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He did not sleep well, he dreamed of a cloud of words that fled and scattered as he chased after them with a butterfly net, pleading, Stop, please, don't move, wait for me. Then, suddenly, the words stopped and gathered in a clump, one on top of the other, like a swarm of bees waiting for a hive they could swoop down on, and he, with a cry of joy, lunged forward with his net.
--José Saramago, Seeing
James Richardson published this poem in The New Yorker a couple of weeks ago. It's relevant for us in so many ways: it's by Richardson, author of "The Dream of Reading"; it begins with an allusion to A Midsummer Night's Dream (and continues with allusions to several other Shakespeare plays); it's an ideal poem for launching a discussion of contemporary poetry in relation to the poetic tradition (a very good idea in preparation for the exam); and finally, it's about life in New York.
In Shakespeare
In Shakespeare a lover turns into an ass
as you would expect. People confuse
their consciences with ghosts and witches.
Old men throw everything away
because they panic and can't feel their lives.
They pinch themselves, pierce themselves with twigs,
cliffs, lightning, and die--yes, finally--in glad pain.
You marry a woman you've never talked to,
a woman you thought was a boy.
Sixteen years go by as a curtain billows
once, twice. Your children are lost,
they come back, you don't remember how.
A love turns to a statue in a dress, the statue
comes back to life. Oh God, it's all so realistic
I can't stand it. Whereat I weep and sing.
Such a relief, to burst from the theatre
into our cool, imaginary streets
where we know who's who and what's what,
and command with Metrocards our destinations.
Where no one with a story struggling in him
convulses as it eats its way out,
and no one in an antiseptic corridor,
or in deserts or in downtown darkling plains,
staggers through an Act that just will not end,
eyes burning with the burning of the dead.
The poem is in the February 12, 2007 issue of The New Yorker, p. 65. On a first read, the poem seems to be a complaint about Shakespeare: it's too long, too painful, too tedious, too fantastic, too much of too many things. But I think it's a tribute (one with mixed feelings). Notice how so many of the scenarios Richardson describes seem to work according to the logics (or formal attributes) of dreams: a lover turning into an ass is condensation; ghosts and witches representing a conscience is displacement; marrying a woman you've never talked to is a typically piece of nonsense loaded with meaning; memory is elusive; people turn into statues, and back again.
From what we know about Richardson, I think it's fair to suggest he's ironic in his "critique" of Shakepeare, implying that all these fantastical, dreamlike details are all too characteristic of what it feels like to be alive, even if they're at odds with reason. Maybe he's suggesting that we're all staggering "through an Act that just will not end." I could go on, but I'll leave that to some of you.
Read on for a series of questions about the poem that may be helpful in thinking through both the ID section and poetry section of the exam. It would be great if you could pursue some of them in the comments section. We'll use some of your comments as a basis to discuss strategies for the poetry section of the exam when we meet in class next time.
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