Stephanie has sent in this photograph of Beatrice's tomb in Florence.
Joe Hemmerling has subjected it to a severe linguistic analysis. He claims that it contains a secret code, a code that makes reference to "gli mahwahviani" and a "bear attack" that will end "il modernismo." Oh that Joe and his Dan Brown books!
Sunday, October 22, 2006
Stephanie's Peregrinations
Chris's Poem about Pumpkins and Poetry
Here's a timely poem for the advent of Halloween. (Dr. Russell would kill me if he saw those quasi-Christian terms tossed together so carelessly.)
Smashing Poetry
The pumpkin’s collision with the sidewalk shocks me
into silence—I stand mute and inglorious,
although I’d watched the stranger climb the balcony
and grab the décor. Hollering, he shook his fist
in conquest, as if to declare, “Man over gourd!”
I’m a coward before this minor injustice,
and act as though his hatred for a carved fruit bores
me. Truth is, I despise his malice and want to
tackle him, rub his grinning face in the orange gore
he battered from the well wrought squash. (His girlfriend, too,
who watches from below and giggles her support
for his success at turning artifice to goo.)
I nearly tell him, “you’re an asshole,” try to thwart
the thug with the obvious. But there’s a paper
due tomorrow; I should start it. Time’s always short
On Halloween. Turning my cheek, loving my neighbor
In deference to this sacred Christian holiday,
I head for home to write (and pray I get an A for
a change). As assignments go, this one is okay.
It has me digging through defunct British journals,
unearthing obscure poets, like this “E.S.J.,
Author of William and Ellen”—no eternal
bards here, just sickly scribblers confined to brown sheets
that crumble at your touch. In these, my nocturnal
musings, I trickily treat Henry Pye’s complete
works, or enough of them to conclude that the long-dead
laureate’s a hack. Critical hindsight is sweet
And I’m passing it out in handfuls to well-read
visitors. I condemn the style of Pye’s instant,
what Wordsworth so wisely rejected. Why—instead
of panegyric dreck to a royal infant,
odes to Albion’s peace—didn’t Pye ignore trends,
Write something timeless, like me and Billy Collins?
It’s late by now. Somewhere outside, my vandal friends
are looking for targets, eager to strike again.
Saturday, September 09, 2006
The Kindlings
I would like to bring another blog to your attention at this link. It belongs to a group called The Kindlings. I, though now a member, am not responsible for the name. It's a play on the Inklings, of course.
We're meeting every other Monday in my "library" (i.e. converted car port) to critique one another's work. The Spirit of Mahwah is stirring in Phoenix.
A Poem by Mark Signorelli
One Night in Copenhagen, or Kierkegaard and Regina Meet a Final Time
“God keep you,” she said, and nervously paused before him –
She had been his betrothed and beloved, let her heart adore him
Once without restraint, but that was before the day
He abandoned her to pursue in his singular way
The truth of things, and bring profit to all mankind
By the sum of his writings – at least, so it seemed to his mind.
Now she stood before this man for a final time
On the eve of her parting into the foreign clime
Of the Caribbean, and he, he eyed her with wonder
As the glow from the gas-lamp fell on her cheek and under
The raven curls that unfolded along her shoulder –
No less fair was that face, though some twenty winters older
Than when it had leaned against his own young cheek –
He fumbled his hat, and vainly struggled to speak;
He desired to say how sorry he was for the act
That hurt her, how sure he was at the time of the fact
That he acted with virtue, that sometimes he seemed to hear
A strange voice out of heaven – not often heard in this sphere –
That told him he must forget and forfeit all
Of his joy in this world if he would be true to the call
Of his Master, and serve his duty adequately;
But also he wanted to say that he loved her greatly,
That since that time not a day – not an hour – went by
But some vision of her and her grace would occupy
His memory, that often he paused and wondered how life
Would have past, with what peace, had he taken her then for his wife,
And as often he wondered whether indeed he had made
The nobler decision, but Time went by, and had laid
Her petrifying hand on that distant choice.
Regina looked up at him, and attempted to voice
The unclear emotions that troubled the well of her soul –
She wanted to say she forgave him the deed and the dole
It had caused her in youth – though she never could comprehend
The hard pilgrimage he made of his life, in the end
She knew he did all to serve God in the best of his light,
And that she, a young girl, and naïve – however she might
Rebel at the truth – she could never expect that her beauty
Could impose on his heart an equally binding duty
As the heavens oblige, but that still remembrance had kept
A place of affection for him, and sometimes she wept
When she thought of his gentle ways, as she wept when young.
So she wanted to speak, but the words would not form on her tongue,
And she only stood uneasy before him, shy, and repeating
The very words she had barely whispered in greeting:
“God keep you,” she said, “and may all go well with you.”
Soren was paralyzed with sorrow all through,
And could only manage to make an awkward bow
And walk on, though with heavy and hesitant shuffle, and now
The ambient light of the gas-lamp glows thin on a street
That is empty, as round the corner the sound of her feet
Fades away, and he, he climbs the ill-lit stairs
That lead to his studious chambers, and all that he hears
Is the harsh, distinct noise of his steps as they fall
On the wood, and reverberate through the silent hall.
