Heather McHugh

[quasimodo1]

Ghazal of the Better-Unbegun
by Heather McHugh


A book is a suicide postponed.


--Cioran



Too volatile, am I? too voluble? too much a word-person?
I blame the soup: I'm a primordially
stirred person.

Two pronouns and a vehicle was Icarus with wings.
The apparatus of his selves made an ab-
surd person.

The sound I make is sympathy's: sad dogs are tied afar.
But howling I become an ever more un-
heard person.

I need a hundred more of you to make a likelihood.
The mirror's not convincing-- that at-best in-
ferred person.

As time's revealing gets revolting, I start looking out.
Look in and what you see is one unholy
blurred person. ... {excerpt}

[quasimodo1]

Heather McHugh was born in California in 1948 and raised in rural Virginia. She entered Harvard University at the age of 16, where she took a seminar with Robert Lowell and had her first poem published in The New Yorker. “My whole work is to catch the word by surprise, sneaking up on language, sneaking up on the world as it lurks in words,” McHugh said. “I love the recesses of reason. That’s a great place to set my mind at rest.”

Exuding a love of language, wit, and observation, McHugh creates poems that are profoundly intelligent. Through the use of puns, rhymes, and syntactical twists, her work is an ongoing inquiry into the ways language can aid and impede participation in life. “I write because I want to find out what was bothering me . . . I’m not sure what it is that wants to be said, but I’m there to be its scribe,” says McHugh. “Almost always I’ve seen some pattern. Then comes a rocking and a humming. I find language to document that play of patterns in the world.” -- http://www.lectures.org/mchugh.html

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An Underworldliness

for Aileen Winter Mostel

Maybe a maker makes
another out—by the mark
of the mechanism—
keyboard cabaret—
clown in love with his club
(one foot's spondee).
I turned it over

in my sleeping head—
that fallow feeling—
pillow a numbset's
handskull till

from the fidgeting synapses
rose an REM of
ultivated answer—
all-but-seeing

eye on a stem—the
glancer born to blow
by way of aneurysm—
at what altitude or depth,
what certitude or asterisk,
nobody seeing
could see through—

the star was visibly
newfangled, brimming
from a wave or cup one was
to drain or fill—who knew?
{excerpt}

[quasimodo1]

A Physics

When you get down to it, Earth
has our own great ranges
of feeling-Rocky, Smoky, Blue-
and a heart that can melt stones.

The still pools fill with sky,
as if aloof, and we have eyes
for all of this-and more, for Earth's
reminding moon. We too are ruled

by such attractions-spun and swaddled,
rocked and lent a light. We run
our clocks on wheels, our trains
on time. But all the while we want

to love each other endlessly-not only for
a hundred years, not only six feet up and down.
We want the suns and moons of silver
in ourselves, not only counted coins in a cup. ... {excerpt}

[quasimodo1]

The Fabric: A Poet's Vesalius


by Heather McHugh

Some etymologists give the Greek "to see for

oneself" as the source for the English word

"autopsy." An alternative, "seeing into oneself," is

hard to overlook when one studies the work of the

sixteenth-century Belgian anatomist Vesalius. I gaze

on these �corch� figures with an exquisitely

doubled (or divided) sense of looking.

Take the suffering skeleton (1), for instance. Very

detailed, down to the tailbone, an excruciated

figure: wailing away under the auspices of the

clinician. But the artist has been at work in this

presentation too. For the facts are mysteriously

informed by feeling, and as the brain can make us

feel, so too the heart can make us think.


1


Vesalius had his drawings done by Titian and his

studio. (Some scholars attribute the work to only

one artist, Calcar. For economy I'll refer to Titian

himself, since I hold him responsible for his atelier.)

There is some graphic footage here. The images

rivet and reveal us as no list of facts could do. And

the shocks are carnally compounded when (in the

muscleman series) flesh adds its suggestiveness to

gesture, yet overall, thanks to the depth of Titian's

gifts, the images cannot remain merely voyeuristic.

Only a lifetime after Gutenberg died, Vesalius

delivered to the printer for production and

reproduction his De humani corpore fabrica, the

extraordinary volume that contained these images

and many more. What wows us in them now must

once have wowed that printer too, the moment he

laid eyes upon such beautifully belabored (and

bedeviled) bodies, their lines and delineations

studied to a fault. So carnal an exactitude! Even

more than this work's forthrightness, its artifice

assails us: the skeletons' figures are figured—down

to the numbers of their fingertips, or, more

precisely, down to the letters of their digits. And so

they enter the realm where sign and design,

science and art, conspire.

