Lisa P từ Lipsko-Polesie, Poland

ailisapapada

12/22/2024

Dữ liệu người dùng, đánh giá và đề xuất cho sách

Lisa P Sách lại (10)

2019-07-23 18:30

Tóm Tắt Lí Thuyết Bài Tập Trắc Nghiệm Và Tự Luận Hoá Học 8 Thư viện Sách hướng dẫn

Sách được viết bởi Bởi:

The mid '70's. The party after the poetry reading was now in full swing, and Robert Bly, the evening's featured poet, was sitting bolt upright on my friend Bob's couch, still draped in his red and orange serape. As he discoursed on some aspect of American myth, gesturing dramatically as he spoke, his expressive arms--in the light of the table lamps--glided like a hawk's wings at sunset. Just then, my friend Michael, arriving home from the bars--considerably the worse for wear, and oblivious to the context--took one look at Bly and blurted out, "Who the hell do you think you are? Certainly, too much beer had much to do with Michael's inappropriate exclamation, but that doesn't mean his question isn't worth asking. Indeed, I find myself asking it about Robert Bly too, sometimes even when sober. Who is Robert Bly? And who the hell does he think he is? First of all, he is an influential editor and gifted translator who published in his magazine The '50's (later called The '60's and The '70's) superb unrhymed translations, mostly from the Spanish, that glowed darkly with images of a deep surrealism. Second, Bly was a powerful influence on one of America's greatest poets, his friend James Wright, and on American poetry in general. The "deep image school" they pioneered together rescued Wright from poetic stagnation and depression; it is not an exaggeration to say that it might have saved his life. Their work in turn provided a point of departure for new a generation of poets, an influence continues to be felt fifty years later. Third, Bly is a great showman: part actor, part guru, part performance artist. At best, the showmanship enhances the power of his poetry, as he recites "I am Goya" in a very scary voice or reads his "Hockey Poem" while wearing a goalie's mask. At his worst, he seems like a snake oil salesman or a cheerleader or both, spouting truisms as if they were profound truths--as he did in that bible of the "Man's Movement," the best-seller Iron John. Finally, though, we must ask ourselves, "Who is Bly, considered as a poet?" The answer is "a little of all these things." He lacks the astonishing gift for original language that his friend Wright instinctively possessed, and even his best poems often seem like translations from Spanish or Arabic or Sanskrit, poems we are certain must have been even better in the original. Also, Bly has written much (too much), and, when his inspiration inevitably fails him, he compensates with meretricious enthusiasm and rhetoric--the snake-oil ingredients of poetic expression. And yet Bly's best poems, particularly the early ones, seem suffused with the spirit of contemplation, as if they are poised to enlighten the reader like the slap of a zen master's palm or the touch of a guru's peacock feather. Enlightenment is a hit-or-miss affair--sometimes the slap is just a slap, the feather just a feather--but when these poems work as they are supposed to, the result is astonishing. His first two books are his best, and this one--his first--is the more spiritual and private of the two. It is filled--of course--with fields, snow and silence, but also with dead leaves, black trees standing starkly against gray skies, and long highways graced by the welcoming lights of barns. It evokes, better than any book I know, the spare, cruel beauty of winter in the American Midwest, and the sudden, unexpected rushes of joys that this beauty may bring. I'd like to close with three very short poems from this book. Each is an example of an "enlightenment" that works, and each includes a reference to snow: In a Train There has been a light snow. Dark car tracks move in out of the darkness. I stare at the train window marked with soft dust. I have awakened at Missoula Montana utterly happy. "Watering the Horse" How strange to think of giving up all ambition! Suddenly I see with such clear eyes The white flake of snow That has just fallen in the horse's mane! "Driving to Town Late to Mail a Letter" It is a cold and snowy night. The main street is deserted. The only things moving are swirls of snow. As I lift the mailbox door, I feel its cold iron. There is a privacy I love in this snowy night. Driving around, I will waste more time.

Người đọc Lisa P từ Lipsko-Polesie, Poland

Người dùng coi những cuốn sách này là thú vị nhất trong năm 2017-2018, ban biên tập của cổng thông tin "Thư viện Sách hướng dẫn" khuyến cáo rằng tất cả các độc giả sẽ làm quen với văn học này.