{"id":27244,"date":"2012-02-24T15:58:05","date_gmt":"2012-02-24T20:58:05","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/?p=27244"},"modified":"2012-02-24T15:58:05","modified_gmt":"2012-02-24T20:58:05","slug":"spring-poems","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2012\/02\/24\/spring-poems\/","title":{"rendered":"Spring Poems"},"content":{"rendered":"

\"\"<\/a>Spring is upon us! Or almost. What poems will get my mind off wintertime?<\/em><\/p>\n

More than the other seasons, spring is a state of mind. As you know, it can strike in the dead of winter or go AWOL<\/small> all April and May. It is the season of initiation, of mysteries, when the evening lengthens and spreads out before us and we are filled with irrational hope. Or not, and we feel its absence: spring is no longer for us. \u201cI am a man of fortune greeting heirs; \/ For it has come that thus I greet the spring.\u201d We all know about April being the cruelest month; Rodgers and Hart put it<\/a> more succinctly: \u201cSpring is here, \/ I hear.\u201d<\/p>\n

We all have our favorite greatest hits (you can\u2019t call a spring poem a chestnut): Deirdre likes William Carlos Williams\u2019s \u201cSpring and All,\u201d e.e. cummings\u2019s poem beginning \u201cin \/ Just spring,\u201d and Emily Dickinson\u2019s \u201cA Light exists in Spring.\u201d Sadie loves Elizabeth Bishop\u2019s \u201cIn Early Spring\u201d and the Dickinson poem that starts \u201cA little Madness in the Spring \/ Is wholesome even for the King\u201d (though she admits it gets \u201ca little odd\u201d as it goes along). Stephen plumps for \u201cFern Hill,\u201d on the sensible grounds that it concerns \u201cthe spring of life.\u201d <\/p>\n

The poem that occurs to me is \u201cLes Chercheuses de Poux,\u201d by Arthur Rimbaud. Here it is in Wyatt Mason\u2019s translation, which magically preserves some of the strangeness and sensuality of the original:<\/p>\n

\n

Lice Hunters<\/p>\n

When the child’s forehead full of red torments
\nBegs the white swarm of vague dreams
\nTo take him, two charming sisters loom
\nAbove his bed, with fragile fingers and silver nails.<\/p>\n

They sit him before a window opened wide
\nWhere a jumble of flowers bathes in blue air,
\nAnd then, bewitching and terrible, the delicate fingers
\nWalk through his heavy, dew-matted hair.<\/p>\n

He listens to the song of their uneasy breath,
\nLong earthy blossoms of rose-rich honey
\nInterrupted now and then by a salivary sucking,
\nTongues licking lips, hungry for a kiss.<\/p>\n

He hears their black lids bat beneath
\nThe scented silence, their gentle pulsing fingers
\nKill little lice beneath royal nails crackling
\nSounds resounding through his gray stupor.<\/p>\n

But the wine of Sloth is rising in him,
\nA harmonica’s sigh that sets you reeling;
\nBeneath the slowness of their caresses, the child
\nFeels an urge to cry, welling and dying, endlessly.<\/p>\n<\/blockquote>\n

We also polled a few friends from outside the office: the aforementioned Wyatt Mason; Molly Murray, who is lecturing on Shakespeare at Columbia; Jeff Dolven, who happens to be doing the very same thing at Princeton (and has two poems<\/a> in our last issue); and Kira von Eichel, whose child was falsely accused this week of having lice\u2014and who recruited her mother, Linden von Eichel, in the cause.<\/p>\n

Wyatt chose a poem by Frederick Seidel, from issue 194. He writes: \u201cI hope you won\u2019t argue that it isn\u2019t a spring poem. Spring is coupling, so a spring poem must be in couplets. Spring is song, so a spring poem must rhyme. Spring is light, so a spring poem is lit from within. Spring is nice weather, so \u2018Nice Weather\u2019 is spring. And don’t tell me I\u2019m being tautological. I don\u2019t know what that means.\u201d <\/p>\n

\n

Nice Weather<\/p>\n

This is what it\u2019s like at the end of the day.
\nBut soon the day will go away.
\nSunlight preoccupies the cross street.
\nIt and night soon will meet.
\nMeanwhile, there is Central Park.
\nNow the park is getting dark.\n<\/p>\n<\/blockquote>\n

Molly Murray also gravitates to the dark side of spring fever: \u201cI always think of this Gerard Manley Hopkins sonnet in springtime, particularly the sestet\u2014a reminder that crocuses, robins, nature’s rebirth, etc. etc., can be a particularly exquisite horror to a mind sufficiently observant and sufficiently depressed.\u201d <\/p>\n

\n

Thou art indeed just, Lord, if I contend
\nWith thee; but, sir, so what I plead is just.
\nWhy do sinners’ ways prosper? and why must
\nDisappointment all I endeavour end?<\/p>\n

Wert thou my enemy, O thou my friend,
\nHow wouldst thou worse, I wonder, than thou dost
\nDefeat, thwart me? Oh, the sots and thralls of lust
\nDo in spare hours more thrive than I that spend,<\/p>\n

Sir, life upon thy cause. See, banks and brakes
\nNow, leav\u00e8d how thick! lac\u00e8d they are again
\nWith fretty chervil, look, and fresh wind shakes<\/p>\n

Them; birds build–but not I build; no, but strain,
\nTime’s eunuch, and not breed one work that wakes.
\nMine, O thou lord of life, send my roots rain.<\/p>\n<\/blockquote>\n

