Friday, October 08, 2004
Something about the Maximus poems, some tone, that is a boy imagining with his body, imagining what it is to be a man. Interesting motor for an epic. Honest and singular.
"And the Short Chimney
wld have died right there, been plugged by a fisherman if
Conant had not ordered Capt Hewes to lower his gun, to listen
to what the little man from Plymouth had to squawk about
Mister Standish
wld have been the first to lie in the cemetery where my father does,
at least where I say he does,
where I wanted him to, either that
or load him in a dory, row him
beyond the Breakwater, and set fire to it, let him go, so,
to sea
That a man's life
(his, anyway)
is what there is
that tradition is
at least is where I find it,
how I got to
what I say"
(forgive my inability to indent as Olson intended)
"And the Short Chimney
wld have died right there, been plugged by a fisherman if
Conant had not ordered Capt Hewes to lower his gun, to listen
to what the little man from Plymouth had to squawk about
Mister Standish
wld have been the first to lie in the cemetery where my father does,
at least where I say he does,
where I wanted him to, either that
or load him in a dory, row him
beyond the Breakwater, and set fire to it, let him go, so,
to sea
That a man's life
(his, anyway)
is what there is
that tradition is
at least is where I find it,
how I got to
what I say"
(forgive my inability to indent as Olson intended)
