Medieval Music

What follow are photographs of a medieval musical manuscript my grandmother bought while in Spain during Franco’s rule. If memory serves, she said that many institutions, specifically religious, were dissolved and/or often forced to sell what they could to survive. She recounted that the manuscripts below came from a chant book whose pages were being torn out and sold to tourists.

I doubt they’re worth anything but, on the off hand that these are the missing pages some musicologist has been searching for since the mid 20th century, I post them on my blog. I don’t speak Latin (I’m guessing it’s Latin rather than some early form of Spanish) but the text appears to be that of the Magnificat.

The daughter of Wilhelm Friedemann Bach (eldest son of Johann Sebastian Bach) apparently moved to Oklahoma with a cache of her father and grandfather’s manuscripts. Apparently, at some point in Oklahoma, Bach’s manuscript’s were “inadvertently” destroyed. Even if the Oklahoma family didn’t care a wit for the manuscripts (by music’s greatest musical genius) the rest of us weep. My manuscripts aren’t worth a single note of Bach, but at least if they’re inadvertently  destroyed, someone my someday thank me for posting images of them.

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the book I didn’t buy

Readings in Contemporary PoetryI put snow tires on, better late than never, and stopped by the Dartmouth bookstore. There’s a book there that’s been tempting me, called Readings in Contemporary Poetry. The book is really lovely, nicely presented, spacious and with brief biographies and discussions of the poets and poems.

The book (I’m guessing by design) has more the layout of an art book than a poetry anthology. Biographies and background on the left page, paintings, prints, or in this case, poems carefully reproduced on the right page. The poems generally fit to a page and are thoughtfully typeset on glossy paper. And I like the book’s cover art. Appeals to my sense of the transgressive.

First to the presentation. I found it interesting because, intentionally or otherwise, the book would appear to be blurring artistic spheres in a mercantile sort of way. The presentation of the poems suggests, if unintentionally, that the value of these poems functions in the same theater as contemporary art (in the sense of “art valuation”). To understand why I find this intriguing (and without rewriting the wheel) take a look at the following article at Quartz (and you can find many other articles making the same argument): High-end art is one of the most manipulated markets in the world. It begins:

“You’d think the value of art would depend on its aesthetic value; a picture you enjoy looking at on your wall. How could a dismembered corpse artist be remotely successful? Yet these paintings were classified as desirable by the art market.

To understand why, you must first understand the economics of art galleries in America and Europe. Almost all primary art sales—art bought from the artist as opposed to another collector—occurs through art galleries. Galleries set taste and prices—sets is actually an understatement. Galleries manipulate prices to an extent that would be illegal in most industries.

Someone with a financial interest controlling the market is worrisome. In any market, price manipulation causes distortions, shortages, and inefficiency. But in its own peculiar way the primary art market functions; contemporary art generates tens of billions of dollars of revenue each year.”

So what do you do when no one is paying attention to your poetry but a small clique of groupies and devotees—each devoted to maybe half a dozen poets out of the thousands starved for attention in chapbooks, journals, colleges and universities? Perhaps you attempt to create the same kind of buzz contemporary art galleries drum up when they want to attract the “invite only” art investor. Is it coincidence that the book is published by the Dia Art Foundation? And this isn’t just any collection of poets. I notice a coterie of names that always seem to show up together, like well-connected vultures circling a feast.  If you’re a certain age, if you’re a bird of the feather, you’ll be invited to the kill.

I’m shocked that I wasn’t invited. Shocked.

The problem would seem to be that a poem isn’t like a painting. There is only one painting. Complete a painting and you have, in effect, a kind of death. The painting is unique. There will never be another like it.  Xerox a poem and you have two thousand—each just as worthless or invaluable as the next. It takes the death of the poet to really make a poem valuable. Alas. But wouldn’t poets love to be able to present their poems in an art gallery, poem as performance ‘piece’ and Objet d’art, and have them auctioned off for tens of thousands of dollars? Apiece?

That’s not going to happen, but maybe if you can make the poet his or herself like that painting, then maybe some of that perceived value will brush off on the poetry? If contemporary poetry can’t sell itself as poetry, then maybe as modern art? This, I think, is the effect of the book, regardless of intent. Both the poem and the poet are the centerpieces. They are curated; and we’re clearly meant to admire both. I’ll be curious to see if this “art valuation” of poets and poetry amounts to anything. It’s a new, if somewhat pretentious, play for a new market.

But why didn’t I buy the book?

I sat with it at the bookstore, reading some parts, skimming others. The problem was that I found the editorial introductions to the poets and their poems more interesting than the poems themselves. The poems are discussed much like contemporary paintings; and I can’t think of a single poem that wasn’t discussed in terms of content. The summaries also briefly describe this or that poet’s characteristic style, development and personality (as if between friends); and I do like knowing the biographies of poets. But in the time allotted me (by the parking meter) I couldn’t find a single poem that wasn’t free verse. That puts all the weight on the poem’s subject matter and they’re simply not that compelling — generally vaguely clever observations expressed in mundane forms with all the usual stale stylistic tropes — missing syntactic connectives, typographical arrangements, short lines consisting of one or two words, and various “poems” that dispense with lineation altogether—prose poems. Ron Silliman, who you would fully expect to find in a curated (and obviously important) anthology like this, dispenses with the pretense altogether. His poem is three paragraphs with all the personality of three bricks.

