed by the fact that few people realize what New Jersey has given the world in terms of poetry. When we talk about great American poetry, so much of the time we’re talking about poets from New Jersey. That’s because New Jersey is really America writ small. For this reason, New Jersey has had an influence on poetry well beyond what its small size would suggest because America can be found in our borders. Our poetry is America’s poetry.
And it’s not just a legacy. Poetry is a living, breathing thing in New Jersey today, with poets from Alicia Ostriker to Steven Dunn to Rachel Hadas to Peter Murphy, to CavanKerry’s amazing roster of poets, keeping these traditions alive.
On this point, let me close with an image from a poet who currently works in New Jersey, Tracy Smith, at Princeton University, from her Pulitzer winning collection Life on Mars. What I love about these lines is how she describes the universe as a small, deeply connected community. To me, that also describes the poetry community we have in our state and why New Jersey will always be a home for poetry:
Sometimes, what I see is a library in a rural community.
All the tall shelves in the big open room. And the pencils
In a cup at Circulation, gnawed on by the entire population.
The books have lived here all along, belonging
For weeks at a time to one or another in the brief sequence
Of family names, speaking (at night mostly) to a face,
A pair of eyes.
“A Garden State of Poetry” from Mary Rizzo
On April 6, 2014, the Hoboken Historical Museum was abuzz. One hundred people crowded the exhibit floor, overflowing the chairs and standing wherever a space could be found. What brought so many people out on a beautiful Sunday afternoon? A poetry reading, organized by CavanKerry Press and funded by the New Jersey Historical Commission.
But “Something Old, Something (New) Jersey” was more than a typical poetry reading, as suggested by its poster which included Walt Whitman and William Carlos Williams as readers. As part of the commemoration of the 350th anniversary of New Jersey taking place throughout 2014 (https://officialnj350.com/), this event had contemporary NJ poets reading the works of iconic NJ poets and then pieces they wrote that were inspired by these icons. Two living iconic poets, Alicia Ostriker and Herschel Silverman, read their own works.
As this suggests, New Jersey has an impressive legacy of poetry that dates back to the colonial period with the work of Philip Freneau (1752-1832), whose politically themed poems earned him the sobriquet “poet of the Revolution.” But when most people think about the importance of New Jersey, they probably think of Washington crossing the Delaware or the invention of the light bulb, movies, and sound recording technology, rather than poetry. As a historian, I’m interested in two related questions: why are there so many poets from New Jersey? And why doesn’t anyone associate poetry with New Jersey?
One answer to the first question has to do with New Jersey’s unique history, which has made it, without exaggeration, one of the most diverse places in the U.S. since its founding. If we look back to that founding moment in 1664, we see how diversity became part of our state. The British crown took New Jersey from the Dutch and split the territory in half. The east half, really the shore and South Jersey, was given to Sir George Carteret and the west half to Lord John Berkeley. They wrote the “Concessions and Agreement,” which provided freedom of religion in the colony of New Jersey, making it quite different from other colonies, like Massachusetts, which was extremely intolerant in terms of religious ideas. Because New Jersey allowed its settlers to have religious freedom—which equated with political freedom in those days—it drew diverse peoples to it. Also, Berkeley and Carteret sold land at low prices to encourage people to settle there bringing a variety of classes to the colony.
In addition to that diversity, New Jersey is a small, crowded state. Although in the 2nd half of the 19th century, New Jersey sank in terms of its rank by population, by the 1920s, this was reversed, suggesting the importance of immigration, industrialization, the Great Migration, and suburbanization on the state. Now, of course, New Jersey is the most densely populated state in the U.S., with a higher population density than India or China, suggesting how tightly packed in we all are.
Diversity plus density means that we’re constantly rubbing shoulders with people who think differently than we do. New ideas are being created, challenged, and modified, which is perhaps part of the reason New Jersey has been home to so many inventions. That diversity means, very literally, that there are lots of languages, dialects, accents, and ways of speaking which have inspired poets like William Carlos Williams, from Rutherford, immeasurably.
Think of Walt Whitman, who spent the last part of his life in Camden. His writing is full of the flavor of diverse peoples and voices, which is why he’s cited as the poet of democracy. While he lived in Camden he wrote a prose piece called “Scenes on Ferry and River-Last Winter’s Nights” (1891) that captures the feel of the Camden ferry through its people. “Mothers with bevie of daughters, (a charming sight)—children, countrymen—the railroad men in their blue clothes and caps—all the various characters of city and country represented or suggested. Then outside some belated passenger frantically running, jumping after the boat….Inside the reception room, business bargains, flirting, love-making, eclaircissements, proposals—pleasant, sober-faced Phil coming in with his burden of afternoon papers—or Jo, or Charley (who jump’d in the dock last week, and saved a stout lady from drowning,) to replenish the stove, after clearing it with long crow-bar poker.” That diversity of people leads Whitman and so many other NJ poets, to an empathetic interest in their stories and lives.