Drawn as surely to the drawn-and-printed as to the

drawn-and-quartered figures (and as surely to the

syntactics of the situations as to the semantics) I

found I couldn't get enough of them. My senses

fell to feasting. What exactly is that skeleton wailing

over? As he mourns his lot, we see his lot is, not

least, that one bit of real estate he's stuck on. His

situation in time and space, unnatural though it is,

moves us by analogy, or sympathy: we know, in

time, we can't go back; he seems to know he can't

go on.

However disposed we may be, in the face of such a

foreground—in the face of such a face—to ignore

the circumstantial background, nevertheless it bears

regarding. (A casual eye is tempted away from

it—as from those bowers and beaches of Victorian

photographic studios, stylizations so conventional

they lose the power to refer to anything but

convention itself: their branches and waves

seeming merely those of a weary imagination. But

here the backdrop is no ordinary lover's lane. Our

human being, our human has-been, stands on a

bleak landscape, premises of hill and hole. He's

either just come from, or is just now going toward,

the very earth whose parts we tag for parts of our

own anatomies: at the foot of a hill, at the mouth of

a hole, this figure pauses to be figurative, and there

to mourn the unrecoverable).

Much is not to be recovered in the realm of the

suffering skeleton. Flesh, for example. Beckett says

"tears are liquefied brain," and catches the pain in a

language pan. This guy has cried his eyes out too. ...
-------------------------------------------------------To access the rest of this essay...link...

http://www.poetryfoundation.org/archive/feature.html?id=180310

[quasimodo1]

http://www.pshares.org/issues/article.cfm?prmarticleid=7085 Very interesting article about McHugh from an established literary publication.

[quasimodo1]

From the Towers
by Heather McHugh


Insanity is not a want of reason.
It is reason's overgrowth, a calculating kudzu.


Explaining why, in two-ton manifesti, thinkers sally forth
with testaments and pipe bombs. Heaven help us:


spare us all your meaningful designs. Shine down or
shower forth, but (for the earthling's sake) ignore
all prayers followed by against, or for. Teach us to bear


life's senselessness, our insignificance, and more;
let's call that sanity. The terrifying prospect isn't some
escapist with a novel, fond of comfort, munching sweets—


it is the busy hermeneut, so serious he's sour, intent on making
meaning of us all, and bursting from the towers to the streets.

[quasimodo1]

Nano-Knowledge by Heather McHugh
There, a little right
of Ursus Major, is
the Milky Way:
a man can point it out,
the biggest billionfold of all
predicaments he's in:
his planet's street address.

What gives? What looks
a stripe a hundred million
miles away from here

is where we live.

*

Let's keep it clear. The Northern Lights
are not the North Star. Being but
a blur, they cannot reassure us.
They keep moving - I think far
too easily. September spills

some glimmers of
the boreals to come: {excerpt}

[Chester]

Great stuff. Love it.

[JBI]

Geez, her Prosody is so dense. I can't figure out what she is doing to stress where she wants.

[Chester]

Hmm...strange. I had no such problem. Well you know, JBI, it's poetry. Maybe you were reading it. You should try interpreting it instead.

[quasimodo1]

A leading American poet reclaims the realm of criticism in distinctive and impassioned readings of poems and other works of art.


"When I call poetry a form of partiality," writes Heather McHugh, "I mean its economies operate by powers of intimation: glimmering and glints, rather than exhaustible sums. It is a broken language from the beginning, brimming with non-words: all that white welled up to keep the line from surrendering to the margin; all that quiet, to keep the musics marked." In Broken English, McHugh applies her poetic sensibility and formidable critical insight to topics ranging from the poetry of Valéry and Rilke to ancient Greek drama and Yoruba folk songs, offering intense, passionate, highly personal readings that are informed and unified by her concern for the relationships among language, culture, and poetry.




