A Draft of Light

Informationen zum Autor John Hollander Klappentext A glorious new collection from one of our most distinguished poets. Here are poems that explore the ways in which ordinary objects open doors to the more hidden! subconscious truths of our inner selves: a bird of "countless colors calls to mind "the echo . . . / of an inner event / From my forgotten past; a subway bee sting conjures up quick unlikely visits by the musesa momentary awareness that is "as much of a / Gift from those nine sisters as / Is ever given. Other poems lay bare the imperfect nature of our memories: reality altered by our inevitably less accurate but perhaps "truer recall of past events ("memory / As full of random holes as any / Uncleaned window is of spots / Of blur and dimmingbegins at once / To interfere). Still others examine the dramatic changes in perspective we undergo over the course of a lifetime as! in the poem "When We Went Up! John Hollander describes the varied responses he has to climbing the same mountain at different points in his life. In all of the poems Hollander illuminates the fluid nature of physical and emotional experience! the connections between the simple things we encounter every day and the ways in which the meaning we attribute to them shapes our lives. Like the harmonious coming together of bandstand instruments on a summer afternoon! he writes! most of what we come to know in the world is "A dying moment / Of lastingness thenceforth / Ever not to be. Throughout this thought-provoking collection! Hollander reveals the ways in which we are constantly creating unique worlds of our own! "a draft of light of our own making! and how these worlds! in turn! continually shape our most basic identities and truest selves. Monday Morning Today we're having the windows washed . . .I think of how such a journal entryMight have proceeded if written by anActual novelist or superbEpistolarian (known for her acidEye, gentle heart and platinum tongue)Or essayist of an older sort,All of whom had memorious eyesAnd capacious memories for details:Their powers of observation makeMe feel blind to the moment andMindless of just what was said or worn.The true novelist's mandarin proseOf whatever mode makes up its ownRecordings of what it made take placeOn disks themselves made up of yearsOf recycled detailed remembrancesThat I don't have to draw or write on.But I'll give the window washers a try.Let's see: I'll at least remember thatThere were three of them, and one came firstTo case the joint, as it were, and thatAll of them were of medium height,Slender and dark and that they didIndeed clean all the windows, inside andOut, hanging on safety strapsAbove the distant ground. That's it.But my own windows that look outOn the immediate worldthe onesThrough which they used to say the soulPeers out and love comes inget washedOnly by tears, and what I knowOf what's out there comes in through oneOf the cleaner spots. Their sizes andTheir placement are both meaningless,And make me wonder about whatI get to see, whether of windowsAnd what goes on when they get cleanedAnd who said what to whom and whoDid which and with whator of mirroredEyes or imagined minds. So thatIn the matter of the men who cameTo clean the windows, what could I say?If memory serves . . . but it will not:And like language itself when atIts best or even craziest, Ich dien it will not saylike eachDutiful Prince of Wales for sevenCenturiesbut rather nonServiam, the Adversary's No way! At the instant of starting upThe engines of noticing, memoryAs full of random holes as anyUncleaned window is of spotsOf blur and dimmingbegins at onceTo interfere, and so one's eyesBrim with forgetting long beforeThe presence of a pastness, earsCan't quite recall what they are hearing.That's all there is to say aboutThe windows being washed today. A Draft of Light We all had to wear hats against the ...

Autorentext

John Hollander

Klappentext

A glorious new collection from one of our most distinguished poets.

Here are poems that explore the ways in which ordinary objects open doors to the more hidden, subconscious truths of our inner selves: a bird of "countless colors” calls to mind "the echo . . . / of an inner event / From my forgotten past”; a subway bee sting conjures up quick unlikely visits by the muses—a momentary awareness that is "as much of a / Gift from those nine sisters as / Is ever given.”

Other poems lay bare the imperfect nature of our memories: reality altered by our inevitably less accurate but perhaps "truer” recall of past events ("memory— / As full of random holes as any / Uncleaned window is of spots / Of blur and dimming—begins at once / To interfere”). Still others examine the dramatic changes in perspective we undergo over the course of a lifetime as, in the poem "When We Went Up,” John Hollander describes the varied responses he has to climbing the same mountain at different points in his life.

In all of the poems Hollander illuminates the fluid nature of physical and emotional experience, the connections between the simple things we encounter every day and the ways in which the meaning we attribute to them shapes our lives. Like the harmonious coming together of bandstand instruments on a summer afternoon, he writes, most of what we come to know in the world is "A dying moment / Of lastingness thenceforth / Ever not to be.”

Throughout this thought-provoking collection, Hollander reveals the ways in which we are constantly creating unique worlds of our own, "a draft of light” of our own making, and how these worlds, in turn, continually shape our most basic identities and truest selves.

Leseprobe
Monday Morning Today we’re having the windows washed . . .I think of how such a journal entryMight have proceeded if written by anActual novelist or superbEpistolarian (known for her acidEye, gentle heart and platinum tongue)Or essayist of an older sort,All of whom had memorious eyesAnd capacious memories for details:Their “powers of observation” makeMe feel blind to the moment andMindless of just what was said or worn.The true novelist’s mandarin proseOf whatever mode makes up its ownRecordings of what it made take placeOn disks themselves made up of yearsOf recycled detailed remembrancesThat I don’t have to draw or write on.But I’ll give the window washers a try.Let’s see: I’ll at least remember thatThere were three of them, and one came firstTo case the joint, as it were, and thatAll of them were of medium height,Slender and dark and that they didIndeed clean all the windows, inside andOut, hanging on safety strapsAbove the distant ground. That’s it.But my own windows that look outOn the immediate world–the onesThrough which they used to say the soulPeers out and love comes in–get washedOnly by tears, and what I knowOf what’s out there comes in through oneOf the cleaner spots. Their sizes andTheir placement are both meaningless,And make me wonder about whatI get to see, whether of windows–And what goes on when they get cleanedAnd who said what to whom and whoDid which and with what–or of mirroredEyes or imagined minds. So thatIn the matter of the men who cameTo clean the windows, what could I say?“If memory serves . . .” but it will not:And like language itself when atIts best or even craziest,Ich dien it will not say–like eachDutiful Prince of Wales for sevenCenturies–but rather nonServiam, the Adversary’sNo way! At the instant of starting upThe engines of noticing, memory–As full of random holes as anyUncleaned window is of spotsOf blur and dimming–begins at onceTo interfere, and so one’s eyesBrim with forgetting long beforeThe presence of a pastness, earsCan’t quite recall what they are hearing.That’s all there is to say aboutThe windo…