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Archive for the ‘Poetry’ Category

“Mentors & The Road,” A Poem by Bruce Craven

In Arts & Letters, Creative Writing, Humanities, Poetry on July 1, 2020 at 6:45 am

Bruce Craven is a member of the Columbia Business School Executive Education faculty in New York City. In addition to directing and teaching in a variety of executive programs, he teaches graduate business students his popular elective Leadership Through Fiction.  His book Win or Die: Leadership Secrets from Game of Thrones, was published in March 2019 by Thomas Dunne Books, an imprint of St. Martin’s Press.  The book is currently being translated into Russian and Turkish. He wrote the novel Fast Sofa (1993) which was published in Japanese and German. He also co-wrote the script for the film adaptation, starring Jennifer Tilly, Jake Busey and Crispin Glover. His collection of poetry, Buena Suerte in Red Glitter will be published in 2019 by Red Dirt Press. He lives with his wife and two sons in the Coachella Valley in California.

Mentors & The Road

Willie Nelson and the Record Men drove
from Stamford to Los Angeles, thirty-two
hundred miles for one gig — sixty-nine hours. Rode
fifteen-thousand miles in eighteen days, tunes
on the AM dial in the Merc’ station wagon.
Willie promised Paul, “I’m going to make it
up to you.” Cash did TV with Dylan.
Waylon sold more. Willie played sad tunes, no hits.
Sinatra fan, he chose shifting beats, tried
jazz-style vocals to country crowds. Proven band
guys mentored unproven: “…that shit ain’t gonna fly.”
We were learning cool tunes.” Bee said. “…jammed
jazz. Older guys taught the younger guys.” Soon
Will bought an Open Road Camper. They kept paying dues.

“Paul English — Leadership Lesson #2,” A Poem by Bruce Craven

In Arts & Letters, Creative Writing, Humanities, Poetry on June 24, 2020 at 6:45 am

Bruce Craven is a member of the Columbia Business School Executive Education faculty in New York City. In addition to directing and teaching in a variety of executive programs, he teaches graduate business students his popular elective Leadership Through Fiction.  His book Win or Die: Leadership Secrets from Game of Thrones, was published in March 2019 by Thomas Dunne Books, an imprint of St. Martin’s Press.  The book is currently being translated into Russian and Turkish. He wrote the novel Fast Sofa (1993) which was published in Japanese and German. He also co-wrote the script for the film adaptation, starring Jennifer Tilly, Jake Busey and Crispin Glover. His collection of poetry, Buena Suerte in Red Glitter will be published in 2019 by Red Dirt Press. He lives with his wife and two sons in the Coachella Valley in California.

 

Paul English — Leadership Lesson #2

Paul & Willie looked in Devore’s on Vine and Sunset:
Willie with long hair, Paul with black ‘burns, black beard.
They saw a black cape. Will said, “You have to have that!”
“The devil was the prettiest angel in heaven,” leered
Paul. That night in L.A., drums circled with dry ice,
Satan hammered his kit. Fifteen girls wanted his autograph.
The angel that fell from grace was a good fit. Vice
paid bills in Waco, but now music was the path.
The two friends had loyalty & style. “We dressed hipper
than most in Nashville…that’s what I liked about Willie.”
The plan? “…being with best friends.” Values? “A character,”
Paul said, “means exactly what he says.” Reliability.
“A character has got to have a lot of character.”
It means respect. Treat people right…& carry revolvers.

“Charlie Pride,” A Poem by Bruce Craven

In Arts & Letters, Creative Writing, Poetry on June 10, 2020 at 6:45 am

Bruce Craven is a member of the Columbia Business School Executive Education faculty in New York City. In addition to directing and teaching in a variety of executive programs, he teaches graduate business students his popular elective Leadership Through Fiction.  His book Win or Die: Leadership Secrets from Game of Thrones, was published in March 2019 by Thomas Dunne Books, an imprint of St. Martin’s Press.  The book is currently being translated into Russian and Turkish. He wrote the novel Fast Sofa (1993) which was published in Japanese and German. He also co-wrote the script for the film adaptation, starring Jennifer Tilly, Jake Busey and Crispin Glover. His collection of poetry, Buena Suerte in Red Glitter will be published in 2019 by Red Dirt Press. He lives with his wife and two sons in the Coachella Valley in California.