But it would not be very New Jersey to only focus on the positive. Packing lots of people into a small space causes conflict, too. New Jersey’s poets have been at the forefront of analyzing those conflicts as a way to push our understanding of social structures, examining with razor-precision how we treat the working class and people of color and asking who has power and who does not—and what we can do about it. Amiri Baraka, the Newark poet, was a master at this, but so was another poet from New Jersey, Ntozake Shange. Shange, best known for her choreopoem For Colored Girls Who Have Considered Suicide When the Rainbow Is Enuf, was born as Paulette Williams in Trenton. Although she left Trenton when she was eight, her experience of growing up in that industrial city, especially in a middle-class black family, shaped her unflinching perspective that so beautifully connects race, gender and sexuality using a language infused by jazz in its riffing and improvisation. As in this piece, “Blood Rhythms, Blood Currents, Black n Blue Stylin’”
we gonna take this
new city neon light
sound
volumes for million to hear
to love themselves
enough to turn back the pulse of a whippin’ history
make it carry the modern black melody from L.A.
to downtown Newark City
freedom buses
freedom riders
freedom is the way we walk that walk
talk that talk
Such musicality of language shapes our musician-poets, too. I had the pleasure of being in a session led by Robert Pinsky on poetry and democracy for teachers a few years ago. One of them asked how to get boys interested in poetry and he recalled that when he was a young man he didn’t love poetry. He loved rock music. Lyrics were his first poems. Add to that the poetry of rap music (which one could argue began in Englewood with Sugar Hill Records) and now New Jersey’s poetry legacy has grown even richer—and become even more expansive.
Who else has captured the pathos of working-class New Jersey better than Bruce Springsteen? I remember being in 10th grade English class at Middletown South High School when my teacher Mr. Lynn had us analyze the lyrics to “Born to Run” as poetry. He was right, of course. Springsteen speaks to our more recent New Jersey, one in which the shift from an industrial economy to a postindustrial one combined with the rise of middle-class suburbs meant that the opportunities that had existed for working-class men and women that had existed during New Jersey’s “glory days” in the mid 20th century were ending. To take Camden, again, as an example, the city was once home to Campbell’s Soup’s manufacturing facilities, RCA-Victor, and New York shipbuilding. They are all gone and it is struggling to figure out what’s next.
Why Doesn’t Anyone Realize New Jersey’s Poetry Legacy?
Like Ben Franklin said, New Jersey is a keg tapped at both ends, with New York and Philadelphia draining us. Patti Smith, the punk poet from Woodbury, left NJ and helped create an art movement for disaffected youth everywhere. A poet like Allen Ginsberg, born in Newark, left New Jersey to join the beat movement and then the counterculture in New York and California. Ginsburg used New Jersey in his poetry, but also clearly suggested that he saw it as a place of dead ends. In “Howl” he describes those “who vanished into nowhere Zen New Jersey leaving a trail of ambiguous picture postcards of Atlantic City Hall, suffering Eastern sweats and Tangerian bone-grindings and migraines of China under junk-withdrawal in Newark’s bleak furnished room.” New Jersey can inspire, but its smallness can also be a limitation.
But I don’t think that we should be disappointed by the fact that few people realize what New Jersey has given the world in terms of poetry. When we talk about great American poetry, so much of the time we’re talking about poets from New Jersey. That’s because New Jersey is really America writ small. For this reason, New Jersey has had an influence on poetry well beyond what its small size would suggest because America can be found in our borders. Our poetry is America’s poetry.
And it’s not just a legacy. Poetry is a living, breathing thing in New Jersey today, with poets from Alicia Ostriker to Steven Dunn to Rachel Hadas to Peter Murphy, to CavanKerry’s amazing roster of poets, keeping these traditions alive.
On this point, let me close with an image from a poet who currently works in New Jersey, Tracy Smith, at Princeton University, from her Pulitzer winning collection Life on Mars. What I love about these lines is how she describes the universe as a small, deeply connected community. To me, that also describes the poetry community we have in our state and why New Jersey will always be a home for poetry:
Sometimes, what I see is a library in a rural community.
All the tall shelves in the big open room. And the pencils
In a cup at Circulation, gnawed on by the entire population.
