06 April - Roger Zelazny Poetry Month - The Doors of His Face, The Lamps of His Mouth

 Goodness, is it time for another Tennyson poem? I believe it is!

Today's story is The Doors of His Face, The Lamps of His Mouth and the poem I have selected to represent it is The Kraken by this blog's poetry MVP, Alfred, Lord Tennyson.

Shall we release it?

Below the thunders of the upper deep,

Far, far beneath in the abysmal sea,

His ancient, dreamless, uninvaded sleep

The Kraken sleepeth: faintest sunlights flee

About his shadowy sides; above him swell

Huge sponges of millennial growth and height;

And far away into the sickly light,

From many a wondrous grot and secret cell

Unnumbered and enormous polypi

Winnow with giant arms the slumbering green.

There hath he lain for ages, and will lie

Battening upon huge sea worms in his sleep,

Until the latter fire shall heat the deep;

Then once by man and angels to be seen,

In roaring he shall rise and on the surface die.

More about the imagery than anything else.  The grandeur, mystery, and terrible beauty of a deep-sea leviathan that slumbers beneath the world, ancient, unknowable, and sublime.

Also, I can never remember the name of the story, which led to an exchange in an earlier poetry month that still makes me chuckle.

Original Post: 

The doors of his mouth,

The lamps of his face, Moby

Dick set on Venus

Comment: 

The doors of his face

The lamps of his mouth, and not

the title Josh wrote!

My response:

The doors of his face
The lamps of his mouth! There, I
corrected it, Chris!

05 April - Roger Zelazny Poetry Month - Creatures of Light and Darkness

Today's story is Creatures of Light and Darkness. I went back and forth on the poem for this one, almost landing on Darkness, by Lord Byron. It's a lovely bit of writing (I mean, obviously) and matching them would be a little on the nose, but I've never let that stop me before. (Ahem)

However, I found what I feel is a better representation. The Second Coming by William Butler Yeats. It's been a while since I've read the book, and the thing that strikes me about it now isn't the assorted deities (Anubis, Osiris, Thoth and Set) or the vast collection of mythical weirdos (Dargoth, Typhon, The Red Witch of the Loggia, Madrak, Vramin, the Norns, The Thing That Cries In The Night) but the overwhelming ache of loss that informs the whole thing.

“Pity, poor Angel of the Seventh Station.” “That title perished with the Station.” “In exile, the aristocracy always tends to preserve small items pertaining to rank.”

and

“Hail,” says Anubis, softly, “Master of the House of Fire—which is no more.”

Anomie is typically understood to be synonymous with "normlessness", but  Emile Durkheim never used it that way. However, he occasionally employed the phrase, "the malady of the infinite", which seems perfect for these demigods who wander without purpose.

(Also, sorry if you were expecting Comus or A Divine Image for this one. They serve as great epigraphs and I think Divine Image is wonderful for the Steel General in particular but Second Coming is better for the story as a whole.)

Turning and turning in the widening gyre
The falcon cannot hear the falconer;
Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold;
Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world,
The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere
The ceremony of innocence is drowned;
The best lack all conviction, while the worst
Are full of passionate intensity.

Surely some revelation is at hand;
Surely the Second Coming is at hand.
The Second Coming! Hardly are those words out
When a vast image out of Spiritus Mundi
Troubles my sight: somewhere in sands of the desert
A shape with lion body and the head of a man,
A gaze blank and pitiless as the sun,
Is moving its slow thighs, while all about it
Reel shadows of the indignant desert birds.
The darkness drops again; but now I know
That twenty centuries of stony sleep
Were vexed to nightmare by a rocking cradle,
And what rough beast, its hour come round at last,
Slouches towards Bethlehem to be born?

04 April - Roger Zelazny Poetry Month - Godson

I do like Godson. Easily one of the top three Zelazny stories where Death is a character. Right up there with Creatures of Light and Darkness ("Death is a black horse shadow without a horse to cast it")   and Donnerjack ("In Deep Fields he dwelled, though his presence extended beyond that place through Virtù. He was, in a highly specialized sense, the Lord of Everything, though others might lay claim to that title for different reasons. His claim was as valid as any, however, for his dominion was an undeniable fact of existence...He could assume any form, male or female, go where he would, but he always returned to his black-cloaked, hooded garb over an amazing slimness, flashes of white within the shadows he also wore...There was no other like him in all of creation. Known by thousands of names and euphemisms, his most common appellation was Death.")

