All That Will Be New
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All That Will Be New

Paul Mariani

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eBook - ePub

All That Will Be New

Paul Mariani

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About This Book

In the poem that opens this, his ninth collection, one of our most celebrated men of letters contemplates the "primordial tensions" felt in the crashing waves of a Northeaster, the glory and terror of the storm as "the real comes crashing finally down on you." Contemplating as we all must the unrelenting passing of time and the harsh realities of history, Paul Mariani embodies the filmmaker Akira Kurosawa's dictum that "the artist is the one who does not look away."

In the face of pandemics, wars, and the open wound of racism, the poet continues his search for those artists, activists, writers, and saints who can guide us through the wilderness and help us preserve the hope that all things can be made new.

Whether he is contemplating painters from Caravaggio to Van Gogh in deft ekphrastic poems, evoking the courageous witness of Harriet Tubman and Malcolm X, or visiting with the poets, living and dead, who have been his masters, Paul Mariani's lyrical voice rings true. In the end, after the arduous journey that has taken him so far, the poet joins a simple supper, where the real shines forth in the breaking of bread

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Information

Publisher
Slant Books
Year
2022
ISBN
9781639821136
II
THOSE BELOVED GHOSTS OF COMPIANO
Wallace Stevens, late in life, evoking the ghost
of Coleridge, another poet philosopher, then
in his twenties, starting out on a packet bound
for Germany, invited by some Danes to share a drink.
He was dressed in black, with large shoes and worsted
stockings, so that they mistook him for some Methodist
on a mission, though the fact was he was on his way
to Gƶttingen to learn what language has to teach us.
ā€œDoctor Teology?ā€ they joked, half drunk and having
one hell of a time up on the deck. No, he said, no,
he wasnā€™t that. Then what? ā€œUn philosophe, perhaps?ā€
No, he said. That was the last thing he thought himself
as being, though that in fact was what he was.
Well, they laughed, werenā€™t we all philosophers?
And with that he joined them for a song until all rose
ā€œas one and danced on the deck a set of dances.ā€
O happy day, when the philosopher and the poet
could sing and dance together, a cup of wine held high
in your hand, as angel-headed hipster Danes danced on
and the river flowed on and on beneath your feet
and evening descended gently with each passing moment. . . .
Each night now, as this plague keeps descending on us,
refusing to let go, my dreams turn strange and stranger,
as if I were some blind Orion searching for the rising sun.
Like you, Iā€™m on a journey, though where Iā€™m going
changes with each moment. Sometimes Iā€™m in a car
driving with my wife beside me, whoā€™s there until she isnā€™t.
Or Iā€™m on a plane, every last seat empty now,
my destination unknown even to the pilot.
Or Iā€™m on a boat, watching peasants dance
their madcap turns like the ones you see in Breughelā€™s
Kermess, as some unheard music goes reeling on.
Mostly, though, Iā€™m just walking, one step followed
by another. Sometimes thereā€™s a stranger walking
there beside me, but who never says a word.
And thenā€”like thatā€”thereā€™s no one there but me,
and Iā€™m thinking to myself that if I just keep
moving on, Iā€™ll get to where Iā€™m going.
The trouble is I donā€™t seem to know where i...

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