“The
aim of the poet, or other artist, is first to make something; and it's
impossible to make something out of words and not communicate.”
– James Schuyler
Pulitzer Prize winnng poet Schuyler
was born in Chicago in November 1923 and became a central member of the New York
School in the 1960s and ‘70s, publishing his first major poetry work Freely
Espousing in 1969. His Pulitzer
winner The Morning of the Poem appeared
in 1980. 
Also a novelist, he once said
of his poetic writing, “I have declined
to comment on my own work, because, it seems to me, a poem is what it is;
because a poem is itself a definition, and to try to redefine it is to be apt
to falsify it; and because the author is the person least able to consider his
work objectively.” For Saturday’s Poem
here is Schuyler’s,
Also a novelist, he once said
of his poetic writing, “I have declined
to comment on my own work, because, it seems to me, a poem is what it is;
because a poem is itself a definition, and to try to redefine it is to be apt
to falsify it; and because the author is the person least able to consider his
work objectively.” For Saturday’s Poem
here is Schuyler’s,
Poem
(The Day Gets Slowly Started)
The day gets slowly started.
A rap at the bedroom door,
bitter coffee, hot cereal, juice
the color of sun which
isn’t out this morning. A
cool shower, a shave, soothing
Noxzema for razor burn. A bed
is made. The paper doesn’t come
until twelve or one. A gray shine
out the windows. “No one
leaves the building until
those scissors are returned.”
It’s that kind of a place.
Nonetheless, I’ve seen worse.
The worried gray is melting
into sunlight. I wish I’d
brought my book of enlightening
literary essays. I wish it
were lunch time. I wish I had
an appetite. The day agrees
with me better than it did, or,
better, I agree with it. I’ll
slide down a sunslip yet, this
crass September morning.
A rap at the bedroom door,
bitter coffee, hot cereal, juice
the color of sun which
isn’t out this morning. A
cool shower, a shave, soothing
Noxzema for razor burn. A bed
is made. The paper doesn’t come
until twelve or one. A gray shine
out the windows. “No one
leaves the building until
those scissors are returned.”
It’s that kind of a place.
Nonetheless, I’ve seen worse.
The worried gray is melting
into sunlight. I wish I’d
brought my book of enlightening
literary essays. I wish it
were lunch time. I wish I had
an appetite. The day agrees
with me better than it did, or,
better, I agree with it. I’ll
slide down a sunslip yet, this
crass September morning.
Share A Writer’s Moment with a friend by clicking the g+1 button below.
No comments:
Post a Comment