 

Charlie Pride

Charlie’s first night was in Dallas. Pride
joined the Willie Nelson package tour.
Marty Stewart told Willie: hire him! To ride
with the boys, Pride’d work for change. Still, you’re
hiring a black country singer…Crash asked, “Don’t you
worry about taking him into Dallas, Fort Worth,
San Antone…all those places?” Redneck rooms
aren’t gonna be happy on (non-Austin) Tejas turf
for Country Charlie from Mississippi.
But Will liked the man’s music. Piss folks off?
“I don’t know,” Shotgun said, “Let’s go see.”
Charlie, at the mic: “Don’t let this permanent tan fool you.” Tough
work to win that crowd, but Pride was strong & good. The South
was his home, too. Post-show, on stage, Willie laid a kiss on Charlie’s mouth.

“The New Path,” A Poem by Bruce Craven

In Arts & Letters, Creative Writing, Poetry on June 3, 2020 at 6:45 am

Bruce Craven is a member of the Columbia Business School Executive Education faculty in New York City. In addition to directing and teaching in a variety of executive programs, he teaches graduate business students his popular elective Leadership Through Fiction.  His book Win or Die: Leadership Secrets from Game of Thrones, was published in March 2019 by Thomas Dunne Books, an imprint of St. Martin’s Press.  The book is currently being translated into Russian and Turkish. He wrote the novel Fast Sofa (1993) which was published in Japanese and German. He also co-wrote the script for the film adaptation, starring Jennifer Tilly, Jake Busey and Crispin Glover. His collection of poetry, Buena Suerte in Red Glitter will be published in 2019 by Red Dirt Press. He lives with his wife and two sons in the Coachella Valley in California.

 

The New Path

In the middle of the night, he saddled up his pony
& went for a ride. Willie’s Red-Headed Stranger,
1975, burns with vengeance, loss, hate. The story,
blended tunes, sparked on the road, compiled at home. Murder,
a preacher tormented. “Love is like a dying ember…” Crying
blue eyes, a now famous cover from the 15 tracks.
Raw production worried everyone. Who’s buying
this? “That album isn’t going to sell shit.” It’s a fact.
“Did he make this in his living room?” Career-ending
mistake! But outlaw Willie trusted himself. Bee Spears,
bassist, believed the boss’s instincts, not second-guessing
the man. Blue Eyes was a smash! Willie had traveled, performed; years
of living hard. Booze got him mean. Couldn’t quit tobacco. His fate?
Filled his empty cigarette pack with joints. Lung cancer took his dad in ’78.

“The Lamp & the Rider,” A Poem by Bruce Craven

In Arts & Letters, Creative Writing, Poetry on May 27, 2020 at 6:45 am

Bruce Craven is a member of the Columbia Business School Executive Education faculty in New York City. In addition to directing and teaching in a variety of executive programs, he teaches graduate business students his popular elective Leadership Through Fiction.  His book Win or Die: Leadership Secrets from Game of Thrones, was published in March 2019 by Thomas Dunne Books, an imprint of St. Martin’s Press.  The book is currently being translated into Russian and Turkish. He wrote the novel Fast Sofa (1993) which was published in Japanese and German. He also co-wrote the script for the film adaptation, starring Jennifer Tilly, Jake Busey and Crispin Glover. His collection of poetry, Buena Suerte in Red Glitter will be published in 2019 by Red Dirt Press. He lives with his wife and two sons in the Coachella Valley in California.

 

The Lamp & the Rider

Out my window is San Jacinto, the snow
sharp, peaked, crisp-white at pandemic
lockdown, Day One. Five weeks later: the peak glows,
pale white, at dawn, past my curtains. Anthemic
sirens insist someone has another crisis:
fire, crash, crime…our other tunes of bad news.
My wife said only 26 in our town, so far, have the virus.
This COVID concept album won’t stop the blues
of yellow desert birds in Coachella. They fly,
sing: “Eat, live, Saturday!” Tuesday, my sons camped
in our backyard tent — just boys. Me on the lawn under the sky,
old, but happy & know I’m lucky with Sherelle. The lamp
I lift as people die? Teach, write, help young heroes fight failure.
But who is the rider that cries like a baby, screams like a panther?