"A truly major book . . . I am tempted to say that with this book American poetry reclaims for itself true intellectual status, and McHugh does so with a marvellously selfless intensity that exemplifies much of what she says about the 'I.' This is love of poetry, and sharp criticism of her American peers, which represents itself at the highest levels of intellectual ambition without any egoistic posing. I know of no better writing on Dickinson, Rilke, and Celan." —Charles Altieri

"McHugh puts theory to generous use on behalf of poetry and of poets. This important, lovely book may well help to end the useless bickering and distrust that have lately impeded the articulation of American poets." —Donald Revell


{0-8195-6272-6} "Broken English" subtitle, "Poetry and Partiality" by Heather McHugh

[quasimodo1]

The Woman Who Laughed on Calvary



I.


Smilers, smirkers, chucklers, grinners,
platitudinizers, euphemists: it wasn't you


I emulated there, in that
Godawful place. What kind
of face


to put on it? How simple
is a simon's sign? To my mind
laughter's not the mark of pleasure, not
a pleasantry that spread; instead


it's intimate with sheer
delirium: spilt brain
on split lip, uncontainable
interiority—
(make no mistake, it is a horror, this


inmated, intimated
self, revealed as your
material: red smear,
white swipe). It's said the brain
stinks first, then organworks of art and eatery,
and then—what's left? a little cartilage for


ambiguity? a little tendon's B&D? At last, the least
ephemeral of evidences: nuggetworks (discrete, and
indiscreet) of teeth, bone-bits, odd scraps
of a delapidated strut—and this is just
the sort of stuff, insensate,
to which life (which comes again


as slime) has always
loved adhering. Life! Who wouldn't
laugh? Your inner life! Your pet
pretense! It can't be kept up, can't
be kept clean,
even in a thought,
except a good
bloodworks or ****pump keeps it so.


{excerpt}

[quasimodo1]

With Due Respect To Thor

The dog has shrunk between the brake and clutch.
His shaking shakes a two-ton truck. From a God

so furious, he cannot hide his hide. Outside,
in the world at large, black hours are being

pearled and shafted. A tree stands out
spectacularly branched; the mind's eye

grows alert. This thing can hurt.
It had us once, it's having volts

of big idea again— ... {excerpt}

[quasimodo1]

In a Bottle


Into the lake lap glittering with
Mercuries and paint-removers, one duck drives
Its fledge-wake down along its own

Diminishments of rush, to end stock-still at the arrowhead’s
Tip. The other never was symmetrical, or flew. Made out
Of waste, topped with a quicket of hedge, a hill appears

Where no hill ever was before. It grows and grows. It grows
Till tillers tire, it grows till the king’s dumb come
Done gone. (That lyre should be

Administered a serum! Every last lackluster mist,
Each lactose-lacking mother, can be fixed! No fear!) From human
City rooms a mush of doctorable suburb issues forth–degrees

In marrow-clog, amounts in mottlement. Kreme de la
Kreme! (Officially OK for all of us to be superlative, I’m pretty
Sure, as long as the kids take all their tele-tablets

And the wellness store takes spelling
From the FCC. It’s thanks to lawyers
We have settlements at all, of course,

And thanks to governors your class in governmentalese–it is
Required–and wired!–let’s give our nation’s CEO a great
Big hand! A chip for every memory loss and shoulder! ... {excerpt}
-----------------------------------------http://www.drunkenboat.com/db3/mchugh/bottle.html

[quasimodo1]

Debtor’s Prison Road



I.


They let me go
at night, minus my timepiece, lighter,
personal effects. The air is always shaking
the same jars of safety pins: cicadas.
Song is my recidivism: always
I'm abandoning the road to stand
(unwatched, unseconded) in someone's
field. The stars (that are not mine)


tick fitfully, they always have
appointments. Punctual, six-sharp,
they are David's; they have lodged in his
death tent, have stuck in his mud sleep. Bad luck


leaves me a loan: no company, no katy-
did or promissory
note or night
can last.
The air
loses its nerve,
the old saw its eyeteeth and I
my words—my alwaysing and my. ... {excerpt, Part I of II}

[quasimodo1]

