POETRY MONDAY: JANUARY 4, 2016
William Jay Smith
Remembering William Jay Smith ( 1918-2015)
Happy New Year, everyone — meaning, really, that we hope 2016 will be a better year on many fronts than 2015 was. On the poetry front, we lost another member of the greatest generation. William Jay Smith died last August in Pittsfield, Massachusetts, at the age of 97, after having lived for many years in Cummington, Massachusetts, near his good friend, Richard Wilbur. You may have read Smith’s obituary in the New York Times and elsewhere, but if you are interested in knowing more about his life, you may also want to read his two memoirs, Army Brat (Persea Books, 1982) and Dancing in the Garden: A Bittersweet Love Affair with France (Bay Oak Publishers, Ltd., 2008).
Shortly after the publication of his new memoir, we featured him on these pages. It was for November 2008, during our own first year. We remember him now with a renewed sense of loss and a reprise of that post.
Irene Willis
Poetry Editor
William Jay Smith
William Jay Smith, as many of you already know, is one of America’s greatest poets, translators and literary critics. He was Consultant in Poetry to the Library of Congress (the position now known as Poet Laureate) from 1968-1970, has read his work and has had his work read all over the world, and at 90 years old, is still going strong. His thirteenth book of poems, Words by the Water, has just been published by Johns Hopkins University Press, and his memoir, Dancing in the Garden: A Bittersweet Love Affair with France by Bay Oak Publishers, Ltd. in Dover, Delaware. He gave a wonderful, vigorous reading from both of these books in his hometown of Cummington, Massachusetts last month, where I had the pleasure of renewing my acquaintance with him. The last time I had seen him was in the early 90’s, when, at my invitation, he gave a joint reading at the Arts Council of Princeton (New Jersey) with Romanian poet Nina Cassian, whose work he had just translated.
Smith’s poems are so direct, artful and timeless that some he wrote years ago, such as the famous “American Primitive,” can seem as if created to address our present moment. Here is that poem, as well as one from his new book, and a translation to add to the global conversation.
Irene Willis
Poetry Editor
WILLIAM JAY SMITH
Two Poems and a Translation
American Primitive
Look at him there in his stovepipe hat,
His high-top shoes, and his handsome collar;
Only my Daddy could look like that,
And I love my Daddy like he loves his Dollar.
The screen door bangs, and it sounds so funny –
There he is in a shower of gold;
His pockets are stuffed with folding money.
His lips are blue, and his hands feel cold.
He hangs in the hall by his black cravat,
The ladies faint, and the children holler:
Only my Daddy could look like that,
And I love my Daddy like he loves his Dollar.
from The Traveler’s Tree: New and Selected Poems
Persea Books, 1980
Contemplation of a Conspiracy
Where the table-leg projects into the yellow autumn
sunlight
like the poor premise of an argument,
the plotters gather, rotting wood at a creek’s end
tirelessly planning the devastation of the spirit,
wiring the heart for a final explosion.
Where can they lead you but over the bridges of beetroot
into the country of spiders?
Do not follow them to their camp pitched in a cranny;
bring your fist down hard on the table …
and send them flying.
from Words by the Water copyright 2008 William Jay Smith
Reprinted with permission of the Johns Hopkins University Press
Do Not Forget
by Andrei Voznesensky
Somewhere a man puts on his shorts,
his blue striped T-shirt,
his blue jeans;
a man puts on
his jacket on which there is a button
reading COUNTRY FIRST
and over the jacket, his topcoat.
Over the topcoat,
after dusting it off, he puts on his automobile,
and over that he puts on his garage
(just big enough for his car)
over that his apartment courtyard,
and then he belts himself with the courtyard wall.
Then he puts on his wife
and after her the next one
and then the next one;
and over that he puts on his subdivision
and over that his county
and like a knight he then buckles on
the borders of his country;
and with his head swaying,
puts on the whole globe.
Then he dons the black cosmos
and buttons himself up with the stars.
He slings the Milky Way over one shoulder,
and after that some secret beyond.
He looks around:
Suddenly
in the vicinity of the constellation Libra
he recalls that he has forgotten his watch.
Somewhere it must be ticking
(all by itself).
The man takes off the countries,
the sea,
the oceans,
the automobile, and the topcoat.
He is nothing without Time.
Naked he stands on his balcony
and shouts to the passers-by:
“For God’s sake, do not forget your watch!”
a Russian translation from The Traveler’s Tree:
New and Selected Poems. Persea Books, 1980