Professional Documents
Culture Documents
by Judy Swann
Since 1996, April has been National Poetry Month. The initial goal was not the
librarians, literary organizations, poets, and teachers who dreamed it up, the goal
were handed out, poets were invited to read at the White House, and an election
was held to decide which poet should be honored with a postage stamp. Not
railed against the month because its sponsors “exclude from its promotional
activities much of the formally innovative and “otherstream” poetries that form the
accurate name for the project might be National Mainstream Poetry Month.
National Poetry Writing Month has by now (2007) morphed into NaPoWriMo, with
poetry cells at any of a number of blogs, providing pied a terre for the
poets of NaPoWriMo, who overwhelm the online world with verse, not all of it
David Lehman began writing a poem a day. At this time, Lehman had already put
out three volumes of verse and had been publishing extensively in the New
Yorker and the Paris Review. He had not yet published his critical study The Last
York Public Library in 1999. In the preface to the volume that resulted from the
daily discipline, The Daily Mirror, Lehman recognizes William Stafford, Emily
to artificial poetric diction,” and pushed his work to “transcend the occasion of its
making, as only real poems do.” He published The Daily Mirror in 2000, the
this, I do that” style in this collection, to O’Hara’s love of the comic, and to New
York, both up- and down-state. Let’s look at the opening piece, entitled—as it
An unpretentious little beginning that we know is the set-up for situating the
speaker as a man apart. No one characterizes the subgroup “some people” and
then claims to be a kindred spirit to it. Almost Blakean in its innocent whimsy,
almost comic-book like, with the lightning visual, line 1 gives way to line 2’s
anticipated distinction (between the lyrical “I” of the poem and “some people”)
piece of final punctuation, line 2 is missing one too, as well as a comma at the
end of the first foot—if we can say “foot” about any part of this free verse—but
line 3 is all about unpunctuated, all three complete sentences tumble out in a
enjambement of line 5,the tone shifts into Shelley-land: “it’s the breathof my
being the wind across the face / of the waters.” “yes,” we say with the poet,right
before he shifts tone again, this time to the ultra-mundane, the “turkey club
terms, everything from “but it’s also something that comes at my command”
could be filler, a long drum-roll from the moment Inspiration’s curtain begins to
rise and the god Inspiration is replaced with the turkey club, like something out of
Ovid.
The poet hacks away at the ghost of Shelley, piling in “split pea soup” and a
couple of clarinets, and then we realize (maybe we laugh) that the bit about the
command was not filler, it was pointing all the time at “the language that never
a day, that’s what you count on, language never failing. Lehman uses jazz music
as a touchstone, the way the New York School used Abstract Expressionism.
Poets and musicians form a natural audience for each others’ work. Time and
jazzy. So the inspiration is jazzy, American, specific ( a cup of split pea soup) and
accidental.
Here the poet takes us back to “some people,” the poem’s straw man. Inspiration
im/pure and the im/patient alike. And as if to ward off the accidental dualism
This “language that never fails to respond” refuses to close itself up too tightly, it
Lehman’s ex-wife, whose son then was about the age that my son is now, on the
verge of puberty. The child’s name was/is Joe, and on January 5, Lehman wrote
this poem:
Quoting Kenneth Koch, Lehman once wrote,” I like collaborating the way people
like drinking.” Lehman has quite a few poems that are half Joe’s, like this one. Its
small, neat lines in the sparse vocabulary of the pre-teen male make a good
read. The first six lines are all exactly five syllables long. Of the 24 words they
use, eight are used more than once, fully 14 times. Which means that less than
half of the words are unique. In stomps line seven, a gavel: “said, the word.”
Boom boom boom. After that, it’s fast-paced, like a cartoon or a good watercolor,
a gush of words. The repetitions are not anaphora, not quasi-Biblical; they are
the artful use of a limited palette, a boy’s world, earth colors and synaesthesia.
The average line length in this clump is just under seven syllables and the
repetition index is at 16 of 34. So, slightly more than half the words are unique.
lovely word, voices the fricative of “fourteen,” “friend,” “alphabet,” and “four.”