“Lost After Willie: The Show,” A Poem by Bruce Craven

In Arts & Letters, Creative Writing, Poetry on May 13, 2020 at 6:45 am

Bruce Craven is a member of the Columbia Business School Executive Education faculty in New York City. In addition to directing and teaching in a variety of executive programs, he teaches graduate business students his popular elective Leadership Through Fiction.  His book Win or Die: Leadership Secrets from Game of Thrones, was published in March 2019 by Thomas Dunne Books, an imprint of St. Martin’s Press.  The book is currently being translated into Russian and Turkish. He wrote the novel Fast Sofa (1993) which was published in Japanese and German. He also co-wrote the script for the film adaptation, starring Jennifer Tilly, Jake Busey and Crispin Glover. His collection of poetry, Buena Suerte in Red Glitter will be published in 2019 by Red Dirt Press. He lives with his wife and two sons in the Coachella Valley in California.

 

Lost After Willie: The Show

Roger drove us in his Pinto to Universal
Amphitheater, North Hollywood, to see Willie.
1980, before Roger’s second year in the universe
Of Texas A&M. Two women from New York City
Sat beside us. We were drunk, Roger & me.
Forty years later, I still remember bugging
the women, who were quiet, distant, looked Jewish.
“New York?! Really? Hilarious!” Forty years later, judging,
Is what I think I never did, remembering innocence.
How could north eastern women get references
Of the West? I was blind to my blindness, nineteen.
Roger and I must’ve talked ‘bout College Station. Hurt
The enemy! Roger wanted Apocalypse Now. He’d seen
The future. War. He wore creased Wranglers, Western boots, ROTC shirt.

“Saint Stephen,” A Poem by P.W. Bridgman

In Arts & Letters, Creative Writing, Poetry on February 26, 2020 at 6:45 am

P.W. Bridgman is a Pushcart Prize-nominated writer of poetry and short fiction. His most recent book—a selection of poems entitled A Lamb—was published by Ekstasis Editions in 2018. It was preceded in 2013 by a selection of short fiction entitled Standing at an Angle to My Age (published by Libros Libertad). Bridgman’s poems and stories have appeared in The Moth Magazine, The Glasgow Review of Books, The Honest Ulsterman, The High Window, The Bangor Literary Journal, The Galway Review, Ars Medica, Poetry Salzburg Review and other literary periodicals, e-zines and anthologies. Learn more at www.pwbridgman.ca.

Saint Stephen[1]

Did he doubt or did he try?
Answers aplenty in the bye and bye
Talk about your plenty, talk about your ills
One man gathers what another man spills.

“Saint Stephen”
by Robert Hunter and Jerry Garcia

Stephen embraced an old word, dredged up from obscurity by chance:
a word encountered in the florid prose of Edward Bulwer Lytton.
It lodged in his mind, fastened itself to his meditations.
Despite its modest provenance, the word captured just what he was seeking.
Indeed, it was le mot juste, the inevitable word. The word was ‘pellucid’.
Its crystalline perfection scorned all that his murky faith held high.
Clarity was what was missing. As conviction rises, so falls mere belief.
But mired in mere belief (a qualified belief at that), he longed for discernment,
for the bright line. Stephen’s tiresome questions made his priest wonder and sigh:
Did he doubt or did he try?

The agile mind is an unruly horse. An honest priest will admit as much.
This was Stephen’s conundrum. He yearned to rise above mere belief.
He sought conviction. He pursued a considered acceptance of doctrine.
But his unruly horse’s hooves kept kicking up dirt, leaves and twigs.
Between him and the bougainvillea beyond—so rapturously beautiful—
his agile mind always interpolated a dusty thicket of doubt and, try
as he might, it would not clear. Far indeed from a pellucid view!
Did God expect him simply to check his intellect at the door?
Stephen’s priest shushed him with the same, drooping battle cry:
‘Answers aplenty in the bye and bye’.

