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"death is never cold" "death is never cold"
by Bohdan Yuri
2008-03-26 10:14:17
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one’s death is never cold,
if left behind are tearful souls,
doleful hearts, tender roles,
memories to warm the cold.


  
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Emanuel Paparella2008-03-26 10:32:44
True enough. I am afraid though that the rationalist will leave those memoriesin what he considers a computer of meat, the brain, rather than in the soul and mind of those he will leave behind. Indeed, the victory has to be against death which remains a scandal. Oh death, where is thy victory cannot even be conceived by the modern rationalist who contrary to what Jung said in Modern Man in search of soul, conceives the soul as the sole of his shoes.


Sand2008-03-26 14:47:07
I lost a wonderful brilliant son who was rendered quadriplegic at the age of three by an accident and I sustained his development into a remarkable individual for thirty years. To have my deep feelings for him mocked by an incredibly callous and stupid man is unforgivable


Emanuel Paparella2008-03-26 14:51:24
Is that what the voices told you about me? You need to re-read what I wrote which contains no mocking of your son or your feelings. That was invented in your head. You ought to stop listening to them; they are liars.


Emanuel Paparella2008-03-26 14:54:40
P.S. Should you be referring to the author of the poem, there too the voices misled you. He is surely not talking about you or your son.


Sand2008-03-26 15:04:23
I didn't expect you would have the decency or modicum of good sense to keep your mouth shut. But I had hopes.


Emanuel Paparella2008-03-26 15:38:20
The desire of all authoritarian personalities is that everybody keep their mouth well shut when they speak their pearl of wisdom and that they always be given the last word. Unfortunately there is always a little boy who shouts "the emperor is naked."


Sand2008-03-26 15:50:31
Disgusting.


Emanuel Paparella2008-03-26 18:05:58
Was that the last word on the subject? I guess not. I'm afraid you'll have to try again or be deprived of the last word. Indeed, it usually ends in absurdity with rationalists.


bohdan2008-03-27 00:34:40
we are all left out in the cold,

when words are misconstrued.


Emanuel Paparella2008-03-27 09:49:27
Indeed, misconstruing contains the idea of wrong interpretation which would mean that the poet’s intentions have to be taken into account. On the other hand, over-interpretation is the death of genuine poetry since the poetic encompasses philosophy. When the rationalist and the analytic philosopher insists that it is the other way around, while tipping his hat to Homer and at the same time banishing him from the polis and the academy, in effect he has killed poetry even when he continues to versify second rate poetry for propaganda and demagogic purposes. And when poetry has been killed, we are undoubtedly all left in the cold with our interpretations.


bohdan2008-03-28 08:48:13
The poem has died.


Emanuel Paparella2008-03-28 11:33:44
The more crucial question is this: is the poetic dead? Here is an excerpt from a famous essay by the 14th poet lauread of the US Donald Hall titled "Death to the Death of Poetry":

...Time, which reported The Waste Land as a hoax in 1922, canonized T. S. Eliot in a 1950 cover story. Certainly Time's writers and editors altered over thirty years, but they also stayed the same: always the Giants grow old and die, leaving the Pygmies behind. After the age of Eliot, Frost, Stevens, Moore, and Williams, the wee survivors were Lowell, Berryman, Jarrell, and Bishop. When the survivors died, younger elegiac journalists revealed that the dead Pygmies had been Giants all along--and now the young poets were dwarfs. Doubtless obituaries lauding Allen Ginsberg are already written; does anyone remember Life on the Beat Generation, thirty years ago?" (continued below)


Emanuel Paparella2008-03-28 11:35:39
"…Sixty years after Edmund Wilson told us that verse was dying, Joseph Epstein in Commentary revealed that it was murdered. Of course, Epstein's golden age--Stevens, Frost, Williams--is Wilson's era of "demoralized weariness." Everything changes and everything stays the same. Poetry was always in good shape twenty or thirty years ago; now it has always gone to hell. I have heard this lamentation for forty years, not only from distinguished critics and essayists but from professors and journalists who enjoy viewing our culture with alarm. Repetition of a formula, under changed circumstances and with different particulars, does not make formulaic complaint invalid; but surely it suggests that the formula represents something besides what it repeatedly affirms.
In asking "Who Killed Poetry?" Joseph Epstein begins by insisting that he does not dislike it. "I was taught that poetry was itself an exalted thing." He admits his "quasi-religious language" and asserts that "it was during the 1950s that poetry last had this religious aura." Did Epstein go to school "during the 1950s"? If he attended poetry readings in 1989 with unblinkered eyes, he would watch twenty-year-olds undergoing quasi-religious emotions--one of whom, almost certainly, will write an essay in the 2020s telling the world that poetry is moldering in its grave."


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