“Lavender” also shares the short “a”’s of “alphabet,” “personality,” and “example,”
that’s why this skinny little poem is so tight and muscular. It’s a small palette,
lavender oil can be said to pacify the vata (calming the nervous system) and to
And I? I
asked. I, he said,
is a genius, white.
Continuing the use of few words in small patterns, the poet juxtaposes
inflections: “I?” with “I”. Then “I” with “he” in a pronominal pun. “I” used as a third
person signifier, “I, he said.” This is a tender sense of humor, not the joke that
depends upon someone else looking ridiculous, but the humor that finds a kind of
wonderment in what is, eliciting laughter. “And I,” Yeats said of the accomplished
Chinamen whose gay eyes and nimble fingers are carved in lapis lazuli, “I delight
to imagine them.” So when Joe’s dad asks him not “And me?” as he would in a
21st century sitcom, but the “And I?” of proper English, Joe the blaguer turns a
synaesthetically. The lyrical “I” merges with the letter “I” and dissolves into the
Lehman agrees with Kenneth Koch and Oscar Wilde that all bad poetry springs
from genuine feeling. To that end, Koch once wrote an epic verse in ottava rima
about a Japanese baseball player, and John Ashbery wrote a sestina about
Popeye. Lehman weighs in with his July 12 poem, which after some Mainstream
The poet’s better half—in this case his son Joe—rescues the father from these
shallow musings:
But the father is not yet ready to abandon the comedy club:
Comedy, yes, but here tinged with respect and love for a forebear and perhaps
anxiety about the assessment a mentor might make about a disciple. Casey
Stengel, athlete, wit, and Yankee’s manager, was nicknamed the “Old
another, as Lehman says of an Ashbery poem, “an argument whose terms are
constantly morphing.”
The poem’s closing in this way not only cements its relationship to vaudeville, the
variety-show stand-up, but also uses a line we all used to use when we wrote
letters on paper. Now we write our “letters” in email (we don’t say that, actually,
we say, we sent an email) and when we have to leave and come back, we just
push “Send.” It’s easier to write a second email later than it is to leave the one
email opening, waiting for a continuance. But once upon a time, we let the paper
lie on the desk, we came back later, maybe with a different pen, the way we
Some of the features of Lehman’s verse that I have called out here: comedy,
Americana, Joe, the spoken language, and the art of the blague also feature in
Lehman’s second collection of daily poems, The Evening Sun, published in 2002.
Lehman, the young perfessor, wrote a particularly sweet poem for June 4, in
Ithaca, when the town is at its flowering, lazy best. Father’s love, father’s learning
blend:
We know Joe’s laconic style. Or perhaps this is the father’s learning (“…the
Gertrude Stein”) wrapping his conversation with his son in Gertrude Stein’s
the students swim naked in the summer. Valentine Place is old, old Ithaca. Its
The street back there is paved with the original cobblestones, so rough they can
twist your bike frame, and so steep that you want to walk your bike anyway.
Valentine Place leads to a suspension bridge across one of the area’s many
gorges. Ithaca is Gorges, as the bumper sticker asserts. In early June when the
trees are still budding, the shade-loving vinca (myrtle) is long since fully green
The perfessor cannot leave Milton out of it. All the poems in these two
collections are bite-sized, like this one. Perhaps because Lehman carries a line
in his head about Milton’s Paradise Lost, by way of Sam Johnson: “None ever
wished it longer.”
Let’s close our look at Lehman’s dailies with a poem from October 15th. In it, we
get some more of his gentle humor, we see again the avatar of the young man,
All twos and threes it is, Byron and Don Juan. Not a tenor, not a philosopher, but
Judy Swann is a poet, novelist, essayist, copy editor, designer, illustrator, reader, translator, and
webmaster. Once she had 14 apartments in a single year, but now she has lived for almost 13
years in the same small blue house (looks like Frieda Kahlo’s casa azul) with city park on two
sides. Someday she hopes either to retire to a utopian goat-farm in Missouri or to sail around the
world, going from port to port in a 30-something foot boat.