Poems
by Sheldon
Kranz
Photo by Lou Bernstein
Poems
from Personal & Impersonal: 6 Aesthetic Realists [Definition
Press, NY]:
1. Sonnet for an Enemy
2. The Blue Coat
3. Problem in Space
4. Pigeons and Men in Tight Blue Suits
5. On Meeting Beauty
6. Becoming Morning
7. The Funeral
8. Rhoda
9. In Time
10. Antagonism
with Landscape
11. Pale but Piercing
Sky
12. No Tickets
13. The Moments
Between the Moments
Poetry & Education Links:
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Excerpts
from
Eli Siegel's Introduction to
Personal
& Impersonal: 6 Aesthetic Realists
1.
The Ever-Living Question
The question, What is
poetry?--is as alive today as ever; it is likely more alive, for it is
felt increasingly that what poetry is deeply and immediately concerns
what our lives are.....Do poems of all languages, times, localities
have something in common? I have said--and called it elementary--that
poems as happenings have a cause in common....Most persons would say
that an emotion is necessary for a poem to happen. It is so....
It is equally clear that emotions as such don't make a poem.For
everyone has emotions. When you miss a bus, you have an emotion; when
you're on a plane, and the plane sinkingly, suddenly does a strange
thing, you have an emotion; when Miranda, sobbingly, calls you up and
tells you she can't keep a date, you have an emotion; when an employer
calls Raphael, the shipping clerk, into his moderate-sized office,
Raphael has an emotion.
But you and Raphael don't necessarily have poetic emotions because
these things have come to you and Raphael. What we can't grant to
Raphael, we can't grant to anyone. It is only personal emotion, not
poetic emotion or art emotion that so far has been had.
And so we come to Personal and Impersonal.
2. Personal and
Impersonal
What
distinguishes a poetic emotion or, generally, an art emotion from
the customary kind is that while a poetic emotion is personal and
impersonal
at once, the customary kind can be seen as just personal.
Burns suffered from love, and saw his suffering with impersonality,
too. So there were poems. Many other Scotch young men in the
1770's and 1780's suffered from love, but the way they saw what
happened to them was not the way Robert Burns saw what happened to
him. Burns made a poetic happening out of what happened to him with
Mary or Jean or Nancy. In so doing, he was impersonal, too; abstract,
universal, all-things, all-persons. Clearly, if Burns' songs were just
personal, they would be like Donald or Jamie or Gilbert complaining, of
an evening, bitterly, in some Ayr hostelry. Donald's, Jamie's,
Gilbert's complaints we can surmise; they have not come to us; Robert
Burns' complaints, yearnings, contemplations, ardors have come to us;
they were impersonal-and-personal; they had and have what is called
form....
5. Sheldon Kranz:
Primal
Finesse
In poetry,
there is something
primal that shows itself, in the resulting
words, as finesse. In the work of Sheldon Kranz, this primal finesse
can
be seen.
For
example, Sonnet for an Enemy is a successful
sonnet in the Shakespearean form, because a battle in self is dealt
with
as if the writer were in the midst of it, while he was looking at it,
as
a hilltop observer might. The syllables fall rightly, but the source,
the
primary thing, is working in the syllables and the pauses between the
syllables.
Lines like:
If
individuality
pursues
and:
Who
smile and chop
away at what is kind,
while elegant--in the the
eighteenth-century sense--convey the uproar
of life, and the unseen force behind the unheard uproar.
There is
something primal about Mr. Kranz's poem, The Blue
Coat, though its form is
clearly other than that of Sonnet
for
an
Enemy. The primal in the
world makes for the uncertain, the
seemingly
unshaped, the rough--and it does likewise for the filament, the
accurate
web, the neat, flexible blade and petal. The Blue Coat is about
where individuality finds warmth; and the poem deals well with the two
contenders for the individual's warm acceptance of himself--the
intimate
forces in one, and what one owns, or seems to; as against the
unbounded,
subtly immense universe. Accuracy and music are in the lines of The
Blue Coat. They are there,
though otherwise than in the lines of a
successful sonnet; for music in poetry comes variously, in truth.
The hiddenness between two people is swirlingly presented in Problem
in Space. The tightness in
mankind is entertainingly and valuably
related
to the flying tightness of pigeons in Pigeons and Men in Tight Blue
Suits. --How much are we for
beauty--particularly the beauty that
can
unconsciously disarrange the hugged routine of self--that is to be
seen,
with poetic consequence, in On
Meeting Beauty.--Ornateness,
yes--and
a touch of reprovable ornateness--is in Becoming Morning, but
the
radiance of the universe, as--somewhat in the Kantian manner--it is to
be found in the, at times, dim enclosures of self, is effectively got
into Becoming
Morning. The lines tremble in
measured correctness.--An occurrence
of lasting somberness is in The
Funeral, metrically well
described.
Character
can be in poetry, and the crisis of
character. The poem Rhoda
exemplifies this. --The breathlessness and exactitude of existence are
well transmitted in In Time.
