Showing posts with label Merrill Moore. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Merrill Moore. Show all posts

Wednesday, April 22, 2009

John Carter, redux

I love it when many things come together unexpectedly and in ways you could never imagine. After posting on Merrill Moore and his poem “No Envy, John Carter” last week, what do I come across today? The recently released James Agee: Selected Poems (American Poets Project), and within it the incomplete satire John Carter. But to make things more than coincidental, look at the influences mentioned and alluded to in just the first two stanzas:

Like Byron, I’ll begin at the beginning.
         Unlike that better bard, my lad’s a new one,
Expert in charm, supremely so in sinning,
         Nevertheless he differs from Don Juan
In ways enough to set your brain to spinning.
         For how he differs, read the books ensuing:
For this time’s being and this being’s place
Are both beginning and in medias res.

In medias New York State stands the Homestead;
         In medias that, in medias modest gloom,
In a large room: in medias that, a bed:
         In medias which a man and wife consume
The night with pleasure: for they’re three weeks wed,
         And the bride’s trained at last: in medias whom
George Carter labors lovingly: deception
Is not my aim: you’re in at the conception.
Sad to say, the poem doesn’t improve from there. In the four dozen stanzas of this fragment, we never meet John Carter but do get to learn how Leonard Dash lost his virginity. Judging from his experience, I don’t envy Dash’s dreams either.

In addition to the coincidence of the poem’s name, I loved the confluence of Byron and Sterne, especially after commenting on both in discussions on Pushkin. Later in the poem, it is noted that “My poem thus far is heavily digression, / Some critical, some moral, some just dirty” just before going on yet another digression. Let us now praise failed attempts…

Thursday, April 16, 2009

Merrill Moore

For AE
with highest
admiration and
esteem, always
Merrill Moore
October, 1929

Last week I was thumbing through the books at a used bookstore and something drew me to The Noise that Time Makes by Merrill Moore. Upon opening the cover, I was surprised to see the above inscription (I'm not sure why the photos turned out so poorly other than the store was barely lit in this section). Unfamiliar with the name, his biography painted an interesting character as a psychiatrist, poet, and literary gadfly. Biographies can be found at
Wikipedia,
the educator's website for the American Collection has two essays on Moore by William W. Applegarth and Monica Kent, and
Vanderbilt Medical Center's biography (includes a few pictures).


Ted Nellen's Cyber English site has a few of Moore's sonnets, of which I copy one below.

No Envy, John Carter

Some night, John Carter, you will dream of hands,
Hands that are dead now, or as good as dead,
That you killed, or as good as made them die
Along the road that you have prospered by;
And I will never envy you the dread
With which you must awake then, as you see
Hands stretched towards you, striving, piteously
Stretched, beseeching, grasping at what was taken,

Hands by pain and grievance sorely shaken
And pointed at you while your agents keep
The power you've gained in this and other lands -
Some night, Mr. Carter, you will dream.
But it will not be an untroubled dream,
And, oh, I shall not envy you your sleep.

I have no idea who John Carter is...historical figure? patient?...but I don't envy his dreams.