Heather McHugh -- "Hard"--- Suppose you have

to have a mountain. Do you call up All-or-Nothing

Limited with blasters in battalions, and dispatch the

under- and the other-worldly straight to

smithereens? A moment blows what several

thousand years could ease-- time moves the

planet all the time without demolishing the

delicate-- no opposition between powers, no

antipathy of east to west. The networks go so far

and fine we can't conceive them-- intricacies of a

single rock or river, rate of rainbow-- look, I can't

get over it. Let all your big bulldozing eras snore

their fast Manhattans down; let lovers of the good

and quick erect their clever rocks (the graveyard has

its own downtown); ..... {excerpt from the poem,

"Hard" from the collection "Shades" first published

in 1988}

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Heather McHugh -- Deposition of the Seer ------

I burned the arrows/ then I burned the air./ I

burned the boats/ the bay was taking/ for a mere

mirage. I took them for/ a fact. I saw a sway rise

up/ from gold to red, and red to black --/ I saw a

sway, I couldn't hold it./ Whose ring was that.

whose the wiry hand? And/ by the bye who added

good? To hell who added O? ..... {excerpt, from the collection "The Father of the Predicaments", 1999}

[quasimodo1]

Heather McHugh -- Streaming Audio ------------

"A writer is somebody for whom writing is more

difficult than it is for other people." Thomas Mann

The thought can hurt. It runs the mindbed,

underwrites the waves. It means to come as close

to real as possible. No real is possible. It means

to come too close. Its hosts are on alert. Its paths

aren't ideo -- but neither can you keep its time. It

lingers in a special sense, the kind that kind of kills.

It seems to some as possible as ever....{excerpt

from this poem, from the collection, The Father of

the Predicaments}

[quasimodo1]

STROKE
The literate are ill-prepared for this
snap in the line of life:
the day turns a trick
of twisted tongues and is
untiable, the month by no mere root
moon-ridden, and the yearly eloquences yielding more
than summer's part of speech times four. We better learn

the buried meaning in the grave: here
all we see of its alphabet is tracks
of predators, all we know of its tense
the slow seconds and quick centuries
of sex. Unletter the past and then
the future comes to terms. One late fall day
I stumbled from the study and I found
the easy symbols of the living room revised:

my shocked senses flocked to the window's reference ... {excerpt}

[quasimodo1]

NOT UNTERRIFIED Edge-rich, the beach is a batcher of changes: five long bands of upwash stretch a cove into an afternoon, and deepen it to evening there, where ten sandpipers race along the liquefaction's froth. It beats, at their needling, a quick retreat; wherefrom they turn three feet uphill to find the last tide's hemline, run its whole cove-length of lacework back-- then tack and race and tack and race again-- the long and short of it is life for them, who poke through frillwork at such breakneck speed, make tracks like some unholy Underwood -- till each new tide-line's trove of trash has been sandpipered, dashed along. The water now is deadest low. What that means, really, we can't know by points of moment, or a pin, or by the punctuator's time: we need the binding stitcheries of syntax. {excerpt}

[quasimodo1]

Constructive



You take a rock, your hand is hard.
You raise your eyes, and there's a pair
of small beloveds, caught in pails.
The monocle and eyepatch correspond.


You take a glove, your hand is soft.
The ocean floor was done
in lizardskin. Around a log or snag
the surface currents run


like lumber about a knot. A boat
is bent to sea—we favor the medium
we're in, our shape's
around us. It takes time. ... {excerpt}

[quasimodo1]

MOVING MIDWEST TO TEACH

A tornado is an education.
It points things out,
wipes things out.
It speaks without hearing.
It is respected
in the circles in which it moves.
It divides form from content
and takes away lives.
Those who survive it
do so in graves. Who do not
are buried in the gravy
air, lying even
high in the imagination and giving
up meat. ... {excerpt}

[quasimodo1]

Pay Per View



Don’t knock my dish.
I hold it dear, unincidental

at the household’s entryway: there is
intelligence in its half-

cocked concavity. No fixity of
whereabouts: and no direction but the shifting one

from whose beyond the next
known jolt could come.

Not homeless, just never at home,
just always out to lunch, just always in the head.