Is there that in us desiring coldness? Antagonism
with Landscape says there is. Cold is primal; it is that in this poem of Kranz, with
beginning
selectivity and fear.
It is
the world that enables us to see, say the
transcendental
philosophers,
notably the aforementioned Kant. The poet in Pale but Piercing Sky
says that when the sky for him has that powerful aesthetic junction of
paleness and piercingness, reluctance, limitation, superfluous snugness
in him are defeated; and he sees with untrammeled willingness and
effect.
What seems and what is are, through the sky, in mighty inseparableness.
--The poem No Tickets is an allegory about whether we have
met
our
own demands. An allegorical locomotive may not agree with our
complacency.
Is any moment in existence interesting?
That is a philosophic, poetic,
immediate and primal question. It is answered, neatly and keenly, in The
Moments Between the Moments.
The
primal, then, becomes
pointed in representative work of Sheldon
Kranz.
Some of the roll and tumult of poetic lines is not with us as yet;
poetry
has more motions; and yet more motions; but the grass blade in its
sharpness,
and the clearness of a print, along with the primal, are in the poems I
have mentioned. The meaning of the fact that these are in the poems,
will linger and make for increasing critical awareness and
thankfulness.
SONNET
FOR
AN ENEMY
If love for love is my own winter's tale,
Then gratitude must find a willing mate,
And search beneath the sea for one clear sail,
That fought the waves and sank beneath their weight.
If individuality pursues
My wildest flights across the barren reef,
Then love in all its pride cannot refuse
To shelter me from my own disbelief.
For I have searched the corners of my mind,
And found them filled with figures from the past,
Who smile and chop away at what is kind,
And nail their victims to a secret mast.
So each of us acts out his winter's tale,
Yet longs to find again that one clear sail.
THE BLUE
COAT
"Just look at him," the mother said,
"Doesn't he look precious?"
The boy looked down and saw his coat.
He smiled. "My coat is blue," he said.
The words went deep and twisted hard;
The sun was gone; the coat was harsh;
The boy began to weep.
Deep within him lay the sun,
Hidden by the brand-new coat.
He tried to find the sun again,
But all he saw were coats of blue.
Fighting, he sank into his mother's lap,
Into her soft blue dress.
PROBLEM
IN SPACE
I sit and listen
While part of me drifts among the coffee cups,
No longer wanting to look at you.
I talk and smile acutely
While--gently floating--
I look down on our quiet heads
And find the tops of heads most curious.
You would not know this,
Until tired of the conversation
And of the fading smile behind my eyes,
You float up above the table and the cups
To meet me,
And laughing, show me
How ridiculous we both look.
PIGEONS
AND MEN IN TIGHT BLUE SUITS
I think the pigeons are
friendly,
Although they strut by
without a
glance;
And I think the man in the
tight
blue suit is friendly,
Although he does not smile
And hides behind his paper.
Pigeons and men in tight
blue suits
Can walk with us on shady
streets,
Sit easily at dinner with
us,
Smoke our cigarettes and
wish us
well,
If we only call to them,
Remembering that pigeons
and men
in tight blue suits
Are not to be confused,
even for
a moment,
With nightingales in
summer gardens,
Or with men who now wear
fashionable
pinstriped suits
In apartments high above
the city.
ON MEETING
BEAUTY
from an etching by Chaim Koppelman What shall we say of
the clear light
Curving swiftly across the
gray
skeleton of our mind,
Illuminating dusty corners,
Stirring old hopes?
And when heavy iron doors
are swung
open
To reveal a summer
landscape where
couples
Deep in conversation
Move quietly along red
brick paths,
How shall we see this?
What shall we do? 1
He sits stiffly in the
yellow room,
His arms bent at a careful
angle,
His eyes fixed on an
invisible spot
That moves as he moves.
Statue-like, he smiles,
And his teeth are white
and strong.
The sun is hot on the
angles of
his knees,
And he moves his head
slowly,
Avoiding mirrors,
Knowing he is cold,
Feeling the dark spot move
as he
moves,
Wondering if he is still
alive. 2
She runs along the rows of
benches,
Embracing each new image
that arrives,
Plump and serene in the
evening
light.
She cannot speak,
But hugs each image to her,
Smiles tearfully,
Remembers a long-forgotten
childhood
name,
And moves on quickly,
Adoring each new image
That settles itself on a
crowded
bench
And falls pleasantly
asleep.
3
With fingers intertwined,
They sit facing the high
wall,
Leaning lightly against
each other
for support.
With his free hand, he
plays with
an open book;
With her free hand, she
strokes
a furry kitten;
And both tell each other
the story
of the wall,
And praise its great
height,
And smile and kiss,
And praise each other, and
kiss
again,
Unaware that neither of
them makes
a shadow on the wall.
BECOMING
MORNING
Silver-footed I come
through the
night,
Carrying the wings of the
morning
in my cupped hand,
Holding them lightly,
warming them
Against the silver of my
breast.
