To A Dead Journalist

[Nick Capozzoli]

This is a WCW poem that I have admired for some time. I recently discovered another earlier poem by
Wilfrid Blunt with the same title and which contains references to lines in the WCW poem. I think the
Williams poem is better, but I think I need to reconsider it in reference to the earlier poem.


To A Dead Journalist


The busy trade of life is over now,
The intricate toil which was so hard for bread,
The strife each day renewed 'neath this poor brow
By this frail hand to be interpreted,
The zeal, the forethought, the heart's wounds that bled,
The anger roused, the stark blow answering blow,
All that was centred in that aching head
Of black necessity for weal or woe.
--Its use, its purpose what? Nay, less than none,
More blindly naught than even the dull clay
Left on this bed, its corporal union done,
Which we must shovel to its grave to--day.
O soul of Man, thou pilgrim of distress
Lost in Time's void! Thou wind of nothingness!

Wilfrid Scawen Blunt

[Nick Capozzoli]

Just to provide the comparison, here is WCW's poem:

To a Dead Journalist

Behind that white brow
now the mind simply sleeps -
the eyes, closed, the
lips, the mouth,

the chin, no longer useful,
the prow of the nose.
But rumors of the news,
unrealizable,

cling still among those
silent, butted features, a
sort of wonder at
this scoop

come now, too late:
beneath the lucid ripples
to have found so monstrous
an obscurity.

[cacian]

Hi Nick any reasons why you admired William Carlos William?
I mean he was a GP.
Wilfred Blunt and journalism? how does the two relate?

[Nick Capozzoli]

Hi Nick any reasons why you admired William Carlos William?
I mean he was a GP.
Wilfred Blunt and journalism? how does the two relate?

He had a family medical practice, which included a lot of pediatrics and OB/GYN (he delivered babies). I'm not sure,
but I think he had some specific training in pediatrics. In those days post-graduate medical training was very different
from today. Some of his best poems allude to his experiences caring for patients. The poem beginning By the road to
the contagious hospital in Spring and All contains a wonderful almost metaphysical "conceit" comparing
the emergence of vegetation in Spring to childbirth...except that Williams was not a metaphysical poet and true to his
prescription, No ideas but in things," his "conceit" is constructed of images rather than "ideas."

As regards the Blunt poem, I cited it because it contains obvious echoes of the Williams poem (or the other way around,
since the Blunt poem is earlier). These similarities are so great (including Williams use of the identical title), that it's hard
to believe that Blunt's poem was not some sort of model for Williams's. I don't mean this to be critical of Williams. Williams's
poem is far more powerful than Blunt's. The first six lines create a stark image of the visage of just-dead journalist, and the
next ten lines provide us with an interpretation of the "meaning" of that visage that is even more appallingly stark.

It is a poem about death, and specifically about the moment of death of a particular individual. That he happens to be a
journalist whose life's work was "sniffing out scoops" provides Williams with a fortuitous occasion to mention the biggest
scoop of all, which unfortunately comes to late for the journalist to put in his paper's late edition. But it is not too late
for the poet to read and actually write down some part of that story, which he perceives hidden just beneath the surface
of the journalist's face. It is a tour de force poem, with no spare words, and perfectly modulated phrasing. It can even
be subjected to very close reading, and under such scrutiny it doesn't fall apart. Just to provide one example, the "scoop" and
"news" references reverberate with the reference to the journalist's "nose" via/I] that relate to expressions such
as "a nose for the news." The ability of a poem to withstand such close reading is one of the hallmarks of great poetry. Another
more immediately discernible criterion is poetry that sends a shiver up and down the reader's spine. This, for me at least,
is one such poem.

The only other poet, IMHO, who has achieved a similar degree of success in writing about the moment of death and the
sharp delineation between the living and dead body is Emily Dickenson, [I]e.g. in 'Twas warm at first like us.

Nick

[cacian]

indeed Emily Dickinson.

'Twas warm — at first — like Us

'Twas warm — at first — like Us —
Until there crept upon
A Chill — like frost upon a Glass —
Till all the scene — be gone.

