The semi-mythic month of August has arrived. April may be cruel, but August is vast, vacant, quiet, deserted, even slightly dusty. August is an empty Paris of the mind, where one can wander shuttered streets at noon, and meet no one. August is when parliament is out, and the fish are jumping onto the banks of the river. August is when you realise you have wasted your life, then turn over in the hammock for another forty winks. August has no therapy, August is closed for business, August is no thank you ma'am, I don't need to work, not today. August is not about greed, acquisitions, or mergers. August is downstream, downhill, or out back, sprawled. August is sleep whenever, books on tap, and somewhere water shining, and mountains. August is a cafe where the waiter has a sombrero at permanent eye-tilt. August is where you are never served, and you never care. August does not want, or expect, to be toasted. August is like a sleeping lion, after the feast. August rarely blogs, and does not think you'd want to read one, either. See you later, alligator.
When you open your mouth to speak, are you smart? A funny question from a great song, but also, a good one, when it comes to poets, and poetry. We tend to have a very ambiguous view of intelligence in poetry, one that I'd say is dysfunctional. Basically, it goes like this: once you are safely dead, it no longer matters how smart you were. For instance, Auden was smarter than Yeats , but most would still say Yeats is the finer poet; Eliot is clearly highly intelligent, but how much of Larkin 's work required a high IQ? Meanwhile, poets while alive tend to be celebrated if they are deemed intelligent: Anne Carson, Geoffrey Hill , and Jorie Graham , are all, clearly, very intelligent people, aside from their work as poets. But who reads Marianne Moore now, or Robert Lowell , smart poets? Or, Pound ? How smart could Pound be with his madcap views? Less intelligent poets are often more popular. John Betjeman was not a very smart poet, per se....
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All best,
Brian