P V: IMAGINING ITALY OST POST A REVIEW OF POETRY STUDIES Winter 2014 POST V imagining italy editorial team Michael Hinds Gearoid O’Flaherty Maurice Devitt 2 POST V: IMAGINING ITALY Winter 2014 5 featured artist: HOLLY MULVEEN 7 editorial :imagining Italy ESSAYS AND FEATURES 15 Beneficent Anaesthesia: the Present Tense in Anthony Hecht STEPHEN MATTERSON 31“the stone is also the vault” MICHAEL HINDS INTERVIEWS DAVID RIGSBEE 38 poem: ‘red dot’ DAVID RIGSBEE 43 Wordsworth’s Black Jesus DAVE LORDAN 55 Delta Dante: from the Blues Inferno IAN GRAY 65‘The weight of matter is dissolved’: Towards Lightness in Peter Manson’s Canzon – (for singing) – after Cavalcanti ELLEN DILLON 83 Porous Italies: Virgil and Walter Benjamin SEAN FOX 95 The Gallows Tree: Ezra Pound in Italy and the Problem of Politics JONATHAN CREASY 115 Wilde’s Italian poems GEAROID O’FLAHERTY 129 poem: ‘headless goddess in Naples’ poem: ‘Sarina at Santa Stefano’, and a note on ‘Sarina’ LUKE WHITINGTON REVIEWS 139 MICHELLE O’RIORDAN on a verse autobiography from 17th century Poland 147 ALEX RUNCHMAN on Dave Lordan’s new book 151 KIT FRYATT on a scholarly tribute to Ron Callan NOTES ON CONTRIBUTORS 4 HOLLY MULVEEN This issue features paintings provided by the Irish artist Holly Mulveen, currently living and working in L’Aquila in the Abruzzo region of Southern Italy. Her work can be viewed at https://hollymulveen.wordpress.com/ All the pieces are untitled. MICHAEL HINDS editorial: pleasuredome to terrordome This issue of POST grew out of the 2013 Summer School held at The Irish Centre for Poetry Studies, and is indicative of the vibrancy and range of contributions that were experienced at that gathering. It also signifies, more gratifyingly perhaps, that for all the love we bring to Italy— in particular, the idea of it, the look if it and the taste of it—we also acknowledge its fundamental violence. It is not just romance, it is sex; it is not just looking good, it is plastic surgery and men in expensive crushed strawberry trousers; it is not just artefacture, it is the exploitation and murder that made it possible; it is the glory of God and the Vatican underground car-park; Caesar and Bunga Bunga. Out of these tensions, it is no wonder that artists and scholars find such capital. Virgil did not emerge out of the sunny South or the ice- clear North, but out of a Mantuan fog. Italy is as grey as it is azurri. In many ways, it was Americans who taught us how best to appreciate the Italian romance, a tendency that runs all the way up to the Amanda Knox nightmare through the Roman near-death of Kurt Cobain from the deep-set desire for connection to the violent mythic pasts, both pagan and Catholic that so possessed Nathaniel Hawthorne: Italy, as the site of his romance, was chiefly valuable to him as affording a sort of poetic or fairy precinct, where actualities would not be so terribly insisted upon as they are, and must needs be, in America. No author, without a trial, can conceive of the difficulty of writing a romance about a country where there is no shadow, no antiquity, no mystery, no picturesque and gloomy wrong, nor anything but a commonplace prosperity, in broad and simple daylight, as is happily the case with my dear native land. It will be very long, I trust, before romance writers may find congenial and easily handled themes, either in the annals of our stalwart republic, or in any characteristic and probable events of our individual lives. Romance and poetry, ivy, lichens, and wallflowers, need ruin to make them grow. In rewriting these volumes, the author was somewhat surprised to see the extent to which he had introduced descriptions of various Italian objects, antique, pictorial, and statuesque. Yet these things fill the mind everywhere in Italy, and especially in Rome, and cannot easily be kept from flowing out upon the page when one writes freely, and with self-enjoyment Italy the pleasuredome, a fecund pastoral built on ruin, turns out to fundamentally be an unAmerica more than anything else (recalling how Kafka’s America is in reality a counter- or alter-Europe in his novel); but this is precisely what Hawthorne wants from it. And so a culture is born. Byron comes to Venice to whore, perhaps, but also to put his daughter in a nunnery, and indulge himself in a Catholic conservatism that would have been impossible in England. Two hundred years later, Frederick Seidel comes to Italy for the motorbikes that US capitalism cannot offer and indulges in a few morality lessons with regard to the cupidity and venality of the locals (playing the role of Juvenalian moralist in Italy while he himself goofs around orgiastically back home, and everywhere else): Guys spend more money on beauty products here Than in any other country in the world. Everyone is also a boss. (‘At a Factory in Italy’) The targeting of Italy for this complex of fantasies is readily explicable; Italy, and more especially Rome, is a site of unquestioned cultural authority that is signified (justified) by its excess of artefacture. It is too much, and therefore repellent even as it seduces. Just ask poor old Daisy Miller. If Italy the country and Rome the city are the ur-resource for the cultural and historical imagination of the west, then it follows that they have to bear as much of our animus as our affection. There is probably no better example of loving-to-hate Rome than the recently deceased Ian Paisley, his endlessly inventive rhetoric a sure mark of his respect for such an indefatigably Satanic foe. It is hard not to escape the sense that everything comes from Italy: food, wine, opera, etc. This sense is also tantamount to regarding Italy as a consumable phenomenon, however, and it is no surprise that so much writing about Italy centres on consumption of one kind or another. As pleasure has become more and more commodified, Italy has become increasingly perceived through commodities, a country that in itself has become a kind of luxury good. In turn, modern Italy has helped to promote this opportunistically, as in the invention of various styles of pasta over the past fifty years that are subsequently given all sorts of pseudo-historical authenticity. Note also the part Italy plays in contemporary American self-fulfilment narratives such as Under the Tuscan Sun and Eat, Drink, Pray, Love, where romantically lethargized