For what is morning but
the trembling
against my heart,
That in a moment will leap
into
the world,
Scattering its light to
reveal
The splendor of the day
For people everywhere to
see.
THE
FUNERAL It was a hot June day,
And a breeze made the tall
trees
Wave in friendly welcome.
Sunlight moved across
white headstones,
Around mausoleums,
Along grass, alive and
growing.
On the coffin were flowers,
White and pink,
And the breeze came and
moved them
a little
With a small, scraping
sound,
And the sun was hot on the
pink
and white flowers.
The people stood
motionless,
Bent in grief,
And a dead voice clothed
in black
prayed,
And the flowers did not
move.
The people stared into
space,
Cold and still,
And the sun shone on the
grass,
And the tall trees waved,
And the breeze came again,
And the flowers moved.
RHODA My mother could not take in enough air,
The doctor explained,
And so she died.
I walk to my office through crowded streets,
And pass people,
Busy with thoughts of the coming day,
Who are not aware of how wonderful it is
Just to breathe in and out. I do not think my mother cared enough for air.
It was not like fine fabric or rich carpets
That you could admire and bring into your home.
Only when breathing could no longer be taken for granted,
When walking across a room
Became a high act of determination,
Did she see wonder in breathing;
And caring more for air,
She came to care more for the things air has to do with.
People and objects changed for her,
Came closer,
Became more dear;
And she grew closer to herself
As she reached out to things.
I walk to my office through sunny streets,
Thinking of my mother.
She did not care enough for truth,
Or for the beauty of mind--
Things that many moving, breathing people scoff at,
Or are uncomfortable about.
But in the two years before my mother died,
I saw that these are not matters to be clever about,
Or to be met with a dull stare of indifference.
When breathing is involved,
The true characters in the drama of self
Stir and emerge to assert themselves.
My mother never distinguished clearly
Among the characters who were herself,
But she was reconsidering and revising who she was.
And when she could no longer take in enough air,
She was more quietly real to herself
Than she had been in all the years
When the taking in of air
Was a simple, hardly-to-be-thought-of fact.
I cannot say I know who my mother was,
Or what she is,
But I think she is friendlier now to air,
And is revising still her notions
Of what it means to have to do with things.
IN TIME
Clocks ticking in time,
Have birds in them
And grass bending in wind
To meet the sixty seconds in every minute.
Clocks moving in space,
Have met the uncertain smile, the shattered lamp,
And proceeded on,
Not unaware that six o'clock
Serenely waits for seven
Now, and in time.
ANTAGONISM
WITH LANDSCAPE
Women with their soft
eyes
And bodies that invite,
Can never penetrate
To the secret winter of my
mind.
Here stars and flesh
Tremble in hushed approval,
And snow falls delicately
Upon the angles of flesh
and stars.
Women curving gently,
With hair blowing sweetly,
Would be wounded
Wandering among the cold
points
of starlight
So carefully arranged;
And I must shut out
summer's
women
With their breath of
liquid sun,
Until one finds me quiet
and cold,
Here where the snow falls
and falls
In frozen curves.
PALE
BUT PIERCING SKY
It can seem in quiet
moments,
When the sky is a pale but
piercing
blue,
That my eyelids are quite
transparent;
And I can see each object
in the
room
Though my eyes are closed.
How can I explain
what seems
to be?
The light that flows
through my
eyelids is real.
I see the half-opened
door, the
dusty books,
The green umbrella with
its broken
stays
That leans rakishly
against the
wall.
How can I explain?
The yellow flowers are
exactly in
their place,
And the busy sky outside
Is just as high as skies
should
be.
Those flowers, those
books, that
pale blue sky
Move me more than on
ordinary days.
Who shall say they are not
real?
Who shall say that seeming
is not
a part of being?
NO TICKETS The rude voice announces
That those without tickets
Must leave the train immediately.
People quickly fumble in purses
And bring out small, bright objects
They have carefully tucked into corners.
Mementos delicately wrapped in tissue
Appear and are disregarded;
Pockets are turned inside out.
And the clear voice announces
That those without tickets
Will kindly prepare to descend. Some are angry and declare
They will sue the railroad
For this humiliation.
Others stare quietly down at their empty hands.
The conductor hurries along the aisle;
His eyes are sad--
They do not understand.
On the crowded platform, the people avoid each
other's gaze
And watch with puzzled, angry eyes
As the shining locomotive moves swiftly out of sight,
While the clear voice politely directs the people
To the nearest exit.
THE
MOMENTS BETWEEN
THE MOMENTS
To Anne Fielding
If I say to you:
See how the neat edge of that red book
Lying on the table
Meets the air so gently;
And how that white piece of thread
Straggling unadmired across the dark polished floor
Is really what you have known
Standing in the wings
Waiting for your cue--
Then will you see
That the moments between the moments are
As full as any upon a lighted stage
Where self meets self in honest puzzlement;
And things are telling us what is real
With each tick of the clock,
Between this moment and the next,
On any humdrum day.
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