A more-than-usually-competent London solicitor, Stephen had nonetheless taken
a modest position with a not-for-profit. He wrote scholarly articles
on the law of trusts. His treatise in the Modern Law Review urging
a more liberal use of the cy-près doctrine was cited by the House of Lords
twice in decisions worth millions to struggling charities. NGOs were elated,
residuary beneficiaries dismayed. Evermore like Blake’s ‘dark satanic mills,’
the banks were overdue for a reminder that Law comes qualified by Equity.
Stephen was quietly pleased to have prompted it.
Long live principles first set down with quills!
Talk about your plenty, talk about your ills!

It was his beloved Forster’s Howards End that confirmed Stephen as a small-s socialist.
Mr. Wilcox’s portentous words to Margaret caused the book to tumble from
his twenty-year-old hands: ‘The poor are poor, and one’s sorry for them,
but there it is… As civilisation moves forward, the shoe is bound
to pinch in places.’ Bloody, bloody hell. He set his face, indeed his life, against all
the Henry Wilcoxes, in time using Equity to thwart them, to challenge their wills.
Now, there was a confirmation worthy of the word. Law and Equity gave him nuance
and subtlety to be sure, but unlike scripture, they supplied some bright lines too.
And tools to make the shoe pinch where it should. Scalpels. Mallets and drills:
One man gathers what another man spills.

 

 

[1] This decidedly English glosa takes its source poem quatrain (its cabeza in Spanish, from whence the glosa form is derived) from the song, ‘Saint Stephen.’ The song appeared first on the Grateful Dead’s album, Aoxomoxoa, and then again on Live/Dead. Both LPs were released in 1969 (the year the present poet turned 17).

Three Poems by Carrie Goertz-Flores

In Arts & Letters, Creative Writing, Creativity, Humanities, Poetry, Writing on July 3, 2019 at 6:45 am

Carrie Goertz-Flores has published work in New Plains Review, and has work forthcoming in Red Dirt Forum: A Journal of Contemporary Literature, and elsewhere. She is currently at work on a poetry collection, Solanaceae, which seeks to bridge the gap between the botanical world and modern human experience. She lives in rural Oklahoma with her husband and four dogs who serve as dedicated editors and muses for her work. 

 

Shrapnel

Dedicated to my father.

His face was worn with trenches while his gaze was guarded by barbed wire fences,
Yet beyond all those lines lay an abandoned field of friends and rusting wheels,
A battle no longer of bullets but shards so small no one would ever think to notice;
How they stuck then sunk so far into the mind even he had almost forgotten for a time.

Scraping and scrapping pieces of his life along with almost every peace of mind,
They lay like the mines lost long ago in wars no one remembers until they detonate.

For some those metal teeth burrow deeper, shell cased in scars of anger and regret,
The tissue too thick for any surgeon and the surgery worse than the first war crime.
Maybe for the lucky few whose draft number they drew, the pieces begin to surface;
Perhaps they even breach with fallen comrades and the white eyes of their enemies…

But memory is a funny bitch of a thing when carried on a shaft, shell, or bomb;
Shrapnel may burrow or it may breach but nothing can ever make it dissolve.

 

The Suitcase

We heard that jeep limpin’ along, over the hills and somehow still not under one.
A custom clunker with age-enhanced leg room where the floorboards had rusted off,
That black and green ride baptized Camo-Mile, how she hacked on her own exhaust –
Or maybe that was just Aunt Sammy with her Category 5 smoker’s cough.

We watched her climb out then sway and swagger down the rocky drive,
A bloated bag swung in one hand and a square suitcase cradled in the other.
I opened the screen door wide and she handed the paper bag to my mother,
Then bumpin’ past and still hugging that cask, she made the table on a winded sigh.

As Sammy insisted, that suitcase was christened the centerpiece over the honey ham,
Towering like a great white behemoth, sporting a spout for a tail and plastic trunk handle,
While its keeper kept us dazzled with stories of her cats and that long planned trip to France;
She was still talking as we cleared, but helped by finger cleanin’ three plates of pumpkin pie.

That evening all but one gathered in the den to claim their turf and surf the cable channels.
Still I heard it over the rattle of rusty memories and reckless booms of political commentary,
A sudden clink from the kitchen and then a long pour that turned into a longer lonely drawl,
Cup in hand, Aunt Sam sat in time to cackle at the news that Paul was now ready to pass on.