Americans discover how to eat and cook (and “love”, yes) in Italy. If it becomes too easy to get cynical rather than romantic about Italy as a fulfilment- machine, a giant department store of sensory and cultural excitement for sale, it is a place 8 that poets keep returning to in their work, and a place that poetry responds to with peculiar acuity and wit. The sheer cultural authority of all of that artefacture, as Hawthorne attested, is definitely a part of this; in Civilization and its Discontents, Freud further suggests that the very appearance of Rome, with its combination of accreted historical experience (its buildings but also its ruins) is an exact metaphor for the shape of human consciousness, that which constructs but also forgets. Rome’s peculiar juxtapositions of once-occupied empty spaces and the extraordinarily-intact monument reproduce the mind’s formation of bold totems and their withering collapse. Cityscape/landscape stands for the mind, just as the mindscape is apparently expressed in the city: Since we overcame the error of supposing that the forgetting we are familiar with signified a destruction of the memory-trace - that is, its annihilation - we have been inclined to take the opposite view, that in mental life nothing which has once been formed can perish - that everything is somehow preserved and that in suitable circumstances (when, for instance, regression goes back far enough) it can once more be brought to light. Let us try to grasp what this assumption involves by taking an analogy from another field. We will choose as an example the history of the Eternal City. Historians tell us that the oldest Rome was the Roma Quadrata, a fenced settlement on the Palatine. Then followed the phase of the Septimontium, a federation of the settlements on the different hills; after that came the city bounded by the Servian wall; and later still, after all the transformations during the periods of the republic and the early Caesars, the city which the Emperor Aurelian surrounded with his walls. We will not follow the changes which the city went through any further, but we will ask ourselves how much a visitor, whom we will suppose to be equipped with the most complete historical and topographical knowledge, may still find left of these early stages in the Rome of to-day. Except for a few gaps, he will see the wall of Aurelian almost unchanged. In some places he will be able to find sections of the Servian wall where they have been excavated and brought to light. If he knows enough - more than present-day archaeology does - he may perhaps be able to trace out in the plan of the city the whole course of that wall and the outline of the Roma Quadrata. Of the buildings which once occupied this ancient area he will find nothing, or only scanty remains, for they exist no longer. The best information about Rome in the republican era would only enable him at the most to point out the sites where the temples and public buildings of that period stood. Their place is now taken by ruins, but not by ruins of themselves but of later restorations made after fires or destruction. It is hardly necessary to remark that all these remains of ancient Rome are found dovetailed into the jumble of a great metropolis which has grown up in the last few centuries since the Renaissance. There is certainly not a little that is ancient still buried in the soil of the city or beneath its modern buildings. This is the manner in which the past is preserved in historical sites like Rome. If Rome is a model of how consciousness works, a place wherein we can summon memory and its annihilation, in what other ways does it stand for our imagination of ourselves? Poet after poet, and then novelists responding to those poets, show us how. Italy offers itself (and with particular significance to the non-Italian mind) as a simultaneously fantastic and traumatic site, as for many of Henry James’s characters (like Daisy Miller) or those in E.M.Forster’s A Room with a View. Those characters are prepared for an Italy in which sex, death and consumption predominate, as opposed to home where either nothing happens (England) or where nobody cares about any tense other than the present (James’s America). On the other hand, Forster’s character Fielding in A Passage to India instantly travels to Venice upon his return from India, apparently craving its proportion. What raises these expectations? Usually, it is poetry. Winterbourne, the narrator of Daisy Miller is a devoted reader of the Italian-based English Romantics, as are nearly all of the characters in A Room with a View, although other poets are cited too, notably Dante and the classics. So you get the Italy that you have already read about. It could also, be argued that you get the Italy you deserve, and in keeping with the idea of Italian poetryscapes and landscapes as representations of our particular subjectivities, the very concept of a private Hell has emerged from Dante’s imagining of Inferno. In this sense, we can argue that the popularity of Dante for other poets is the way in which he imagines torment as an intimate business, a state of afflicted memory that carries with it the weight of judgement. When Ciaran Carson came to translate the Inferno, it was entirely continuous with the trajectory that his work had already described in its agonizing record of a native city in ruins (Belfast, in his case). Similarly, in Philip Terry’s relocation of Dis to the death-by- workload-model that is the University of Essex, we can see how the Dantean lens enables a writer from anywhere to comprehend the violence that administers them, as well as the equally violent vengefulness that it licenses in their own imagination. Of course, all of this imagination and projection does prompt a very fundamental question; where are all the Italians? In this idea of Italy as metaphor for the afflicted or inspired self, we not only are experiencing something remarkably limited, but we are also confirming that we are not interested in otherness at all when we contemplate Italy, or only in how it mirrors ourselves. Classical poets create an Italy for us that in reality pre-dates Italy. In some of their idealized landscapes (athough not, say, in Catullus’s highly sceptical account of his native Verona), we see the beginning of the Italian hyperreal, a paradisal site 10