The Forehead copied Stone —
The Fingers grew too cold
To ache — and like a Skater's Brook —
The busy eyes — congealed —

It straightened — that was all —
It crowded Cold to Cold —
It multiplied indifference —
As Pride were all it could —

And even when with Cords —
'Twas lowered, like a Weight —
It made no Signal, nor demurred,
But dropped like Adamant.


it is interesting that the title is repeated in the first line again.
the spelling of
It was to twas
the use of capital letters here there and not always such as Twas/Us/Glass/Untill/Chill and so on is irregular and do not understand it.
the other point is that death is refered to by IT in this poem as if separate from the human body as if an entity of its own.

in the poems you posted 'death' is subscribed within the body and therefore part of it and not separate. it is also prominent the descriptions is mainly of the face and hands.
in the first piece death has come to relief but with WCW the death is come of age. distress/relief versus age. do you agree?

in the first poem the last two lines:
''O soul of Man, thou pilgrim of distress
Lost in Time's void! Thou wind of nothingness!''

do you understand what this actually mean?
also the O is without the H?

this leads me to think is there such a poem on death that is solely spoken of it without the implication of a body involved?
all three pieces have a body in common.

[Nick Capozzoli]

Cacian,

Thanks for your posting ED's great poem. Your comments:

'death' is subscribed within the body and therefore part of it and not separate. it is also prominent the descriptions is mainly of the face and hands

and,

this leads me to think is there such a poem on death that is solely spoken of it without the implication of a body involved?
all three pieces have a body in common,

are interesting and maybe this is a useful way to look at these poems.

Blunt's poem is more discursive and philosophical than ED's and WCW's, which rely primarily on the presentation of the "thing" (the dead
body)itself. And of the ED and WCW poems, ED's is entirely composed of images of "the thing" without the slightest attempt to understand
what the dead person was thinking about when he died. ED did write other fine poems about the subjective experience of the dead, such as
Because I could not stop for Death, but her poem here is imagistic in technique, describing the physical details of the change that
comes over the body at the time of death, and she does so in very stark and powerful images:

'Twas warm — at first — like Us —
Until there crept upon
A Chill — like frost upon a Glass —
Till all the scene — be gone.

The Forehead copied Stone —
The Fingers grew too cold
To ache — and like a Skater's Brook —
The busy eyes — congealed —

Only one of these images (The Fingers grew too cold/ To ache...) has much to do with the presumed subjective experience of the dying person. It is thus a poem that presents, quite powerfully, a description of the sharp distinction between the living and the dead body. "It" refers to the corpse. Neither the body nor its parts are ever given an personal identity in ED's poem. She doesn't even identify its gender, and the parts are described with the definite article rather than personal pronomials.

[cacian]

Hi Nick I see what you mean. on second thoughts I think in E.D poem in the first stanza:

'Twas warm — at first — like Us —
Until there crept upon
A Chill — like frost upon a Glass —
Till all the scene — be gone


the use of 'twas warm'' ''crept'' and be ''gone'' gives the impression that death is almost of alive. there is movement in these words.

in the second stanza the same applies:

The Forehead copied Stone —
The Fingers grew too cold
To ache — and like a Skater's Brook —
The busy eyes — congealed —

the use of 'copied' and 'grew' /'congealed' all these words express movement.

these two stanzas reminded of me of when ice melt. it warms up in order to melt. and then when it melts it turns into water.
at this point I am thinking water is life rather then death.

the last two stanzas again the same idea:

It straightened — that was all —
It crowded Cold to Cold —
It multiplied indifference —
As Pride were all it could —

And even when with Cords —
'Twas lowered, like a Weight —
It made no Signal, nor demurred,
But dropped like Adamant.

the use of:

straightened/crowded/multiplied all suggest movement. it feels like a crowd gathering for a party.

the use of:
Twas lowered as opposed to Twas warm. the two can be taken for the same because of the usage of Twas is only with these two words.

