Ecurb
03-31-2015, 12:14 PM
A generation of 1950s poets discovered the effective but ultimately empty shock tactic of rejecting those joys (beauty, love, etc.) traditionally worshiped by poets. It seems like half of these poor nobs ended up committing suicide, and I’ve always wondered whether they wrote depressing poetry because of their bleak view of the world, or whether they had a bleak view of the world because they wrote depressing poetry. Sometimes I fancy that the Sylvia Plaths, Anne Sextons, and Weldon Kees of the world got caught in their own trap – what began as idle imaginings ended in idol worshipings at the altar of which a generation of poets worshiped, and was sacrificed.
By the way, my favorite of these poets is Weldon Kees. Has anyone ever read his stuff? He’s best read in his own books of poems, rather than in an anthology, because the sheer weight of his hopelessness becomes more and more oppressive as one reads on. His complete poems were collected by Donald Justice. His most famous poems include the “Robinson” series. I happen to have “Crime Club” and "To My Daughter" on my computer (for some unknown reason), so I’ll post it to give the uninitiated a taste. They're typical of Kees’ witty, depressing style, although perhaps not his best. (Most of Kees' poems are not available online yet.)
Crime Club
By: Weldon Keys
No butler, no second maid, no blood upon the stair.
No eccentric aunt, no gardener, no family friend
Smiling among the bric-a-brac and murder.
Only a suburban house with the front door open
And a dog barking at a squirrel, and the cars
Passing. The corpse quite dead. The wife in Florida.
Consider the clues: The potato masher in a vase,
The torn photograph of a Wesleyan basketball team
Scattered with check stubs in the hall;
The Hoover button on the lapel of the deceased,
The unsent fan letter to Shirley Temple,
The note: “To be killed this way is quite all right with me.”
Small wonder that the case remains unsolved,
Or that the sleuth, Le Roux, is now incurably insane,
And sits alone in a white room, in a white gown,
Screaming that all the world is mad, that clues
Lead nowhere, or to walls so high their tops cannot be seen;
Screaming all day of war, screaming that nothing can be solved.
For My Daughter Poem by Weldon Kees
Looking into my daughter’s eyes I read
Beneath the innocence of morning flesh
Concealed, hintings of death she does not heed.
Coldest of winds have blown this hair, and mesh
Of seaweed snarled these miniatures of hands;
The night’s slow poison, tolerant and bland,
Has moved her blood. Parched years that I have seen
That may be hers appear: foul, lingering
Death in certain war, the slim legs green.
Or, fed on hate, she relishes the sting
Of others’ agony; perhaps the cruel
Bride of a syphilitic or a fool.
These speculations sour in the sun.
I have no daughter. I desire none.
By the way, my favorite of these poets is Weldon Kees. Has anyone ever read his stuff? He’s best read in his own books of poems, rather than in an anthology, because the sheer weight of his hopelessness becomes more and more oppressive as one reads on. His complete poems were collected by Donald Justice. His most famous poems include the “Robinson” series. I happen to have “Crime Club” and "To My Daughter" on my computer (for some unknown reason), so I’ll post it to give the uninitiated a taste. They're typical of Kees’ witty, depressing style, although perhaps not his best. (Most of Kees' poems are not available online yet.)
Crime Club
By: Weldon Keys
No butler, no second maid, no blood upon the stair.
No eccentric aunt, no gardener, no family friend
Smiling among the bric-a-brac and murder.
Only a suburban house with the front door open
And a dog barking at a squirrel, and the cars
Passing. The corpse quite dead. The wife in Florida.
Consider the clues: The potato masher in a vase,
The torn photograph of a Wesleyan basketball team
Scattered with check stubs in the hall;
The Hoover button on the lapel of the deceased,
The unsent fan letter to Shirley Temple,
The note: “To be killed this way is quite all right with me.”
Small wonder that the case remains unsolved,
Or that the sleuth, Le Roux, is now incurably insane,
And sits alone in a white room, in a white gown,
Screaming that all the world is mad, that clues
Lead nowhere, or to walls so high their tops cannot be seen;
Screaming all day of war, screaming that nothing can be solved.
For My Daughter Poem by Weldon Kees
Looking into my daughter’s eyes I read
Beneath the innocence of morning flesh
Concealed, hintings of death she does not heed.
Coldest of winds have blown this hair, and mesh
Of seaweed snarled these miniatures of hands;
The night’s slow poison, tolerant and bland,
Has moved her blood. Parched years that I have seen
That may be hers appear: foul, lingering
Death in certain war, the slim legs green.
Or, fed on hate, she relishes the sting
Of others’ agony; perhaps the cruel
Bride of a syphilitic or a fool.
These speculations sour in the sun.
I have no daughter. I desire none.