The books have lived here all along, belonging
For weeks at a time to one or another in the brief sequence
Of family names, speaking (at night mostly) to a face,
A pair of eyes.
Some Notes on Reading William Carlos Williams in the 21st Century
Having a conversation with my friend Joel Lewis about poetry is like having a conversation with an encyclopedia. He may start off with William Carlos Williams, as he does in this piece, but within a few sentences, as he does in this piece, he’ll have also covered Robert Lowell’s Life Studies; T.S. Eliot’s Christianity, and the politics of the main Modernists. And he always manages to throw in something or someone that sends me scurrying to Wikipedia—e.g. in this piece “Mayakovsky.” He peppers every conversation with, “Do you know such-and-such poet?” Many times I don’t and many times Joel’s enthusiasm sends me in search of such-and-such poet. What a gift: to have a friend who sends you in search of poetry.
Joel has published five books of poetry, the latest being North River Rundown, and edited an anthology of NJ Poets, the selected talks of Ted Berrigan and the selected poems of Walter Lowenfels. A social worker for more than twenty years, he is a victim’s advocate with the Special Victims Bureau at the Richmond City DA and wears colorful ties to work.
By the way, William Carlos Williams’ home, at 9 Ridge Road in Rutherford, is still standing.
-Teresa Carson, Associate Publisher
Some Notes on Reading
William Carlos Williams in the 21st Century
I was talking recently to a young poet fully engaged in the writing life. She edits a magazine, is starting a book press, won a grant to research at the Mandeville Poetry Collection at UC/San Diego, reads all over the place and collects the mimeo books and magazines from the era of my days as a “young poet.”
This young poet was telling me that she finally got around to reading William Carlos Williams. “So, what did you think? “I asked her. “Well, I was a little disappointed. His work looks a lot like the stuff you see in magazines today.”
The pervasive influence of WCW’s work on contemporary poetry makes it hard for poets under 40 to realize what a sea change has occurred in American poetry since the 1960s. Up until that point, most poetry published in the “serious” magazines and presses were metrically formal and usually rhymed. Open forms (then more commonly called free verse) were associated with beatnik/bohemian verse and a strain of left-wing poetry influenced by Whitman and Mayakovsky and, therefore, considered of marginal interest in the mainstream and in the academy.
The 1959 publication of Robert Lowell’s WCW influenced Life Notes created a seismic shift in mainstream poetry. In the next few years, accomplished formalist poets such as James Wright, Adrienne Rich, W.S. Merwin, Galway Kinnell and Robert Bly begin writing their poems in open forms. The disciple of Williams – Denise Levertov, Robert Creeley, and David Igniatow—became major forces in the poetry world. The Objectivists – who were comrades of Williams in the 30s and had since languished in obscurity – were rediscovered and began publishing once again.
Williams also spoke to a new generation’s sensibilities. Unlike the formal Christianity of Eliot and many of his circle, Williams was firmly secular and, as a doctor, put his money on science. Unlike the conservative politics of his fellow Modernists (fascist Ezra Pound, FDR-hating Marianne Moore and ur-Republican Wallace Stevens), Williams was politically liberal with an uncommon sympathy for the poor. And unlike the doctors of his day, he even supported what was then called “Socialized Medicine” — a first cousin to today’s Obamacare.
Williams was also the first major American poet whose home language was not English. Although his father was born in the UK, he had spent much time in the Caribbean and spoke Spanish to his Puerto Rican born wife and his mother-in-law who lived with them. What his frenemey Wallace Stevens called “the antipoetic” in his poetry was actually WCW’s intentional decision to use demotic language and illuminate the quotidian world much in the way that the painters of the Ashcan School and his friends Charles Demuth, John Marin and Charles Sheeler were doing.
William’s poetry also contains multitudes. Poets as different as Robert Pinsky, Allen Ginsberg and Clark Coolidge all claim him as a poetic mentor. Both the American “plain-style” poetry and the Language poets find in his work a starting point in their practices.
Williams also wrote in multiple genres. His short stories, arguably, have been read more frequently as their brevity finds them often included in high school and college anthologies. The story “The Use of Force” is the standard work to teach a psychoanalytic approach to literature. His unique book of essays, “In the American Grain”, continues to influence those attempting a more personal approach to historical writing. His writings on art are invaluable to students of American Modernism. His masterwork Paterson is the grandpa of the documentary poetry. His play Many Loves ran for a year Off-Broadway and was staged by the Living Theater.
Did I mention that he also wrote five novels, a bunch of unclassifiable experimental texts, many literary essays and reviews and an opera? He also translated from the Spanish, French, Latin and the Chinese. He did all this while being head of obstetrics at Paterson General and maintaining medical offices in Passaic and in his home in Rutherford.