Adamant could be a play on words :Adam /ant. one could presume the word here refers to Adam and Ant could be Yve. because of the capital letter A.
Adam and Yve. or Adam and aunt. there is a correlation if familiarity in this word.

to me this piece is kind of derogatory of movement in death which is not. it is a concept of stillness.
it seems the concept of death is captured moving rather then still.

[Nick Capozzoli]

Hi Nick I see what you mean. on second thoughts I think in E.D poem in the first stanza:
the use of 'twas warm'' ''crept'' and be ''gone'' gives the impression that death is almost of alive. there is movement in these words.

Yes, I see what you mean about verbs that suggest movement. This poem is about change (from life to death) and movement is a kind of change. But what exactly is moving?The body is changing. Death is somehow creeping upon the body in the same way that "a chill" will frost up a windowpane (or your windshield) in winter till you can no longer see through it. This is a very apt image. In order for a windowpane to frost over in winter, the inside of the house must be warm (i.e. "alive." The windows of abandoned (i.e. "dead" houses do not frost over because there is no temperature difference between the inside and outside. In this sense, death is coming onto and into the body from the outside in the form of cold, and replacing life (warm) with cold. Modern physics (thermodynamics) would describe the flow of "heat" from a place of higher to lower temperature. Colloquially we think that when we open a refrigerator we are letting the "cold" out, but it is scientifically more accurate to say we are letting the heat into the refrigerator. ED is thinking about it the opposite way, and for the purposes of the poem it is the correct way.

in the second stanza the same applies:
the use of 'copied' and 'grew' /'congealed' all these words express movement.

Yes, and this movement (change) follows the idea of cold replacing warmth. The body really isn't actively doing anything. In the modern scientific sense, it is losing heat. In the terms of the poem, cold is invading the body a replacing its warmth. This is reinforced by the images that show the body, referred to as "it," being acted upon (being crept upon, lowered, and dropped). And even when the verbs suggest the body is doing something (copying stone, growing too cold to ache, congealing, and crowding cold to cold) these are things that seem to be forced upon it by something outside, the "cold."

these two stanzas reminded of me of when ice melt. it warms up in order to melt. and then when it melts it turns into water.
at this point I am thinking water is life rather then death.

Yes, but here we are talking about the opposite process, liquid water giving up heat (to somewhere at a lower temperature...below 0 degrees Celsius at STP) and turning to ice.
Death is that other place that sucks the heat out of the body, or in ED's physics provides the "cold" that invades the body when its living fire has gone out. And, as ED shows, it invades quickly and relentlessly (crowds cold to cold and multiplies indifference) until the body becomes stiff and frigid (straightens), and finally as dense, insensate, and unyielding as "adamant."

the last two stanzas again the same idea:

It straightened — that was all —
It crowded Cold to Cold —
It multiplied indifference —
As Pride were all it could —

And even when with Cords —
'Twas lowered, like a Weight —
It made no Signal, nor demurred,
But dropped like Adamant.

the use of:

straightened/crowded/multiplied all suggest movement. it feels like a crowd gathering for a party.

Hardly a lively party. More like a party where the temperature has been turned down and the once lively guests are being quickly freeze dried! In a really wonderful movie,
What Dreams May Come, which is a sort of a replay of the Orpheus and Eurydice myth, there is a scene at the end where Robin Williams visits his deceased wife in a chill room in Hell. He has a brief time to bring her out. He has to do so while that room in Hell is literally freezing over. The encroaching cold is vividly portrayed in that scene, and it is exactly like the cold described in ED's poem.

the use of:
Twas lowered as opposed to Twas warm. the two can be taken for the same because of the usage of Twas is only with these two words.

"It" is the dead body. It was warm "at first" and "like us" alive. Now it is dead. It was lowered into the grave with ropes/cords. We still lower
coffins into the grave this way (though usually now with winches).

Adamant could be a play on words :Adam /ant. one could presume the word here refers to Adam and Ant could be Yve. because of the capital letter A.
Adam and Yve. or Adam and aunt. there is a correlation if familiarity in this word.