With no on left but me, she finally snored into the dreams that only her suitcase could still bring –
Though she still wore that dreamcatcher charm and the golden cross it had tangled and caught on.
Finally, my dad carried in that Wal-mart bag that still remained packed and crumbled without care:
Panties, pills, and toothpaste pokin’ out, we set it by her fetal form with hopes and continued prayers.

But that suitcase now it hardly sloshed – how she’d solo unpacked that box of Franzia Sauvignon.
Still, Dad and I had our doubts that her latest cardboard carry-on had indeed come from Avignon.

 

 

Leaky Faucet

My mind’s a kitchen faucet
All day filling needy cups
But at night not quite off
Drips are my own dreams
Clinging to the cold sink
I must try to remember…
I must try to save from the daily drain.

Three Poems by Bruce Craven

In Arts & Letters, Creative Writing, Creativity, Humanities, liberal arts, Poetry on June 19, 2019 at 6:45 am

Bruce Craven is a member of the Columbia Business School Executive Education faculty in New York City. In addition to directing and teaching in a variety of executive programs, he teaches graduate business students his popular elective Leadership Through Fiction.  His book Win or Die: Leadership Secrets from Game of Thrones, was published in March 2019 by Thomas Dunne Books, an imprint of St. Martin’s Press.  The book is currently being translated into Russian and Turkish. He wrote the novel Fast Sofa (1993) which was published in Japanese and German. He also co-wrote the script for the film adaptation, starring Jennifer Tilly, Jake Busey and Crispin Glover. His collection of poetry, Buena Suerte in Red Glitter will be published in 2019 by Red Dirt Press. He lives with his wife and two sons in the Coachella Valley in California.

 

Gun Crazy

I’m a failure. I fell in love

with the sharpshooting girl

with pearl-handled pistols

in white holsters and the short skirt

trimmed with fringe.

We shot six-shooters together,

then she came

around the corner in a Buick

with running boards and a hood ornament

that shined like God’s right eye in the Kansas sun.

Her patent leather boots were ice-cream white,

same as those dangerous holsters and the yoke

of her midnight blue silk rodeo shirt. White

as her teeth and the fake-pearl snaps.

Her small bosom

unveiled in the carnival noise of sweeping up,

the sound of a generator, voices from a distant poker game.

I’m almost scared.

Her breasts in my hands make me think

of mounds of warm dirt when I was a boy

sitting beside the lake. I leaned

against a big rock out past the drive-in,

took potshots at birds in the sky

with my Crosman Pellgun,

dreaming of coyote, catamount or wolf.

And now

the towns don’t know what hit ‘em.

Bank alarms clang, people wave their arms

or lie down on the sidewalk. And we

count the money and drive.

 

My love can pick a lit cigarette out of my lips from thirty feet, eyes closed.

My love can hold an empty beer can bouncing in the air on bullets

like it was bouncing down from heaven on a string.

My love can talk for hours, then sleep, curled, in the shotgun seat

with her head in my lap, one arm between her legs

and the road never ends and she only complains about the heat

and this engine is a gem, an oiled gun that fires fast and smooth.

You know they’re never going to catch you.

 

We got married on the run.

Like real lovers should, she whispered.

Like criminals, joked the man in Reno who sold us a couple boxes of .38 shells,

a bottle of rye and an extra blanket for the cold desert nights.

Then we reached the ocean…the big blue desert

where the Buick is useless.

During day we hide in our white motel and pay cash.

At night, we walk the sand and don’t talk anymore.

Tonight, the waves spill in moonlight. We made a fire out of driftwood and finished the rye.

I held a cigarette in my lips under the carousel of stars.

Her shot ripped the cherry spark

and I jumped like it was the first time.

My love’s breasts are small and beautiful and she trembles

under me now in the cold sand and cries,

not from our passion, but because she shot a man

in the back in the back of a Saving’s & Loan

back near San Bernardino. Three shots.

He was armed. That’s what the newspaper’s say.

He died. Call us killers. Call us another Bonnie and Clyde.

Shown a big picture of the Buick.

Big pictures of me and my love.

I told you I was bad, she says.

I failed you, I say.

She wipes her tears, lifts her pistol. No, you didn’t.

But she’s wrong.

