{"id":34016,"date":"2012-06-20T14:56:11","date_gmt":"2012-06-20T18:56:11","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/?p=34016"},"modified":"2017-05-23T08:38:52","modified_gmt":"2017-05-23T12:38:52","slug":"frederick-seidels-spin","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2012\/06\/20\/frederick-seidels-spin\/","title":{"rendered":"Frederick Seidel\u2019s \u201cSpin\u201d"},"content":{"rendered":"
\"\"

Photograph Mark Mahaney.<\/p><\/div>\n

Nothing suits me as well as the combination of sweet and sour. It explains my love of Thai food and women rockers who sing like robots about heartbreak. It also explains my love of Frederick Seidel\u2019s poetry. Apparently it\u2019s not to everyone\u2019s taste; he has been called the \u201cDarth Vader of American poetry\u201d for such seemingly cruel lines as \u201cA naked woman my age is just a total nightmare.\u201d Of course, that line is in a poem, \u201cClimbing Everest,\u201d about his own mortality, his own nakedness (a \u201ctrain wreck\u201d), and the coldness of those words allows the rest to work on us. And I suppose one must have a mind of winter, and been cold a long time, to write a poem about a dying dog: \u201cSpin.\u201d<\/p>\n

Which is the poem stuck in my head.<\/p>\n

A dog named Spinach died today.
\nIn her arms he died away.
\nInjected with what killed him.
\nLove is a cup that spilled him.
\nSpilled all the Spin that filled him.
\nSunlight sealed and sent.
\nReceived and spent.
\nSmiled and went.<\/p><\/blockquote>\n

I make my creative-writing students memorize and recite poetry; I want to embed a few lines of precise language and meter in their brains, like a sleeper cell, to be activated when they are at a loss for imagery or words. To prove it can be done, I memorize a new poem every week.\u00a0So you would think I\u2019d have a multitude swimming around up there. But the one poem that always snakes its way up\u2014intact\u2014through the debris of memory is also the only poem that, when I recite it before my class, makes them break into tears.<\/p>\n

<\/p>\n

A dog named Spinach died today.
\nIn her arms he died away.<\/p><\/blockquote>\n

Seidel\u2019s work, for me, is a lesson in how to handle subjects we should not, and yet must, write about, and when I recite \u201cSpin\u201d to my class, I talk first about the use of punctuation: only periods.\u00a0The plain-spoken declamations. I show how deftly Seidel goes from sweet to sour:<\/p>\n

Injected with what killed him.<\/p><\/blockquote>\n

A heartless line. Such a clinical description of death, with a blaming tone (she\u00a0killed<\/em> him). Here is the Seidel who gets our hackles up.<\/p>\n

Love is a cup that spilled him.<\/p><\/blockquote>\n

And here is the sweetness again. Also the present tense: love\u00a0is<\/em> a cup that spilled him, as if his life were but a brief part of something greater.<\/p>\n

Spilled all the Spin that filled him.<\/p><\/blockquote>\n

A playful internal rhyme.\u00a0The sweetness there; it nearly cloys. But watch\u2014back into the cold we go:<\/p>\n

Sunlight sealed and sent.
\nReceived and spent.
\nSmiled and went.<\/p><\/blockquote>\n

From the startling emotion of the first line, the poem slowly retreats into the mind, with a series of abstractions that, because they take unpacking, undo the rush of sentiment of dog, died, love, rhyme.\u00a0The pure joy of a dog, the \u201csunlight,\u201d sent like a letter to us, enjoyed and, finally, lost. The absolute simplicity of the relationship of pets and humans, the sunny sadness of the tone, chilled by dollops of Seidelian ice, done in eight lines.<\/p>\n

And so I roll it around and around in my head like a Lemon Ball that won\u2019t dissolve. There is something about how close the poem comes to sentiment, how frank it is about his death, that is upsetting. It is what I love about Seidel\u2019s work: it\u00a0upsets<\/em> me.\u00a0I bring it out in my mind to make myself feel.\u00a0\u201cSpin\u201d\u00a0upsets<\/em> whomever I recite it to.\u00a0The last time, in class, there was a long pause before a a student said, \u201cWhy did you\u00a0do<\/em> that to us?\u201d<\/p>\n

A question to be asked of any great work of art.<\/p>\n

Andrew Sean Greer<\/a> is the author of two short-story collections and the novels <\/em>The Confessions of Max Tivoli<\/a> and<\/em> The Story of a Marriage<\/a>. His third novel, <\/em>Many Worlds, will be published next year. <\/em><\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

Nothing suits me as well as the combination of sweet and sour. It explains my love of Thai food and women rockers who sing like robots about heartbreak. It also explains my love of Frederick Seidel\u2019s poetry. Apparently it\u2019s not to everyone\u2019s taste; he has been called the \u201cDarth Vader of American poetry\u201d for such […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":365,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"_acf_changed":false,"footnotes":""},"categories":[4715],"tags":[7904,2186,961,7902,712,165,7903,3202],"class_list":["post-34016","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-the-poem-stuck-in-my-head","tag-cruel","tag-death","tag-dog","tag-faster","tag-frederick-seidel","tag-poetry","tag-spin","tag-spinach"],"acf":[],"yoast_head":"\nOn Frederick Seidel\u2019s \u201cSpin\u201d<\/title>\n<meta name=\"description\" content=\"Frederick Seidel\u2019s poem \u201cSpin\u201d is stuck in my head\" \/>\n<meta name=\"robots\" content=\"index, follow, max-snippet:-1, max-image-preview:large, max-video-preview:-1\" \/>\n<link rel=\"canonical\" href=\"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2012\/06\/20\/frederick-seidels-spin\/\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:locale\" content=\"en_US\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:type\" content=\"article\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:title\" content=\"Frederick Seidel\u2019s \u201cSpin\u201d by Andrew Sean Greer\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:description\" content=\"June 20, 2012 \u2013 Nothing suits me as well as the combination of sweet and sour. 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