{excerpt}

[quasimodo1]

ONE MOON IN BINOCULARS

How could this homely instrument
Have power to pull
The whole moon closer,
Hold ten textures in
The intimacy of a glance?
The silvers tremble severally
Splashed and sanded,
Spine-wise, spidery,
In sharp and shadowed
Pocks upon the plain. The view

Is black and white, but brighter than TV,
Clearer than sand in a glass of vodka,
Shivering, witheach
Detail distilled
Down to the pebbles
Of ocular grain. To cast an eye
Across its wild serenities
Is to be glad ... {excerpt}



{from the collection SHADES}

[quasimodo1]

SPILLED

The waiter dropped a tray of glassware and
The din of conversation stopped as if
In shock at competition. Not until
That moment were we quite aware

Of what a roar the ordinary made,
Not until a knife of other noise could cut
Right through it to the greater emptiness,
Right through it zero, there

Where no one for a moment said
A blessed word. And then the other
Nothings started coming back, the hum of small talk
Rising gradually to flow and to recirculate, its rhythms

Swelling up and out of the hole in the story to make
The story normal once again, the cruise control back on,
The life as a career in which we can afford,
As usual, to fail to hear.

The restaurant's show of selves
Collected into dreamy twos and fours;
Their fantasies are fed, their livings made;
The hundred couples can pretend

They are accustomed to a cook and maid
And then, by some consensual agreement (because none
Can really be the monarch of the model) they ignore
The commonplace, with its proximities, the many

Foreign monarchies that munch and belch
Next door. Each buys a little
Privacy, say three by five, and dreams that he
Is different. .....

{excerpt, from the collection "SHADES" }

[quasimodo1]

From Poems New and Collected

THE CENTURY'S DECLINE

Our twentieth century was going to improve on the others.
It will never prove it now,
Now that its years are numbered,
Its gait is shaky,
Its breath is short.

Too many things have happened
That weren't supposed to happen,
And what was supposed to come about
Has not.

Happiness and spring, among other things,
Were supposed to be getting closer.

Fear was expected to leave the mountains and the valleys.
Truth was supposed to hit hoe
Before a lie.

A couple of problems weren't going
To come up anymore:
Hunger, for example,
And war, and so forth.

There was going to be respect
For helpless people's helplessness,
Trust, that kind of stuff.

Anyone who planned to enjoy the world
Is now faced
With a hopeless task.

Stupidity isn't funny.
Wisdom isn't gay.
Hope
Isn't that young girl anymore,
Et cetera, alas.

God was finally going to believe
In a man both good and strong,
But good and strong
Are still two different men. ...



{excerpt, translated by Stanislaw Baranczak)

[quasimodo1]

From The Father of the Predicaments

SO THICK?

(Freud, presented with a copy of Wilhelm Reich's book
The Function of the Orgasm, is said to have remarked "So Thick?)

As thieves, as clotted cream, molasses poured in March
Or dullards duly quizzed, as thin's mate in
The marriage vow, or black fly hoverings
Upon Katahdin, ketchup in the kitchen's
Bottleneck, or traffic's slow red ooze
On I-5 every dusk, as musk
In the mind of an elephant,
Or malice in the minds of men,
This treatise on the uses
Of the human love-cramp

Isn't surely anywhere as thick.
But what's the use of use, at this

Imponderable juncture? Just
How practical are practices? Is poetry
Poetic? And to what high end
The spondee's spasm? If the seizure leaves us
Sobered up, we're lucky. Lucky

(after the humpback's beached) to have a bath
Of modest aftermath, a tristesse to
Redress the tryst! We're lucky to escape
The clutch of Sophocles' "furious master" (feeling's fist),
For the rest of the evening. A breather from breathing!
If the world for a merciful while be spared our craving,
Or if spilling brine by brimfuls can
(for only the blink of an animal eye)
Undo a few of our meaning's demeanings,
Our siring's desirings, and give us one
Pure moment's peace, ... {excerpt}

[quasimodo1]

From The Father of the Predicaments

CARTOGRAPHER AT HOME

I. Gin Cove Road, 1997

Golds beyond degree have sunk
To new September lows, sent stripes across
A hundred trunks, for one

Hour only, codes to deepest moss.
In open fields, deciduousness does
Brisk businesses in crosshatch. Were you to be drawn

Past forest to the shore, your fur about your ears, you'd read
Long volumes in the cliff's descent: through nine horizons
(age of pebble, age of shale)

A lean subversive root has struck
Its lyric, corkscrewed vertical. The beach
Is one big wedge. It makes

Its hard point underwater, but it keeps
Its uplands fluted (evidence of decades spent
Failing at a dune). Upon this higher composition,

Skeins of black egg-sac and olive tatter
Twist their best successions of remark. The beach
Has lured into its sandhold something

Hacked-off, root-like, ten feet wide,
And tipped it over, and begun to swallow it:
Half of the muscular tangle protrudes

Above the fluent strand. Such countlessness
Is script: unfathomable, yet exact. Impressed
Into a mere episteme, the few

Become a future, and the littoral
A literature. In suffix, much is made
Of what-- at root -- was born (like Nat and Mort,

And landlords of the mind). I haven't so much
Grounds for thought, as thought for grounds:
The knuckles, needles, ledges of

A calligraphic bent. O
Better me, my letters! (Let
The link be rent.)