Although all of WCW’s work is in print (thanks to his long time publisher New Directions) and mostly in paperback, I suspect many poets only scratch the surface with his poetry and are mostly familiar with his “anthology” pieces or maybe only have his selected poems (often a used copy of the edition that Randall Jarrell edited that favors less demanding poems). Poets looking into the “edgier” Williams should look to the book Imaginations that collects his most experimental work. The best selected available is the edition edited by Robert Pinsky that includes lesser-known but unique examples of his art. What would be most useful would be a new edition of the WCW Reader. M.L.Rosenthal edited such a book in the mid-60s, but there is a need for an edition that will appeal to modern taste and current critical sensibilities.
And as a final note: until a few years ago, the only easily available recording of WCW reading his poetry was the Caedmon album, recorded after he had a serious stroke that affected his speaking. The folks at PENN SOUND (http://writing.upenn.edu/pennsound/) have hours of WCW at their site, with some of the recordings going back to the early 40s. Given the popularity of poetry recordings among younger poets, this is a great opportunity to hear the Doctor sound out poems that may have accrued the goo of familiarity and hear them in a more germinal form.
Poetry and Education: Dawn Potter on Hopkins’s “The Soldier”
Punctuation and Poetry:
Looking at Gerard Manley Hopkins’s “The Soldier”
by Dawn Potter

It’s so easy to overlook punctuation. Our eyes are trained to glide past it, automatically registering the marks as pauses or sentence endings but not otherwise lingering over them. Baron Wormser and David Cappella note in Teaching the Art of Poetry, “Punctuation makes necessary distinctions so that things don’t blur and tangle and confuse,” and this is why its absence often distresses us. “Punctuation seems ironclad. There had better be a period at the end of each sentence. It’s the law—and poets flout it.”
Well, some poets flout it. In an interview for The Paris Review, Philip Larkin grumbled:
A well-known publisher asked me how one punctuated poetry, and looked flabbergasted when I said, The same as prose. By which I mean that I write, or wrote, as everyone did till the mad lads started, using words and syntax in the normal way to describe recognizable experiences as memorably as possible. That doesn’t seem to me a tradition. The other stuff, the mad stuff, is more an aberration.
It’s true that some poems seem to taunt us with willful misuse. In “th wundrfulness uv th mountees our secret police,” bill bissett not only ignores punctuation and capitalization but misspells words, creating a narrative that is also a sort of manipulative graffiti:
they opn our mail petulantly
they burn down barns they cant
bug they listn to our politikul
ledrs phone conversashuns what
cud b less inspiring to ovrheer
Sonia Sanchez takes a different tack in her “Song No. 3.” Though she, too, ignores capitalization, she does make use of traditional punctuation. Nonetheless, she doesn’t end every sentence with a period, only the last line of the stanza. Her choice affects how we imagine the speaker’s voice and supports our absorption of the poem’s blunt, childish, yet very clear pain.
cain’t nobody tell me any different
i’m ugly and you know it too
you just smiling to make me feel better
but i see how you stare when nobody’s watching you.
Even as many poets experiment with deleting punctuation, others put traditional marks to new uses. For instance, rather than linking images with grammar, Melissa Stein’s “So deeply that it is not heard at all, but” links them with punctuation:
sister: the violin is blue. it plays stars, there was a field—sister: that swelling in your belly will be a milkweed, a duty, a friend—
sister: goldenrod blossom: stippled ancillary: nonplussed bird—
Russell Edson, on the other hand, gives us long grammatically complex sentences filled with traditional punctuation that, instead of clarifying the situation, contribute to the poem’s ambiguity, as in this dense line from “Out of Whack”:
Too late, too late, because I am wearing the king’s crown: and, in that we are married, and, in that the wearer of the king’s crown is automatically the king, you are now my queen, who broke her crown like a typically silly woman, who doesn’t quite realize the value of things, screamed the queen.
But even when a poet follows less raucous patterns of punctuation, she chooses each comma, each period, each dash, precisely and deliberately. Punctuation marks, as Wormser and Cappella have said, add clarity; but they also are important elements of sound, affecting a line’s cadence and tonality. The silence implied by a dash is longer than the silence implied by a comma. A question mark indicates a lift in tonal pitch, whereas a period indicates a drop. Even a hyphen or its absence has a subtle influence: the pacing of fire truck is different from fire-truck is different from firetruck.
