Happy Birth­day, Samuel Barber

His 100th. Though he died in 1981, it’s good to see his cen­te­nary has sparked some renewed inter­est in his work, and per­haps a reeval­u­a­tion. No longer is he seen by so many crit­ics as behind the times. No longer is he seen as inca­pable of exper­i­men­ta­tion and mod­ern inno­va­tions. Beyond the crit­i­cal wars, star­ing down at us from within the notes of the music of the spheres, Bar­ber can watch and lis­ten with a wry smile, or stretch his heart to the break­ing point with us while we lis­ten to Ada­gio for Strings.

Which makes me think about all of the drama when it comes to dis­cussing art. Once it’s all been cat­e­go­rized, com­part­men­tal­ized, accord­ing to “schools”, the bat­tle is lost and we all too eas­ily lose the sense of the music itself. The bat­tle becomes the bat­tle over com­pet­ing inter­pre­ta­tions, instead of…

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A Poet’s Dilemma

Bright Star

Jane Campion’s Bright Star. 2009

 

“Bright Star” is that rare com­bi­na­tion: a film beau­ti­ful, brave, mag­i­cal and idyl­lic, with­out being sac­cha­rine. The story of John Keats’ all too brief love affair with the girl next door, Fanny Brawne, moves at a pace organic, like a soft breeze across the heath, fol­low­ing the young lovers, some­times push­ing them gen­tly on, but never over­whelm­ing them to fit some sta­tic for­mula. The pace of the film never over­whelms the story, the actors, the scenery or the music of their romance, though there is plenty of dark­ness inside the light. Omi­nous signs con­verge with the Roman­tic set­ting, with­out com­men­tary, with­out a filmmaker’s agenda.

Abbie Cor­nish plays Fanny Brawne, and she is dressed to suit the time and some­what hide her very mod­ern, nearly uncon­tain­able wry sen­su­al­ity. Her…

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The Field of Being

Magdalen

Mag­dalen With the Smok­ing Flame, by Georges de La Tour. 1640

William Bar­rett, in his Irra­tional Man, intro­duces us to Exis­ten­tial­ism and sum­ma­rizes the devel­op­ment of West­ern Thought in the process. The book came out in 1958, but can be read fruit­fully and applied pro­duc­tively to the prob­lems we face today.

In the sec­tion on Hei­deg­ger, whom I haven’t read in years but should return to, Bar­rett dis­cusses Heidegger’s Field The­ory of Being, and places it in his­tor­i­cal context.

The Greeks were the first to remove objects from their sur­round­ings, their back­ground, their con­text, so they could study them in iso­la­tion. In a sense, atom­ize them. This was nec­es­sary for the cre­ation of Sci­ence. But the Greeks still lived in Nature, not in oppo­si­tion to it, so this process wasn’t truly dis­rup­tive, much less fatal. Fast for­ward to Descartes,…

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Two Poems by Robert Mueller

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Com­mu­nity Still



What can the Lords of Every­thing
about dull eccen­tric­ity com­plain?
A fine shill, which is to see kir­tle
cock-​​​​eyed and expect its round­ing up,
would cheer, would meet the sun.
And then at sacred hoops the ban­ners
stream, and yet no his­to­rian
writes with fin­ish the bro­ken
hori­zon, and these Prodi­gals replay
their Her­culean task unno­ticed,
while grownups pass and jog­gle,
sniff and blow and jo, and shuf­fle, prat­tling feet.
Wit­ness, at cost, the skip­ping girl:
She finds in a book hon­ors
of wet cheeks and high ploys to relief
in bounc­ing from flue to prat­fall; sil­vers
school­days yet in stern lessons, poly­math craze.
Or coal-​​​​boy, rougher than the dirty feath­ers
of his tem­per­a­tures, dreams a leaf

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Unti­tled

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No Title


You can’t say it that way any more. /​​ Both­ered about beauty you have to/​​Come out into the open, into the clearing,/ And rest.  Cer­tainly what­ever funny hap­pens to you/​​ Is OK

And Ut Pic­tura Poe­sis Is Her Name,  John Ashbery


The great­est prob­lem in the arts today is the title; this tag that tells us what some­thing is about: Bat­tle of…,  Por­trait of….,  Bowl of… Of course this gives even the most hum­ble sub­ject a coat of arms, presto a seignio­r­ial dwelling, white picket fence and gar­den, all the dig­nity it deserves and Sun­day painters so admire. But is this good? This, I would argue, has infected poet­ics, this about­ness, this super­nat­ural force like it can’t be escaped. It’s the tongue lolling like a lazy sun­flower tro­pis­tic by default.  But now I’m bored with this riff and…

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Star Dust

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THE GIFT


My Lord, what a morn­ing,
My Lord, what a morn­ing,
O my Lord, what a morn­ing
When the stars begin to fall.

–Entrance hymn,
(Cathe­dral Church of St. John the Divine,
Sec­ond Sun­day after Epiphany,
Jan­u­ary 15, 2006)



After seven years of inter–
stel­lar wan­der­ings, the space­craft
that jour­neyed halfway to Jupiter,
beyond the Earth-​​​​Moon Orbit,
came back today.
It bears pre­cious freight—
age­less dust motes, the most
prim­i­tive par­ti­cles in the uni­verse,
gath­ered from the outer lim­its—
from the time when there was no time,
when there was uni­verse inchoate—
undif­fer­en­ti­ated mat­ter—the becom­ing thing
that was always there.

It brings name­less par­ti­cles that existed
eons before our solar sys­tem was formed,
before there was water,
before there was…

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Mod­ern Moments

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mod­ern moments (main-​​​​à-​​​​dieu, nova scotia)

 

sun & cloud (reproduction)

 

bright

band, slow mov–

ing, copy–

ing

the

 

sea

 

nest (goodyear)

 

rock–

weed, dulse &

sor­rel, moss a–

round the

 

tire

 

night jour­ney (disconnect)

 

shoot–

ing star,

far

cry, jet st–

reams in

the

 

bay

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