{one of three parts)

[quasimodo1]

From Shades

20-200 ON 747

There is rain on the glass but it all disappears
When I look toward the curve on the world.
(The here and now is clear, I mean, so we
Can't see it.) In an airplane, chance

Encounters always ask, So what
Are your poems about? They're about
Their business, and their father's business and their
Monkey's uncle, they're about

How nothing is about, they're not
About about. This answer drives them
Back to the snack tray every time.
Phil Fenstermacher, for example, turns up

Perfectly clear in my memory, perfectly attentive to
His Vache Qui Rit, that saddest cheese. And not an interlude
While we
Commiserate: it takes what might
Be years to open life's array

Of incidental parcels--mysteries
Of red strips, tips, and strings, the tricks
Of tampons, lips of band-aids, perforated notches on
Detergent boxes, spatial reasoning milk-carton quiz and subtle

Teleologies of toilet paper.
Mister Fenstermacher is relieved
To fill his mind with the immediate
And masterable challenge of the cheese

After his brief and chastening foray
Into the social arts. We part
Before we part; indeed
We part before we meet. I sense

The French philosophers nearby,
I hope not in the cockpit (undermining
Meaning, as they do, or testing aerial stranslation's
Three degrees). They think

We're sunk, we're sunk, in our little
Container, our story
Of starting and stopping. Just
Whose story is this anyway? Out of my mind

Whose words emerge? Is there a self the self
Surpasses? (Look at your glasses, someone
Whispers. Maybe the world
Is speckled by

Your carelessness and not its nature. ... {excerpt}

[quasimodo1]

Philosopher Orders Crispy Pork
by Heather McHugh


I love him so, this creature I do pray
was treated kindly. I will pay
as much as pig-lovers see fit


to guarantee him that. As for his fat,
I'd give up years yes years of my
own life for such


a gulpable semblable.
(My life! Such as it is! This
liberality of leaves! The world


won't need those seventeen more
poems, after all, there being
so few subjects to be treated. Three


if by subject we mean anyone
submitted to another's
will. ... {excerpt - from Oct. Poetry magazine}

[quasimodo1]

from Shades

WITH YOU GONE
(For Wydette, with love)

We see signs everywhere-- the stars
and stones are moving, every
animal is you. Don't
slap that fly, says Connie, and we all
laugh outright, after all week weeping.
You are there, in the hilarity itself,
in us (Steve has your face
and walk, and Scott your kind
of kindnesses and doubt, and Mary moral
eloquence, and Charles your sense
of solitude and the sensational,
and Connie's funny and your parents share
their home with me, someone they barely know.
I read your scrawl, I write the record, cannot speak
enough for you). It's we

who are the missing ones, the way
a person in a mirror stares
Forever, without being there. Who are we like?
What do we know? The race is
20 miles per second, every day around
a nuclear event or local politics or fashionable interior
and then

one's brother cannot breathe. Millennia

are dust. We cannot locate you; we're lost. .... {excerpt}

[quasimodo1]

http://i840.photobucket.com/albums/zz321/quasimodo1/HeatherMcHugh.jpg Debtor’s Prison Road


I.


They let me go
at night, minus my timepiece, lighter,
personal effects. The air is always shaking
the same jars of safety pins: cicadas.
Song is my recidivism: always
I'm abandoning the road to stand
(unwatched, unseconded) in someone's
field. The stars (that are not mine)


tick fitfully, they always have
appointments. Punctual, six-sharp,
they are David's; they have lodged in his
death tent, have stuck in his mud sleep. Bad luck


leaves me a loan: no company, no katy-
did or promissory
note or night
can last.
The air
loses its nerve,
the old saw its eyeteeth and I
my words—my alwaysing and my.
{excerpt, part I of II}