Punctuation marks can be stylistic tics, as the dash was for Dickinson. They can even be stylistic anathemas. Richard Hugo, for instance, hated semicolons. In his essay “Nuts and Bolts,” he declared, “No semicolons. Semicolons indicate relationships that only idiots need defined by punctuation. Besides, they are ugly.” Derek Walcott, among many other poets, would disagree passionately with that pronouncement. He uses semicolons throughout his book-length poem The Prodigal, often inserting them at line endings to indicate a pause of recognition or comprehension:
Then through the thinned trees I saw a wraith
of smoke, which I believed came from the house,
but every smoker carries his own wreath;
then I saw that this moving wreath was yours.
In short, punctuation is both a flexible tool for experimentation and a formal structural element with rules and predictable patterns. Gerard Manley Hopkins was well aware of this duality, and he took advantage of both tradition and strangeness in the way in which he handled punctuation in his poems.
The Soldier
Gerard Manley Hopkins
Yes. Why do we all, seeing of a soldier, bless him? bless
Our redcoats, our tars? Both these being, the greater part,
But frail clay, nay but foul clay. Here it is: the heart,
Since, proud, it calls the calling manly, gives a guess
That, hopes that, makes believe, the men must be no less;
It fancies, feigns, deems, dears the artist after his art;
And fain will find as sterling all as all is smart,
And scarlet wear the spirit of war there express.
Mark Christ our King. He knows war served this soldiering through;
He of all can reeve a rope best. There he bides in bliss
Now, and seeing somewhere some man do all that man can do,
For love he leans forth, needs his neck must fall on, kiss,
And cry “O Christ-done deed! So God-made-flesh does too:
Were I come o’er again” cries Christ “it should be this.”
“The Soldier” opens with this line:
Yes. Why do we all, seeing of a soldier, bless him? bless
The effect of that first small word followed by a period is remarkable: a door slammed, a hand clapped over a mouth. If the poet had chosen a comma, a dash, or even a colon, I would have felt some sense of continued movement in the line. But “Yes.” is a screeching halt.
Why did Hopkins use a period here? When I reread the poem, I don’t see anything that parallels this usage. Perhaps “Here it is:” in line 3 is most similar, but in the second case the colon alerts us to a forthcoming example or explanation. In contrast, “Yes.” ends all discussion. Flatly, it announces a fact.
According to The Careful Writer, “the period is the red light that brings the reader to a halt—in fact, it is known [in British English] as a full stop.” Taking this power into account, The Elements of Style makes allowances for treating certain brief phrases as full sentences: “Do not use periods for commas. . . . [But] it is permissible to make an emphatic word or expression serve the purpose of a sentence and punctuate it accordingly.”
Although these style books address prose rather than poetry, Robert Frost understood that such fundamental principles of grammar were transferable to poems. In a notebook, he wrote, “Poets have lamented the lack in poetry of any such notation as music has for suggesting sound. But it is there and has always been there. The sentence is the notation. The sentence is before all else just that: a notation for suggesting significant tones of voice.”
Punctuation, as Hopkins knew, is crucial to that notation. “The Soldier” is rife with “significant tones of voice.” It hesitates, doubles back, prevaricates . . . but not with “Yes.” The first word of the poem overflows with what I can only call courage. Yes. I will bring myself to speak. Yes. You need to listen to me figure out what I need to say. Yes.
In the middle of line 3, Hopkins opens a new sentence that snakes its way through lines 4 and 5 until stalling out at a semicolon:
Here it is: the heart,
Since, proud, it calls the calling manly, gives a guess
That, hopes that, makesbelieve, the men must be no less;
Encountering the commas in this passage is downright painful. Every one of them is a contortion, a stumble, a choke, a mistake. They chop up the cadence of the lines; they muddy the syntax of the phrasing. And the most uncomfortable of them all, to my ear, is “That,” which appears at the beginning of line 5.
“That,” could be the mirror opposite of “Yes.” Whereas “Yes.” was solidly decisive, “That,” is timid and changeable. Whereas “Yes.” was a brave loner, “That,” repeats itself two words later in the same line, right before the sentence launches into the hurried mouthful of “makesbelieve.” The poem’s shift in tone is both dramatic and awkward, as if the speaker is playing two parts simultaneously.
“The Soldier” is a sonnet; and I’ve noticed that, in many sonnets, the first words in the lines often seem to propel the poem. I wasn’t thinking of that power when I reacted to the word-punctuation combinations “Yes.” and “That,” but I am beginning to see that Hopkins’s choice of punctuation both emphasizes and undercuts this natural propulsion. Instead of driving me forward into the sonnet, both the period and the comma force me to stop, look back, look ahead, scratch my head, ask, “Wait a minute: what’s going here?”
