TOP99-DES96
This Old Poem #99:
Michael McClure’s
Love Lion
Copyright © by Dan Schneider, 8/21/04
Michael
McClure is a poet who can be very good. His Selected Poems is an
excellent book- the problem is that the book has a dozen or so long poems, &
they are the only poems really worth reading in his oeuvre. He has a very
limited range. That he is good at he is very good at, but he repeats himself far
too much. His poems are more like odd incantations. When a unique topic or
well-phrased run begins the poems take off. When the subject of the poem is just
Left Wing whining or assorted banalities the poems are almost parodies of the
Beatnik ethos. In short, his poetic skill is that of a laser- if diffused it is
worthless & has no effect.
Here’s a
brief online rundown of who MM is:
McClure was born on October 20, 1932 in Marysville, Kansas and grew up in Seattle, where he was fascinated by nature and wildlife and expected to grow up to be a natural scientist. He went to San Francisco as a young man, participated in a poetry workshop with Robert Duncan, and got drawn into the emerging Beat vortex of the San Francisco Poetry Renaissance. He was one of the five poets who read at the famous Six Gallery reading in 1955. Like Gary Snyder he writes poetry infused with the awareness of nature, but McClure's special interest is in the animal consciousness that too often lies dormant in mankind. There is no cuteness in McClure's animal kingdom, populated with Buddhist panda bears, Beat tomcats and doomed whales. McClure hung around Haight-Ashbury during the Summer of Love, playing poetic melodies on his autoharp and participating with Ginsberg and Snyder at the January 1967 Human Be-In in Golden Gate Park. He remains active as a poet, essayist and playwright.
While MM may be active as a poet he has not shown a lick of poetic nor intellectual growth in his nearly 50 year career as a professional writer. Too often his poems drone on, & it becomes a chore to read more than 1 or 2 of his poems consecutively. MM must be taken in small doses. Here’s a poem about sleeping:
The
Robe
Sleepwalkers
. . . Ghosts! Voices
like bodies coming through the mists of sleep,
we float about each other –
bare
feet not touching the floor.
Talking in our lovers' voice
NAMING THE OBJECTS OF LOVE
(Inventing
new tortures,
machines to carry us.
Wonders full blown in our faces.
Eyes like sapphires or opals.
Aloof as miracles. Hearing
jazz in the air. We are passing –
our
shapes like nasturtiums.)
Frozen, caught held there
my shoulders won't hold you.
HEROIC
ACTS
won't free us. Free us. Love.
We are voices. Sleep is with us.
Ok, but how would he handle a poem about nature?:
I'M AN EAGLE IN THE WHIRLPOOL.
I'm the fox of reason.
I have had my head bent for truth and treason.
I'm a star in the sunny moon light.
I'm the stumbling fool.
I'm the horse of night
careening on the cliff of flight.
Won't you kiss me?
Won't you hug me?
Please
tell me my name.
I'm the hand of April
with my fingers made of fame.
Come kiss me on my elbow.
Bless
my
mind
good night.
Sweet old flame.
Sweet old flame.
Bless my mind goodnight.
Come kiss me on my elbow.
With my fingers made of fame,
I'm the hand of April.
Tell me my name.
Please,
won't you hug me?
Won't you kiss me?
Careening on the cliff of flight.
I'm the horse of night.
I'm the stumbling fool.
I'm a star in the sunny noon light.
I have had my head bent for truth and treason.
I'm the fox of reason.
I'm an eagle in the whirlpool.
Pretty, well, predictable- yes?
MM’s disjunctive centered declaratives & fragmented motivs on a theme get,
well, predictable. Or did I mention that? Geez, this kind of writing is, well,
predictable. How about an ostensibly meditative poem?:
The
Rains Of February
THERE'S
CRUELTY IN
EVERY JEWEL
and each black lump
of coal
was once
a multitude
of lives.
Within his skin
each guru
holds a fool
but
none
like
me
who secretly contrives
a liberation
filled with buttercups
and blue-eyed grass
and golden tracks of spring
upon the hill
and air that's filled
with scent of rose
and dill.
Don’t say it, you beseech. Ok, how about the titular poem:
Love Lion
OH
FUCKING LOVER ROAR WITH JOY -- I, LION MAN!
I GROAN, I AM, UPON THE CONE SHAPED BREASTS
& tossing thighs!
--AND
SEND MY THOUGHTS INTO A BLACKER UNIVERSE
OF SUGAR!
Thy face is a strained sheer Heart twisted
to fine beauty by thy coming.
it
is a million miles from toes to thighs!
(Our bodies beat like the ultimate movie
slowed to blurs of two meat clouds becoming
one -- and the Undershroud is joined
by kissing mouths.)
OH!
OH!
And
I am some simple cub
with plump muscles, loving immortality!
THE SHEETS ARE WHITE.
THE PILLOW SOFT.
JESUS HOW I HATE THE MIDDLE COURSE!
Thy eyes! Thy eyes!
MM thinks that if he capitalizes the clichés they are not clichés. Let’s count how many there are- 1, 2, 3….is the 1st stanza done yet? Let’s play with the word choices, instead of our usual trimming.
Love Lion
OH
LOVER SOAR WITH JOY -- I, LION MAN!
I AM THE LONE SHAPED BEAST
tossing nigh!
SELL
MY THOUGHTS OF A SLACKER UNIVERSE!
Thy face is a strained sheer Heart twisted
to fine duty by thy coming.
it
is a million miles from toes to thighs!
(Our bodies like the ultimate movie
slow to blurs of meat clouds becoming
the Undershroud joined
by kissing mouths.)
OH!
OH!
I
am some simple cub
with plump muscle-loving immortality!
THE SHEETS ARE.
THE PILLOW IS.
HOW I HATE THE MIDDLE COURSE!
Thy eyes! Thy eyes!
What has been achieved in this rewrite? On a quick read not much, because the change of ROAR to SOAR, or the elision of ‘beat’ from ‘Our bodies beat’ will still be read as the clichés they are, until a reread shows them as being subversive of the expected- which was what the Beatniks claimed to be about. Except they weren’t. Life is wonderful.
Final Score: (1-100):
Michael McClure’s
Love Lion: 40
TOP’s
Love Lion: 65
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