I would say that the poems are most typically characterized by some element of cleverness, most generally in their subject matter rather than execution. This, at least, is what seems to appeal to the editor/curator Vicent Katz. At $30.00 for the book, this just wasn’t enough to compel me.

Acknowledging that I’m not the audience for these poems, I don’t find anything in them particularly fresh or exciting. The only real test of a poet’s linguistic skills remains rhyme and meter, and not one poet risks it. I am so bored with free verse. The form is as tired as a brokeback pack mule. Critics of rhyme like to say they can guess the rhyme before they’ve read it; and maybe half the time (or better) they can. Thing is, I can guess the line endings of free verse with near one hundred percent accuracy. Writing traditional poetry is a hard, risky and potentially fatal business. I doubt any one of the poets in the anthology could pull it off. Dedicated formalists, devoting a lifetime to the constraints of the English language, have a hard time doing so but at least take the risk.

Surely Katz could have found some poets willing to buck the last hundred years of prevailing aesthetics.

November

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There’s nothing left but overall
Remnants of what had once been fall;
Even where a week before
A leaf or two blew through the door
The dwindling days have turned to soot
The little traveling underfoot.
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Snow will follow soon enough
Careening through the unmown scruff
Of jimson weed and bush clover,
Nothing apt to be covered over
With just a midday’s squall—but soon
Winter will stay the afternoon.
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Then who will afterward remember
The few days readied since September?—
The ghostly sighs of thimbleweed,
The bony knuckles of the reed,
Whole fields of startled hair turned white
Before the year end’s stricken flight.
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I wouldn’t ask but that I know
It’s not just seasons come and go.
When ice gives way to watercress
And all of April’s loveliness,
Remember, though the days are few,
November has its flowers too.
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Pussy Willow Branch (Reduced)·
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by me | January 8 2018
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  • This is my first audio recording using my new YETI microphone. My reading of the poem is just okay, but then I’m never satisfied that way. Best that I never hear myself. The poem itself is one I started not in November of last year but the year before, with a haiku. I finally devoted the time to finishing it.

 

December 31st 2017

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With a pinch of sorrow I write my last haiku tonight—the last for 2017. I will write another year’s worth of haiku, but not next year. I went out again and captured some of what’s going on in Vermont.
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Apples
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This was a blind photo, as I had to stand on my tiptoes and hold the camera as far over my head as I could—a couple scrogglings with their caps of snow.
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apple branch

Despite the cold, which tonight may almost reach -30 below, winter is never so beautiful.

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The sun doesn’t have it itself to melt the snow that caps the branches, apples still dangling from the tree (all with their little winter’s caps), or the limbs of the evergreens.
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traveling
····whichever way—the Milky Way and horizon
········meet
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Icicles
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The wind-raked icicles on my house. Though they’re charming, they’re a bad sign. They mean that you’re losing too much heat through a poorly insulated roof. That’s something I’ll fix this summer or next. If the windows look like they’re leaning, that’s because they are. The house was built in the 1810’s and the wall was farmer-built, braced to last as long as the farmer, not for 200 years. The wall twisted and all the window openings with it. When I put in the new windows, I reasoned it was the character of the house. That’s how the house wants them. And that’s how you will always know an old house from a modern reproduction. To really reproduce the old colonial houses, a builder needs throw out his levels. Then, when all the clapboard’s are out of tune, the roof a little out of sorts, and the windows not quite right, you’ll know the reproduction was done good.
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playgroundAnd to the left is a little bit of a playground I rescued. These climbers were headed for the metal scrap. Couldn’t bear that. I had them brought to my back yard with a front loader and my girls played and played on them—and still do just a little. A house with children is the right place for them to retire.
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And with that, my haiku year ends. To all a Happy New Year.
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365 December 31st 2017 | bottlecap
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December 27th 2017

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hard
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The temperatures tonight are expected to approach -20 Fahrenheit. The coldest it’s gotten at my house, while I’ve been here, is -35; though it might have gotten colder during my teen-aged years elsewhere in Vermont. All in all, we’re having a true New England winter—startling, beautiful and unforgiving.
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361 December 27th 2017 | bottlecap
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December 26th 2017

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wings
····folded to their spines—winter’s black
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Another several inches fell last night. We’ve already had nearly as much snow as the last two winters combined. With the icy nights arriving, none of the snow is melts from the trees. The mountains are beautiful—green pines shimmering under layers of snow and the black trees glitter.
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360 December 26th 2017 | bottlecap
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