In the words of teacher Carlene Gadapee, Hopkins’s punctuation functions as both “convention and invention.” The comma in “That,” does, on one level, exactly what we’d expect of a comma. It indicates a pause—a brief moment of silence in the line that also gives the reader time to make sense of the sentence’s syntactical shift. At the same time, the comma’s placement is clumsy, even ugly: it is both visually and sonically unsettling.
If there’s one thing I’ve learned after reading and rereading “The Soldier,” it’s that the poet is not shy about using commas. The poem overflows with them, and almost all contribute to the strained, contorted cadence of the lines and sentences. Hopkins’s own term for this cadence was sprung rhythm, which, in Robert Pinsky’s simplified explanation, “refers generally to the jamming in of stressed syllables.” By inserting pauses among the jammed-in syllables, the commas reinforce these unexpected stresses while also slowing the poem’s pace.
“No doubt,” Hopkins said in a letter to his friend Robert Bridges, “my poetry errs on the side of oddness.” One supreme oddness of “The Soldier” is the poet’s inconsistency. He follows traditional spelling rules and then suddenly tosses in “makesbelieve.” He revels in commas and then suddenly avoids them. Notice how his comma use changes in lines 12 through 14:
For love he leans forth, needs his neck must fall on, kiss,
And cry “O Christ-done-deed! So God-made-flesh does too:
Were I come o’er again” cries Christ “it should be this.”
Typically commas set off dialogue, so we might expect to see them after “And cry” in line 13 as well as “again” and “cries Christ” in line 14. But no: Hopkins hurries us straight into the punctuation-heavy dialogue, leaving me entirely confused, at first, as to whether Christ is doing all the talking or whether the man whose neck he “must fall on” is speaking line 13. I had to reread the entire poem to be sure that the problem wasn’t a missing quotation mark.
In his novel The Wapshot Chronicle, John Cheever makes reference to historical figure Lord Timothy Dexter, a Massachusetts eccentric, who, in the second edition of his 1802 book A Pickle for the Knowing Ones or Plain Truth in a Homespun Dress, “put all punctuation marks, prepositions, adverbs, articles, etc., at end of communication and urged reader to distribute same as he saw fit.”When reading a Hopkins poem, I sometimes wish the poet had given me that option. His punctuation is visceral yet inscrutable; heavy-handed even in absence; strangely distracting, like a marble in the mouth. It seems as determined to mislead me as it is to force me to watch and listen.
Writing of Hopkins’s poem “The Windhover,” Ange Mlinko has said, “If we hear through our eyes when we read any page of text, Hopkins taught me that in a great poem’s soundscapes, we ‘see’ through our ears as well.” By tinkering with his poems’ punctuation, Hopkins manipulated the subtleties of these soundscapes. He showed that a comma or its absence is more than a visual sign. It can be a sonic presence, an intellectual and emotional presence. “It fancies, feigns, deems, dears the artist after his art.”
Poetry and Education: Dawn Potter on Hopkins's "The Soldier"
Punctuation and Poetry:
Looking at Gerard Manley Hopkins’s “The Soldier”
by Dawn Potter

It’s so easy to overlook punctuation. Our eyes are trained to glide past it, automatically registering the marks as pauses or sentence endings but not otherwise lingering over them. Baron Wormser and David Cappella note in Teaching the Art of Poetry, “Punctuation makes necessary distinctions so that things don’t blur and tangle and confuse,” and this is why its absence often distresses us. “Punctuation seems ironclad. There had better be a period at the end of each sentence. It’s the law—and poets flout it.”
Well, some poets flout it. In an interview for The Paris Review, Philip Larkin grumbled:
A well-known publisher asked me how one punctuated poetry, and looked flabbergasted when I said, The same as prose. By which I mean that I write, or wrote, as everyone did till the mad lads started, using words and syntax in the normal way to describe recognizable experiences as memorably as possible. That doesn’t seem to me a tradition. The other stuff, the mad stuff, is more an aberration.
It’s true that some poems seem to taunt us with willful misuse. In “th wundrfulness uv th mountees our secret police,” bill bissett not only ignores punctuation and capitalization but misspells words, creating a narrative that is also a sort of manipulative graffiti:
they opn our mail petulantly
they burn down barns they cant
bug they listn to our politikul
ledrs phone conversashuns what
cud b less inspiring to ovrheer
Sonia Sanchez takes a different tack in her “Song No. 3.” Though she, too, ignores capitalization, she does make use of traditional punctuation. Nonetheless, she doesn’t end every sentence with a period, only the last line of the stanza. Her choice affects how we imagine the speaker’s voice and supports our absorption of the poem’s blunt, childish, yet very clear pain.
cain’t nobody tell me any different
i’m ugly and you know it too
you just smiling to make me feel better
but i see how you stare when nobody’s watching you.