We got nowhere to drive. We got nowhere to hide.

 

My love points her gun at the sky and fires.

The stars crackle. We got nothing but each other.

We see it before we hear it: the flash of their blue gunfire.

 

 

1966

Fingers against the screen door,

bug-light yellowing the porch beyond

my six-year-old threshold. Burgoyne Drive

glittered with imperforate forms,

neighbors caught in the high-beams

of an idling Ford Falcon. Butcher’s paper

spanned between tentacle streetlights:

a single name in blue paint.

Shadow of rooftops a coal black Monopoly.

Mom and Dad on the lawn, arms linked; their voices hushed.

Bap of moths against the eaves,

one step beyond my cell.

A dense furniture of light radiates from every wall.

 

The world outside in the dark

waits for a neighbor’s son to return from Vietnam.

Everyone waits in that world of hurt.

Horror, a dog-eared pack of playing cards taken home

after the fictional kill-ratios got burned off on the wire.

Skin of some little country bubbling from Napalm,

saturation bombing and the strategy of not losing another domino.

 

The everyday banter as simple as looking up from the dice

to point at the homespun robe stained with blood; the enemy

caught in the coils of razor wire. Black cloth or olive cloth: dead

from exposure or loss of blood or organ failure. Roll

the dice. Oh, the games the leaders play!

 

And a blipping rain of incandescent frogs over Da Nang.

 

But what do I know?

 

Only that I was reading a picture book that night

about a group of children who painted the white walls

of their bedroom into a miraculous jungle

of maroon tigers, thick, green, lustrous fronds

and fierce, flesh-hungry natives. Knives azure.

Teeth tangerine and sharp. The children run

deeper into the jungle, desperate to paint a way

out, an exit strategy. The children scribble their colored brushes:

bridges, rivers, nets, canoes. They draw solutions.

Anything to stay one step ahead. Anything to elude

the nick of time. Until…

They are trapped! No escape.

Lost in the garden of fear. Evil prowls

in the brilliance of vine, petal, flower; hides

waiting in the shadows. Home so far away.

 

And only one can of paint left.

 

The youngest girl grabs a brush, paints the outline

of a door they all remember. A door that will open

into their familiar white bedroom. A door

that will close

and keep the fierce natives locked away.

The danger over by dinner. The jungle as real as TV.

The neighbor’s son returns from Vietnam.

1966.

 

 

 

 

Mud-Flap Girl

You’ve seen her,

against her black curtain backdrop.

She and her sister, silver and shiny,

roar past on the interstate,

bounce behind the gasoline truck

with the brilliant red WARNING

or maybe the yellow and black BIOHAZARD.

In Brooklyn, there’s an ice-cream step-van

covered completely, a friend told me,

with you. O, Mud-Flap Girl,

you’re so much more than a rebel flag, an eagle, the letters N.R.A.

You’re on my Zippo and you’re in my heart.

You go back in time with me.

You teach me and save me. I’ve met you,

in so many disguises, behind the masks

of women with names and wallets and

different driver’s licenses; phone numbers

scribbled on scraps of bar napkin before something

falters and there is hurt and loneliness

and only you, silver outline that became flesh

and warm and sang sentences, then faded

for one reason or another.

 

let me smoke another cigarette.

Let me drink another whiskey.

Let me drive nowhere fast.

Let me run my fingers around your hour-glass hips,

the black curtain your silver legs sculpt as you begin to rise,

icon of slender wrist and ankle. Move to me,

but not like a stripper. I’m out of dollars.

Barbarella of exhaust pipes and road tar

and tasteless fried chicken

I wouldn’t feed a starving cat. Baby,

I don’t care and I forgive you and I do, really,

love you when the red lights of the Highway Patrol

surge past in the fast-lane, siren whining, and I sip

my dead coffee and the dashboard glimmers

and the odometer counts each mile like it matters.

When the bartender fills my glass

with flames of bourbon and screaming ice,

you are there beside my cigarettes, looking good.

Women lean forward, cup fingers

around your red flame, give thanks with their eyes.

Smile when they catch sight of you.

No, I refuse to believe your body is a patriarchal lie,

marketed for profit. Your long hair, parted mouth

and up-thrust breasts are more than pornography, more than

the imposition of an unfair and dangerous standard of femininity.

