{"id":167423,"date":"2024-04-30T10:28:52","date_gmt":"2024-04-30T14:28:52","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/?p=167423"},"modified":"2024-04-30T11:29:53","modified_gmt":"2024-04-30T15:29:53","slug":"alice-notleys-prophecies","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2024\/04\/30\/alice-notleys-prophecies\/","title":{"rendered":"Alice Notley\u2019s Prophecies"},"content":{"rendered":"<div id=\"attachment_167424\" style=\"width: 686px\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\"><img loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" aria-describedby=\"caption-attachment-167424\" class=\"wp-image-167424 size-full\" src=\"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/wp-content\/uploads\/2024\/04\/at-home-with-anselm.png\" alt=\"\" width=\"676\" height=\"1000\" srcset=\"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/wp-content\/uploads\/2024\/04\/at-home-with-anselm.png 676w, https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/wp-content\/uploads\/2024\/04\/at-home-with-anselm-203x300.png 203w\" sizes=\"auto, (min-width: 62.5em) 67vw, 100vw\" \/><p id=\"caption-attachment-167424\" class=\"wp-caption-text\">ALICE NOTLEY AT HOME WITH HER SON ANSELM, NEW YORK, 1984. PHOTOGRAPH BY SUSAN CATALDO, COURTESY OF ALICE NOTLEY.<\/p><\/div>\n<p><em>In the new Spring issue of<\/em> The Paris Review, <em>we published an <a href=\"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/interviews\/8263\/the-art-of-poetry-no-116-alice-notley\">Art of Poetry<\/a> interview with Alice Notley, conducted by Hannah Zeavin. To mark the occasion, we commissioned a series of short essays that analyze Notley&#8217;s works. We hope readers will enjoy discovering, or rediscovering, these lectures, essays, and poems.<\/em><\/p>\n<p style=\"font-weight: 400;\">I was not raised with any religion. We weren\u2019t told that God was dead; having never existed, he\u2019d had no opportunity to die. Instead, the material world had its own beauty, if occasionally cold or mathematical: the paradox of particle and wave, the litanies of astounding facts and figures (do you know how a snake sheds its skin?). It was a view of life ruled by information: sensible, finite, hard.<\/p>\n<p style=\"font-weight: 400;\">And so, when poets find the confidence to prophesy, I often doubt. If someone tells me in so many words that they are about to deliver me another Book of Luminous Things, as Mi\u0142osz memorably titled one anthology, my brow furrows, even if I remain curious. When I was in college, I was in a workshop with a poet who was writing their dissertation on \u201cvatic\u201d poetry of the twentieth century. After looking up the word, I always found it slightly amusing. How easily the mystic could be isolated, another device in the poet\u2019s bag of tricks. Poets are used to the idea of other voices speaking through them (don\u2019t get them started on the etymology of <em>inspire<\/em>), but an overreliance on a private line to a higher power can begin to feel cheap. There\u2019s a reason Berryman called Rilke a jerk (though of course, pot, kettle).<!--more--><\/p>\n<p style=\"font-weight: 400;\">But when I first read Alice Notley\u2019s sprawling, twisting, hilarious, and deadly serious poem \u201cThe Prophet,\u201d I regained a certain measure of belief. The poem, written in the late seventies, stretches across a dozen pages in long lines alternating with short, a little like Whitman\u2019s exultations spilling over the margin. Who\u2019s speaking? Hard to say\u2014you feel the voice, but lines ricochet in different directions. Take the first two: \u201cThey say there is a dying star which is traveling in two directions. \/ Don\u2019t brood over how you may have behaved last night.\u201d Nearly opposite ideas\u2014one cosmic, one personal\u2014but somehow fusing. Then language rains down like brimstone. It seems to never stop, never waiting for you to \u201cplace\u201d it\u2014it\u2019s the difference between a prophet in a white beard and white robes and another speaker who is at once more ordinary, more elusive, and more terrifying. Commands (\u201cYou must often luminously tell \/ The grossest joke you know to all those stiffs in the other room\u201d), suggestions (\u201cPerhaps you should \/ Call money \u2018green zinnias\u2019\u00a0\u201d), declarations (\u201cScience has almost made it that you yourself hardly ever perceive \/ anything\u201d), questions (\u201cWhy must your \/ Husband occasionally seem to think other women are more wonderful \/ than you?\u201d), and observations (\u201cWhen you \/ do the mistaking, \/ The taco-&amp;-vodka man laughs wickedly\u201d) intertwine and contradict, throwing up scenes and ideas and dismantling them just as fast. The poem is studded with New York scenes and TV-show flickers, but it\u2019s also a mind voyaging through and beyond the quotidian, held together with confidence from a place you can\u2019t observe.<\/p>\n<p style=\"font-weight: 400;\">And isn\u2019t the prophetic something truly surprising, arriving from outside our impaired vision? Could we all have the ability to surprise if we were willing to loosen certain ideas about poetry that we think we require? Notley writes, \u201cDon\u2019t be afraid of your own mind, there\u2019s an ocean there you know \/ how to swim in.\u201d Surrendering to that potentially infinite flow brings inner and outer together, makes our ordinary coeval with that dying star. Luminous without the eye roll. \u201cThe Prophet\u201d helps you to exist for a while in a place between meaning and not meaning\u2014somewhere easy to get to, but maybe not so easy to stay in. It\u2019s tempting to compare it to the oracle at Delphi, writhing through the fumes\u2014I suppose she had a good time, too, and maybe a sense of humor in delivering all those reversible curses. As Notley\u2019s poem says, either breaking down or going too fast for any consciousness (hard to tell): \u201cYou have remarkable power \/ Which you not using like sonofabitch.\u201d<\/p>\n<p>&nbsp;<\/p>\n<p><em>David Schurman Wallace is a writer living in New York.<\/em><\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"<p>\u201cIsn\u2019t the prophetic something truly surprising, arriving from outside our impaired vision?\u201d<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":2401,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"closed","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"_acf_changed":false,"footnotes":""},"categories":[2157],"tags":[24555,68529,67827,26496],"class_list":["post-167423","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-on-poetry","tag-about-poetry","tag-alice-notley","tag-featured","tag-prophecy"],"acf":[],"yoast_head":"<!-- This site is optimized with the Yoast SEO Premium plugin v25.4 (Yoast SEO v25.4) - 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