Even as many poets experiment with deleting punctuation, others put traditional marks to new uses. For instance, rather than linking images with grammar, Melissa Stein’s “So deeply that it is not heard at all, but” links them with punctuation:
sister: the violin is blue. it plays stars, there was a field—sister: that swelling in your belly will be a milkweed, a duty, a friend—
sister: goldenrod blossom: stippled ancillary: nonplussed bird—
Russell Edson, on the other hand, gives us long grammatically complex sentences filled with traditional punctuation that, instead of clarifying the situation, contribute to the poem’s ambiguity, as in this dense line from “Out of Whack”:
Too late, too late, because I am wearing the king’s crown: and, in that we are married, and, in that the wearer of the king’s crown is automatically the king, you are now my queen, who broke her crown like a typically silly woman, who doesn’t quite realize the value of things, screamed the queen.
But even when a poet follows less raucous patterns of punctuation, she chooses each comma, each period, each dash, precisely and deliberately. Punctuation marks, as Wormser and Cappella have said, add clarity; but they also are important elements of sound, affecting a line’s cadence and tonality. The silence implied by a dash is longer than the silence implied by a comma. A question mark indicates a lift in tonal pitch, whereas a period indicates a drop. Even a hyphen or its absence has a subtle influence: the pacing of fire truck is different from fire-truck is different from firetruck.
Punctuation marks can be stylistic tics, as the dash was for Dickinson. They can even be stylistic anathemas. Richard Hugo, for instance, hated semicolons. In his essay “Nuts and Bolts,” he declared, “No semicolons. Semicolons indicate relationships that only idiots need defined by punctuation. Besides, they are ugly.” Derek Walcott, among many other poets, would disagree passionately with that pronouncement. He uses semicolons throughout his book-length poem The Prodigal, often inserting them at line endings to indicate a pause of recognition or comprehension:
Then through the thinned trees I saw a wraith
of smoke, which I believed came from the house,
but every smoker carries his own wreath;
then I saw that this moving wreath was yours.
In short, punctuation is both a flexible tool for experimentation and a formal structural element with rules and predictable patterns. Gerard Manley Hopkins was well aware of this duality, and he took advantage of both tradition and strangeness in the way in which he handled punctuation in his poems.
The Soldier
Gerard Manley Hopkins
Yes. Why do we all, seeing of a soldier, bless him? bless
Our redcoats, our tars? Both these being, the greater part,
But frail clay, nay but foul clay. Here it is: the heart,
Since, proud, it calls the calling manly, gives a guess
That, hopes that, makes believe, the men must be no less;
It fancies, feigns, deems, dears the artist after his art;
And fain will find as sterling all as all is smart,
And scarlet wear the spirit of war there express.
Mark Christ our King. He knows war served this soldiering through;
He of all can reeve a rope best. There he bides in bliss
Now, and seeing somewhere some man do all that man can do,
For love he leans forth, needs his neck must fall on, kiss,
And cry “O Christ-done deed! So God-made-flesh does too:
Were I come o’er again” cries Christ “it should be this.”
“The Soldier” opens with this line:
Yes. Why do we all, seeing of a soldier, bless him? bless
The effect of that first small word followed by a period is remarkable: a door slammed, a hand clapped over a mouth. If the poet had chosen a comma, a dash, or even a colon, I would have felt some sense of continued movement in the line. But “Yes.” is a screeching halt.
Why did Hopkins use a period here? When I reread the poem, I don’t see anything that parallels this usage. Perhaps “Here it is:” in line 3 is most similar, but in the second case the colon alerts us to a forthcoming example or explanation. In contrast, “Yes.” ends all discussion. Flatly, it announces a fact.
According to The Careful Writer, “the period is the red light that brings the reader to a halt—in fact, it is known [in British English] as a full stop.” Taking this power into account, The Elements of Style makes allowances for treating certain brief phrases as full sentences: “Do not use periods for commas. . . . [But] it is permissible to make an emphatic word or expression serve the purpose of a sentence and punctuate it accordingly.”
Although these style books address prose rather than poetry, Robert Frost understood that such fundamental principles of grammar were transferable to poems. In a notebook, he wrote, “Poets have lamented the lack in poetry of any such notation as music has for suggesting sound. But it is there and has always been there. The sentence is the notation. The sentence is before all else just that: a notation for suggesting significant tones of voice.”