I think it's just "adamant." Google the word for the meaning. The body is now insensate, dense, hard, and inscrutable, and totally lifeless. Adamant as a substance appears in classical mythology, and has been associated with the underworld. For example, the gates of Tartarus, in Virgil, are hung from pillars of adamant (and screech when opened and closed).

to me this piece is kind of derogatory of movement in death which is not. it is a concept of stillness.
it seems the concept of death is captured moving rather then still.

I think that this poem derives its power from a very profound insight into what death "means" in a physical sense. ED apparently had no scientific understanding of thermodynamics. Nonetheless what she says about the "thermodynamics of death" makes perfectly good sense to someone like me, who has studied the subject a bit.

[Nick Capozzoli]

Addendum:

I meant to add that the image of the eyes congealing like a skater's brook echoes the image of frost obscuring a windowpane. The clouding of the eyes is clearly analogous to the frosting of the windowpane, and there is a further parallel in that the frost on the windowpane requires a "heated" house. The congealing (a verb derived from the effects of chilling) occurs as the chill of death impinges on the once warm body (the eyes being its "windows").

So, Cacian, what we have been doing here is "closely reading" this great poem. I don't know about you, but I think this has been a great discussion, just the sort of thing I'd like to see more of on this website...

Nick

[cacian]

Addendum:

I meant to add that the image of the eyes congealing like a skater's brook echoes the image of frost obscuring a windowpane. The clouding of the eyes is clearly analogous to the frosting of the windowpane, and there is a further parallel in that the frost on the windowpane requires a "heated" house. The congealing (a verb derived from the effects of chilling) occurs as the chill of death impinges on the once warm body (the eyes being its "windows").

So, Cacian, what we have been doing here is "closely reading" this great poem. I don't know about you, but I think this has been a great discussion, just the sort of thing I'd like to see more of on this website...

Nick
it has indeed Nick I have enjoyed every word of it. more of the same please :)
in contrast maybe we could find poems about life to compare.

[virtuoso]

How about an ode to the Dead columnist poets. Will anybody take up the challenge to write a similar poem. I have a meager entry to begin the parade.




A Eulogy to a Newspaper Columnist



Death blots his intuitive channels,

yet one universal sentence remains

etched on his pale, drawn face

stencilled on his, peaked forehead;

"Organic substances are the provender

of Mother Earth"



But beneath its Dark veil

Death grants a temporal stime

of the animated shadow

that hovered in its mortal prime



A columnist by trade

dressed in the trappings of his grade.

A tweed suit of solemn gra;y

A flossy, red bow tie,

and black trousers graced

with tidy cuffs



On his face dated lines,

not only mortality's sign,

but spent words pressed and signed.

In his ridged forehead, columns stitched

baring the strains of stretched skin,

alternately, the pillars of ink

stamped on shards of pulp



Hands not soiled by the earth,

nor grizzled by heavy machines;

genteel covers, with creased palms

sharing the tireless words

that flowed from sentient mind





Through narrow locks of bone and skin,

streams of ink poured over chalky sediments,

then congealed on the cutting floor;

the bottom line rising to the surface



Now posterity sinks into perpetuity

to be tapped not by contemporary scribes

who fork off, building virgin channels,

but by itinerant sailors-historians, scholars

dipping their oars into deep, murky waters,

as sponges, dredging, then soaking up spent lines

expunging the moss-covered, cankered strands

their own, glossy portfolios to expand



So lies a lifeless pantomime,

words enfolded into Legacy's twine,

indexed not to society's prime interest rate,

amortized and sealed in Time's dark vault.

As his words stagnate in dingy, archive dungeon,

his languid corpse decays in subterranean prison

[Nick Capozzoli]

I enjoyed reading A Eulogy to a Newspaper Columnist, but I'll pass on trying to write an "update" on WCW's poem. I guess that your poem is more like Blunt's poem, which I also like (and WCW apparently liked enough to use as a as a starting point to "update" with To a Dead Journalist). To me, WCW's poem seems to be perfect as it is, the kind of poem I will always keep in mind as a "model." In fact it one of the few poems that I have memorized ('Twas warm at first like us) is another.