Jeff Dolven writes, \u201cFor me, \u2018Forces, the Will, & the Weather,\u2019 by Wallace Stevens. Why? Till summer bakes it, spring is mire for poets to breed floures and lilacs in. But I love Stevens’s spring, too, which comes to you first thing in the morning like a waiter, laying a bright blank page at your place. With a nougat on the side (new begat?), and you also get those great lines about the girl walking her dog, the rhythm of which should carry you through to lunch at least. Tip generously, reader.\u201d<\/p>\n

\n

Forces, the Will & the Weather<\/p>\n

At the time of nougats, the peer yellow
\nSighed in the evening that he lived
\nWithout ideas in a land without ideas,
\nThe pair yellow, the peer.<\/p>\n

It was at the time, the place, of nougats.
\nThere the dogwoods, the white ones and the pink ones,
\nBloomed in sheets, as they bloom, and the girl,
\nA pink girl took a white dog walking.<\/p>\n

The dog had to walk. He had to be taken.
\nThe girl had to hold back and lean back to hold him,
\nAt the time of the dogwoods, handfuls thrown up
\nTo spread colors. There was not an idea<\/p>\n

This side of Moscow. There were anti-ideas
\nAnd counter-ideas. There was nothing one had.
\n          There were
\nNo horses to ride and no one to ride them
\nIn the woods of the dogwoods,<\/p>\n

No large white horses. But there was the fluffy dog.
\nThere were the sheets high up on older trees,
\nSeeming to be liquid as leaves made of cloud,
\nShells under water. These were nougats.<\/p>\n

It had to be right: nougats. It was a shift
\nOf realities, that, in which it could be wrong.
\nThe weather was like a waiter with a tray.
\nOne had come early to a crisp caf\u00e9.<\/p>\n<\/blockquote>\n

Kira von Eichel suggests another translation from the French: \u201cOne could do worse than Wordsworth\u2019s daffodils and any of Blake\u2019s Songs of Innocence<\/a><\/em>. In fact, they\u2019re great. If that\u2019s all it will take, go for it. But the true somnambulant, staring at that certain slant of light, is in need of a more powerful tonic. You don\u2019t even have to have it, just think about it, read a poem about it; think a little bit dirty, a little bit delirious. Spring fever. Emily Dickinson\u2019s flowers and bees were flirting and kissing (see \u201cCome Slowly \u2013 Eden!\u201d) One of my personal favorites, this one from Paul Verlaine, mentions autumn, but I think it was a mistake, and I forgive him. No bug would bite a lovely\u2019s neck in autumn. It\u2019s so spring!\u201d<\/p>\n

\n

Innocents We
\n(Translation by Norman R Shapiro)<\/p>\n

Their long skirts and high heels battled away:
\nDepending on the ground\u2019s and breezes\u2019 whim,
\nAt times some stocking shone, low on the limb\u2014
\nToo soon concealed!\u2014tickling our na\u00efvet\u00e9.<\/p>\n

At times, as well, an envious bug would bite
\nOur lovelies\u2019 necks beneath the boughs, and we
\nWould glimpse a flash\u2014white flash, ah! ecstasy!\u2014
\nAnd glut our mad young eyes on sheer delight.<\/p>\n

Evening would fall, the autumn day would draw
\nTo its uncertain close: our belles would cling
\nDreamingly to us, cooing, whispering
\nLies that still set our souls trembling with awe.<\/p>\n<\/blockquote>\n

\u201cAnd if that’s not enough and you really want to get down and dirty … well, there\u2019s my mother, who penned this, her \u2018Fecund Ditty\u2019 in 2008.\u201d<\/p>\n

\n

Boffing bunnies, flipping fishes,
\nSpawning salmon, juicy wishes,
\nOozing mud with pushing fronds,
\nBrown and green by fecund ponds.<\/p>\n

Four-leaf clover comes unfurled,
\nUmbrella plant, a phallus curled,
\nMushrooms, orange on black log,
\nIn this fragrant earth bog.<\/p>\n

Spring has sprung
\nThe grass is riz
\nI wonder where the birdies is?\u201d
\nThe birds, of course, are with the bees.<\/p>\n

The bees are kissing throbbing stamen,
\nThriving, pollinating \u2013 Amen!<\/p>\n<\/blockquote>\n

Have a question for the editors of <\/em>The Paris Review? E-mail<\/a> us.<\/em><\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

Spring is upon us! Or almost. What poems will get my mind off wintertime? More than the other seasons, spring is a state of mind. As you know, it can strike in the dead of winter or go AWOL all April and May. It is the season of initiation, of mysteries, when the evening lengthens […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":2,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"_acf_changed":false,"footnotes":""},"categories":[56],"tags":[57,6526,712,4254,3685,2653,165,6524,6525,792,4035],"class_list":["post-27244","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-ask-the-paris-review","tag-advice","tag-arthur-rimbaud","tag-frederick-seidel","tag-gerard-manley-hopkins","tag-jeff-dolven","tag-paul-verlaine","tag-poetry","tag-songs-of-innocence","tag-spring","tag-wallace-stevens","tag-william-blake"],"acf":[],"yoast_head":"\nSpring Poems by Lorin Stein<\/title>\n<meta name=\"description\" content=\"February 24, 2012 \u2013 Spring is upon us! Or almost. What poems will get my mind off wintertime? More than the other seasons, spring is a state of mind. 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