There's a whimsey to it, especially if we're discussing the musical version.  It's a breezy read. Conversational. I haven't looked at it in ages. Today was originally supposed to be Donnerjack, but I took a look at Godson just to reacquaint myself and I wound up reading the whole thing and going with it for today's story. (Doing so also reminded me of how much I enjoy the format of Collected Stories)

It's just a fun story. And because it's a musical (sometimes), I'll be going with Because I could not stop for Death by Emily Dickinson, because, as everyone knows, it can be sung to the tune of Gilligan's Island.

Because I could not stop for Death –

He kindly stopped for me –

The Carriage held but just Ourselves –

And Immortality.

03 April - Roger Zelazny Poetry Month - Eye of Cat

Okay, this is me making a very deliberate effort to expand this beyond a collection of poets half remembered from middle school.

Eye of Cat has never been a personal favorite. It seems like a failure on my part, an inability to meet the book where it is.

I keep thinking of the line from Bilbo's birthday party 

I don't know half of you half as well as I should like; and I like less than half of you half as well as you deserve

Perhaps when this is all done I'll return to it again for an unprecedented third review.

Eye of Cat, as you will remember, is the novel in which Billy Blackhorse Singer, a retired Navajo tracker, is recruited to protect a political candidate and enlists Cat, a dangerous alien he once captured,  on the condition that Cat be allowed to hunt him afterwards.

And I recognize that this is an imperfect summary, because while those are the events that set the plot in motion, I don't think it's fair or accurate to say that's what the book is about. But, whatever. I'm not going to belabor it any further. Either you know what the book is about and a summary is unnecessary or you don't, and in that case it's good enough to give you context for my selection.

I looked all over the place for something suitable, up and down and to and fro, before deciding on A Blessing by Luci Tapahonso. 

First a few words on her. She was named the inaugural poet laureate of the Navajo Nation in 2013. Which absolutely blows my mind. 2013 is within my lifetime. It's within the lifetime of my kid. This blog is older than the position of the Poet Laureate of the Navajo Nation.

It seems far to late in history to be establishing the position of poet laureate. If you haven't done it by the time Robert Frost died, then you're probably never going to get around to it.  And yet, here it is. And here she is.

I almost went with  Sháá Áko Dahjiníleh (Remember the Things They Told Us)  but I think the syncretism of A Blessing works better to represent Eye of Cat. There's a deep reverence for tradition in Tapahonso’s voice, yet also a graceful adaptation to the realities of modern life, always on her people’s terms. It reminds me of Zelazny’s note about the Navajo choosing not to use borrowed words for engine parts, instead creating their own language for the machine. Not inherited. Not imposed. Claimed.

This morning we gather in gratitude for all aspects of sacredness:

the air, the warmth of fire, bodies of water, plants, the land,

and all animals and humankind.

We gather to honor our students who have achieved the extraordinary

accomplishment of earning doctoral or master's degrees.

We gather to honor their parents, grandparents, children,

family members, and friends who have traveled with them

on their path to success. They have traveled far distances to be here

this morning: we honor their devotion.

She grew up speaking Navajo, and she writes her poems in Navajo before translating them into English, unlike most other Native American writers. That process gives her work a distinct lyricism I really enjoy. It is not just bilingual; it is bicultural, and the music of the original language still hums beneath every line.

02 April - Roger Zelazny Poetry Month - The Last Defender of Camelot

So far these are going in the same order that I originally reviewed the stories, but that's just a meaningless coincidence.

And a word on my criteria. My understanding of poetry is extraordinarily shallow. (Well, let's be charitable and say somewhat shallow, I've been doing these poetry month things for about fifteen years now so I’ve picked up a little along the way, but my choices are still limited by what I know (which, of course, is true of everything, but it seems fair to shine a light on it here.))

The smarter and better-read among you will no doubt think of sharper, deeper, or more apt pairings than I’ve managed, and you’re probably right. So let’s just say: these are the best poems I could find to represent these stories, as constrained by Josh’s Limited Canon™.

And who knows? Perhaps I'll learn something along the way.

Today we have: The Last Defender of Camelot, modern day immortal Lancelot's quest for the Holy Grail.

The poem: Sir Galahad, by Alfred, Lord Tennyson. 

Spoiler, this will not be the last Tennyson poem. I like his work and I think it meshes well with the themes of Zelazny's writing. 

Idylls of the King is probably a better (read, more representative) poem, but I like Sir Galahad. It was actually the centerpiece of a police procedural I wrote for a Doctor Who charity anthology that never  went to press.

And how can you not love writing like this?

My good blade carves the casques of men,
My tough lance thrusteth sure,
My strength is as the strength of ten,
Because my heart is pure.

I could see the Lancelot of LDoC repeating those lines with full awareness of the irony of his words.