 

I know this because I have been with you,

have stood beside a white bed, struggling out of my Levi’s

and watched as you pounced onto your knees,

then bounced once on the mattress

like a little girl waiting for a story.

 

I have heard you plead, C’mon! Hurry!

 

And I have crawled to you like a man.

 

John William Corrington on Intuition and Intellect

In America, American History, American Literature, Arts & Letters, Books, Essays, History, Humanities, John William Corrington, liberal arts, Literary Theory & Criticism, Literature, Modernism, Philosophy, Poetry, Religion, Scholarship, Southern History, Southern Literature, The South, Western Philosophy, Writing on October 17, 2018 at 6:45 am

In my edition of John William Corrington’s essays, I assembled Corrington’s unpublished notes and sections of his unpublished lectures from the early 1970s that he maintained in one document.  Because of the subject matter, I titled this section “Intuition-Intellect.”

This material demonstrates the shift in Corrington’s interests in poetry as a craft to more philosophical concerns that were influenced by poetry, or mythopoetics. His discussion of myth and his references to Eric Voegelin in these notes suggests that he had just begun to read Voegelin and to explore Gnosticism and myth criticism.

Corrington questions here the relationship between science and philosophy and hypothesizes about how the truths generated by science become mythologized to satisfy certain human desires. He proposes that science itself has a “mythic” character and claims that “the aftermath of every significant act of science is its mythologization.” Corrington speculates whether myth is inevitable because it fulfills something basic or instinctive in human nature.

Science amasses data for their predictive value, but asking what these data mean is the beginning of myth, which, properly understood, is another form of understanding and articulating truths about the world. However, myth can also, Corrington claims, have destructive implications at odds with truth. He warns about mismanaging myth, giving such examples as Nazism, Marxism, and free enterprise: ideological constructs that rely on abstract myth narratives to stamp out opposition.

Corrington critiques the scientism that has developed since the Enlightenment because he considers its emphasis on empiricism and rationalism to mask its role in formulating mythic patterns or archetypes for governing the phenomenal world, including the human social order. These patterns or archetypes, despite their mythic nature, are taken as authoritative and valid because they are conflated with or understood as scientific truth; in this manner they are assumed to be separate and apart from myth when in fact they constitute myth.  They are dangerous because they are presumed to be scientific truth subject to certain and definite application when in fact they represent mythopoetic urges to satisfy innate and instinctual human impulses.

Corrington transitions from this discussion of myth and science into a discussion of twentieth-century poetry and its “overintellectualization,” as evidenced by the implementation of supposedly scientific approaches to the study of poetry. Corrington considers the New Criticism to represent such a scientific approach to poetry.

The turn to reason and science, Corrington suggests, has destroyed the aesthetics of poetry just as it has destroyed human civilizations in the sociopolitical context. In both contexts there has been, he believes, a failure to realize the distinction between science and the mythologization of science, a failure that has led certain groups to mistake what is unreasonable and irrational for absolute reason and rationality, to believe, that is, that what is merely a pattern or archetype—a human construct—is something given and definite even apart from human knowledge of it. Those who fail to understand the distinction between science and the mythologization of science embrace a potentially destructive psychic system that mistakes science for its opposite. This essay shows that, as Corrington begins to transition away from the writing of poetry, he is also trying to integrate his interest in poetry with his growing interest in philosophy.

The exact date of this Corrington material is unknown; however, certain references suggest that Corrington wrote these notes in or around 1971. For example, he mentions a “new” album by the Rolling Stones, Sticky Fingers, which came out in 1971. It is possible that part of this material comes from a lecture that Corrington gave to the South-Central Modern Language Association in 1968. That lecture was titled “Cassirer’s Curse, Keats’s Urn, and the Poem Before the Poem.” Some of the material may have come from the National Science Foundation Lecture that Corrington titled “Science and the Humanities” and delivered at Louisiana State University in 1966. Corrington began the essay with four discursive notes under the heading “Statements and Questions.” Because the ideas in these notes are more fully developed in the text proper, I have moved them to the end of the essay.

“Intuition-Intellect” has been printed in my recent edition of Corrington’s work, which is available for purchase by clicking on the image below:

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