The Minotaur - Jamie Hanson
My seniors and I read the Aeneid at the beginning of this year. We Jorge Luis Borges's short story called The House of Asterion. Both of those inspired this.
The Minotaur
For just a moment Theseus stood and paused
a little hesitant to strike again.
The thing lay still and quiet. There was no noise
except expectant breathing from his men.
They watched the thing, motionless in torch light,
its eyes still shut, to see what it would do.
Nothing. The thing just lay there - breathing - still.
The men relaxed; the prince breathed easier, too.
And then the eyes were open. They saw
the hero's knuckles suddenly go white,
the figure silhouetted in the flames
receding, something sharp catch light.
It bellowed, Theseus always said, and shook
in rage. He made no mention of its look.
Sunday, August 20, 2006
Tim's Poems
Tim has sent me two poems. One (Echo Lake) is posted here. The other (which is somewhat longer) is accessible by this link. Enjoy!
“Echo Lake”
By rope swings, cliffs, and lofty trees
Where we swam and played in spring’s obliging breeze
Residing ‘tween two mountains of hollow height
Is the water called Echo Lake,
And once I went there alone
To bathe away the day’s toilsome stains
And feel ‘freshened by lapping lulls
And a deep vibrating secret sway
That Echo Lake always makes,
The lake was deeply pressed with green that day
And swirling with blue songs like the sky
And because of the hollow heights about
Words echoed throughout
Though only one Word each time,
And once I went there alone
And swam to the middle
And with chilly waves splashing my face
My body numb in the water’s embrace,
The sun bleating upon my face
And that infinite flow without origin or termination
Piercing me like blood,
I wanted to drown in His pleasure,
Like a little flower plucked to death.
Monday, July 10, 2006
Speaking of Stephanie
One role that the MLR has taken upon itself is to publicize (consider yourself the public) the successes of fellow Mahwahvians.
In that vein, please direct your attention to this story by Stephanie in the most recent edition of "Dappled Things."
The Basement - Stephanie Manuzak
Stephanie has posted a story called "The Basement." Stephanie says her minimalist notions of character-driven storycraft have been turned on their heads. As a result she says she is really interested in getting suggestions for this: what works, and what doesn't.
Mahwahvians: Let us not leave her disappointed.
Friday, July 07, 2006
Joe Hemmerling, Primus Inter Pares
Joe is officially the first among equals since he was the first to send in something to post. You may access his short story Helpless Cases as a .pdf file, read it, and then comment on it. You may do that publicly at this blog by clicking on "comments;" or you may e-mail Joe privately with scathing criticism and laudatory encouragement. You decide.
Sunday, June 25, 2006
The Mahwhah Diaspora
I hope that everyone's journeys were completed in safety. Now that we are scattered to the four corners of this round world we'll have to make an effort to remain in touch. Whether that effort is worth your while only you can decide.
To encourage Mahwahvians to post their works for critique I will designate the first person to e-mail me something the Primus Inter Pares (Prima for the females, of course). An august title, to be sure.
You may send your work to jnhanson2003@yahoo.com.
Saturday, June 24, 2006
A Mass of Mahwahvians
Here, for your viewing pleasure, are the major players in the Mahwah resurgency:
This is the future of American letters.
Friday, June 23, 2006
Writers of Prose May Rejoice
The poets have it easy. Most of what we write is short enough to be posted in blog format. What about the short stories, though, the critical articles, or exposés of deep-seated allegories? They're too long to be read conveniently in blog form.
Have no fear. The Hansonian Institute has broken new ground. They have taken advantage of some personal webspace offered by a Phoenix internet provider that would otherwise lie fallow.
This means that stories can be sent to the MLR moderator in either Word format or as PDFs and made easily accessible from the MLR blog site. With that kind of convenience what's keeping you from winning the Pulitzer? Answer: only you.
Viva la revolución!
The Mahwah Literary Review
Welcome to the inaugural post of the Mahwah Literary Review. If you have found your way here you may congratulate yourself for having spelled Mahwah correctly. And, in case you hadn't noticed, history has been made.
What is the purpose of the MLR? It has two goals. One, to maintain connections between participants in the St. Robert Southwell Literary Workshop. Second, to encourage those participants to continue to write by providing an easy to use, electronic forum for pre-publication critique.
How does it all work? Well, I've made myself moderator by self-proclaimed fiat. As moderator (perhaps "Lord of the Blog" would be an apter term) I would receive works-in-progress via e-mail. I would then post the author's work on the blog and other Mahwahvians could comment. That work, benefitting from the helpful insights of others, is then published by a real journal and brings home a large cash payment to the author and fame to the Mahwah School of Literature. Plus, civil society is sustained by wholesome, Catholic literature. The rewards are virtually endless.
At the very least, this is a makeshift until some other Mahwahvian creates a better means of satisfying the two aforementioned goals. Are you that Mahwahvian?
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