Punctuation, as Hopkins knew, is crucial to that notation. “The Soldier” is rife with “significant tones of voice.” It hesitates, doubles back, prevaricates . . . but not with “Yes.” The first word of the poem overflows with what I can only call courage. Yes. I will bring myself to speak. Yes. You need to listen to me figure out what I need to say. Yes.
In the middle of line 3, Hopkins opens a new sentence that snakes its way through lines 4 and 5 until stalling out at a semicolon:
Here it is: the heart,
Since, proud, it calls the calling manly, gives a guess
That, hopes that, makesbelieve, the men must be no less;
Encountering the commas in this passage is downright painful. Every one of them is a contortion, a stumble, a choke, a mistake. They chop up the cadence of the lines; they muddy the syntax of the phrasing. And the most uncomfortable of them all, to my ear, is “That,” which appears at the beginning of line 5.
“That,” could be the mirror opposite of “Yes.” Whereas “Yes.” was solidly decisive, “That,” is timid and changeable. Whereas “Yes.” was a brave loner, “That,” repeats itself two words later in the same line, right before the sentence launches into the hurried mouthful of “makesbelieve.” The poem’s shift in tone is both dramatic and awkward, as if the speaker is playing two parts simultaneously.
“The Soldier” is a sonnet; and I’ve noticed that, in many sonnets, the first words in the lines often seem to propel the poem. I wasn’t thinking of that power when I reacted to the word-punctuation combinations “Yes.” and “That,” but I am beginning to see that Hopkins’s choice of punctuation both emphasizes and undercuts this natural propulsion. Instead of driving me forward into the sonnet, both the period and the comma force me to stop, look back, look ahead, scratch my head, ask, “Wait a minute: what’s going here?”
In the words of teacher Carlene Gadapee, Hopkins’s punctuation functions as both “convention and invention.” The comma in “That,” does, on one level, exactly what we’d expect of a comma. It indicates a pause—a brief moment of silence in the line that also gives the reader time to make sense of the sentence’s syntactical shift. At the same time, the comma’s placement is clumsy, even ugly: it is both visually and sonically unsettling.
If there’s one thing I’ve learned after reading and rereading “The Soldier,” it’s that the poet is not shy about using commas. The poem overflows with them, and almost all contribute to the strained, contorted cadence of the lines and sentences. Hopkins’s own term for this cadence was sprung rhythm, which, in Robert Pinsky’s simplified explanation, “refers generally to the jamming in of stressed syllables.” By inserting pauses among the jammed-in syllables, the commas reinforce these unexpected stresses while also slowing the poem’s pace.
“No doubt,” Hopkins said in a letter to his friend Robert Bridges, “my poetry errs on the side of oddness.” One supreme oddness of “The Soldier” is the poet’s inconsistency. He follows traditional spelling rules and then suddenly tosses in “makesbelieve.” He revels in commas and then suddenly avoids them. Notice how his comma use changes in lines 12 through 14:
For love he leans forth, needs his neck must fall on, kiss,
And cry “O Christ-done-deed! So God-made-flesh does too:
Were I come o’er again” cries Christ “it should be this.”
Typically commas set off dialogue, so we might expect to see them after “And cry” in line 13 as well as “again” and “cries Christ” in line 14. But no: Hopkins hurries us straight into the punctuation-heavy dialogue, leaving me entirely confused, at first, as to whether Christ is doing all the talking or whether the man whose neck he “must fall on” is speaking line 13. I had to reread the entire poem to be sure that the problem wasn’t a missing quotation mark.
In his novel The Wapshot Chronicle, John Cheever makes reference to historical figure Lord Timothy Dexter, a Massachusetts eccentric, who, in the second edition of his 1802 book A Pickle for the Knowing Ones or Plain Truth in a Homespun Dress, “put all punctuation marks, prepositions, adverbs, articles, etc., at end of communication and urged reader to distribute same as he saw fit.”When reading a Hopkins poem, I sometimes wish the poet had given me that option. His punctuation is visceral yet inscrutable; heavy-handed even in absence; strangely distracting, like a marble in the mouth. It seems as determined to mislead me as it is to force me to watch and listen.
Writing of Hopkins’s poem “The Windhover,” Ange Mlinko has said, “If we hear through our eyes when we read any page of text, Hopkins taught me that in a great poem’s soundscapes, we ‘see’ through our ears as well.” By tinkering with his poems’ punctuation, Hopkins manipulated the subtleties of these soundscapes. He showed that a comma or its absence is more than a visual sign. It can be a sonic presence, an intellectual and emotional presence. “It fancies, feigns, deems, dears the artist after his art.”