{"id":109677,"date":"2017-04-10T17:45:57","date_gmt":"2017-04-10T21:45:57","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/?p=109677"},"modified":"2017-04-10T17:45:57","modified_gmt":"2017-04-10T21:45:57","slug":"beyond-the-alps","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2017\/04\/10\/beyond-the-alps\/","title":{"rendered":"Beyond the Alps"},"content":{"rendered":"

Revisited<\/a> is a series in which writers look back on a work of art they first encountered long ago. Here, Jacob Bacharach\u00a0revisits Robert Lowell\u2019s poem\u00a0\u201cBeyond the Alps.\u201d<\/em><\/p>\n

\"\"<\/a><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

I think I must have first read Robert Lowell\u2019s poem \u201cBeyond the Alps\u201d the summer before my junior year of high school, when I was at the Young Writers Workshop at the University of Virginia. I know I bought a copy of his Life Studies<\/em> and For the Union Dead<\/em> at one of the used bookstores there. I\u2019d read \u201cFor the Union Dead\u201d in some anthology or other, and it seemed to me that there was something intensely apropos about rereading this contemplation on a union colonel \u201cand his bell-cheeked Negro infantry,\u201d as depicted in Saint-Gauden\u2019s civil war sculpture, on the Boston Common while living a poetical teenage summer in Charlottesville, surrounded by so much evidence of Jefferson\u2019s cruel, horrible vision of a utopia with slaves.<\/p>\n

At the time, I gave \u201cBeyond the Alps\u201d very little thought, because it rhymed, and I\u2019d recently learned from my peers that rhyming poetry was extremely silly. I was actually at the workshop as a songwriter, and I was able to smuggle my interest in rhyme past their censorious gaze by writing song lyrics, which existed in a weird zone of exclusion. Otherwise, I took their exaggerated disdain to heart.\u00a0<\/p>\n

A few years later, in my first year at Oberlin, my poetry professor forced us through a syllabus dedicated to various poetic forms. It was then, having been induced to write an actual, rhyming sonnet, that I discovered I loved writing sonnets. Oberlin had a one-month winter term in which students were encouraged to embark on projects of independent study, and I\u2019d been invited by one of my best friends at the time, Valerie M., to spend the month with her family in Rome. I cobbled together a proposal to write a sonnet sequence based on my Roman travels. My poetry professor was obviously wise to my half-assed scam, but he was that wonderful breed of college faculty who thinks a month in Rome is more important than an independent study. He signed off.<\/p>\n

Valerie and I had decided that, while we were in Europe, we\u2019d take a train to Paris for a few days. Suddenly I thought about \u201cBeyond the Alps,\u201d which is loosely set on a train from Rome to Paris, a strange, allusive flight from pagan, papal Rome\u2014the newly proclaimed dogma of Mary\u2019s bodily assumption, the wreck of Mussolini\u2014to Paris, \u201cour black classic.\u201d When I read it again, I was slightly astonished to discover that the poem was, in fact, a short series of sonnets, each stanza a neat, rhyming fourteen lines.<\/p>\n

There are actually several versions of the poem. The earliest, which appeared in The Kenyon Review<\/em> in 1953, is seven stanzas long, overwrought, and frankly a bit pedantic:<\/p>\n

St. Peter\u2019s idols, white as death and hope,
\nTurned ultra-violet when you cheered the pope \u2026<\/p><\/blockquote>\n

It verges on sounding, well, extremely silly. The allusions are feathered and dragged out with didactic glee. But by the time it got into Life Studies<\/em>, Lowell had pared the piece down to a modest three stanzas, and the density of its wild leaps of reference gives it a feeling of unstoppable onrush\u2014very much like a train.<\/p>\n

Our trip was even less elevated than Lowell\u2019s, who, from his \u201cParis Pullman,\u201d envied<\/p>\n

\u2026 the conspicuous
\nwaste of our grandparents on their grand tours\u2014
\nlong-haired Victorian sages bought the universe,
\nwhile breezing on their trust funds through the world.<\/p><\/blockquote>\n

We shared a six-bunk sleeping compartment with a lovely family\u2014Albanian, I believe\u2014who spoke no English, French, or Italian, but who had enormous bags of salty popcorn that they insisted we share with them. They disembarked at Pisa; we never could work out if they were tourists or migrants. Valerie and I clacked on and crossed the Alps at night.<\/p>\n

Tired of the querulous hush-hush of the wheels,
\nthe blear-eyed ego kicking in my berth
\nlay still, and saw Apollo plant his heels
\non terra firma through the morning\u2019s thigh …
\neach backward, wasted Alp, a Parthenon,
\nfire-branded socket of the Cyclops\u2019 eye.<\/p><\/blockquote>\n

Lowell\u2019s geography was full of radical elisions, and he doesn\u2019t mention that, once you cross the mountains into France, you have another good fifteen hours of stopping and starting at every Podunk French village along the way, until you finally tumble out onto the platform at the Gare d\u2019Austerlitz.<\/p>\n

All the poems I produced on that trip were lousy imitations of Lowell stanzas, and the closest we got to his Paris of \u201ckiller kings on an Etruscan cup\u201d were the cheap Heinekens they served at the hostel. When we returned to Rome, I went out for a walking tour with my friend\u2019s mother. We walked through the Piazza Venezia, and she pointed out the balcony from which Mussolini had delivered addresses to the fascist crowds. I remember asking if this could be the same square where \u201cThe Duce\u2019s lynched, bare, booted skull still spoke,\u201d only to learn that Lowell\u2019s poetic history, like his geography, took a certain degree of liberty with the facts. Mussolini was shot in a village in the north, his body hung for display not in Rome but in Milan. \u201cMinerva,\u201d as the poet put it, \u201cthe miscarriage of the brain.\u201d<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Jacob Bacharach is a writer based in Pittsburgh. His second novel, <\/em>The Doorposts of Your House and on Your Gates, was published in March.<\/em><\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

At the time, I gave \u201cBeyond the Alps\u201d very little thought, because it rhymed, and I\u2019d learned from my peers that rhyming poetry was extremely silly.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1151,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"closed","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"_acf_changed":false,"footnotes":""},"categories":[22669],"tags":[28290,28296,865,529,9017,545,25893,28294,165,21226,27877,28291,630,1631,28292,962,28295,28293,123],"class_list":["post-109677","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-revisited","tag-beyond-the-alps","tag-elisions","tag-france","tag-french","tag-geography","tag-italy","tag-jacob-bacharach","tag-paris-pullman","tag-poetry","tag-revisited","tag-rhyme","tag-rhyming-poetry","tag-robert-lowell","tag-rome","tag-song-lyrics","tag-sonnets","tag-the-kenyon-review","tag-train-travel","tag-travel"],"acf":[],"yoast_head":"\nRevisited: Robert Lowell\u2019s \u201cBeyond the 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