Guide to the Ruins
by Howard Nemerov
One lives by commerce, said the guide.
One sells the available thing, time
And again: the ruins, the temple grove,
The gods with their noses knocked off.
One profits by the view.
It is a difficult trade, he said,
To give to the dishonored dead
Their stature and their stony eyes.
The vulgar paint has flaked away
Leaving the color of time,
The unimpassioned grey which is
Not now in commodious demand.
One gives, with broken Herakles,
A premium of legend, a pamphlet
To certify the chill.
What is it that one sells, the self?
I think not. One sells always time
Dissembled in heroic stone: such eyes
As look like cloud-reflecting lakes
In the old mountains of time.
And we’re back! Hello, hello, hello and how ya doin’? I got one of my favorite new books last week: Guide to the Ruins by Howard Nemerov. It’s not at all new; it was Nemerov’s second book and was originally published in 1950.
But it’s new to me, and I can’t stop smelling this old book. The dust jacket is barely there, the binding almost disintegrated. It’s great. I love getting the actual book of poetry, not some selected works mess.
Initiate rant: I think the publishing industry isn’t doing itself a lot of favors by putting out one greatest hits collection after another for poets, especially modern(ish) ones. Poems spanning an entire career show only the great mountains and valleys that a person may reach while writing. Does this mean that there weren’t aberrations, missteps and tangents that occurred as well?
Think of it this way: how many bands have great songs never anthologized? I know they exist, but how stupid are the Pink Floyd and Radiohead greatest hits albums? Even if you’re not a fan of these bands, you can understand that their albums are often fashioned as a whole, not a series of tracks. Greatest hits albums cannot include the in-between sounds, the long silences, intros, instrumentals, and epilogues. It’s kind of inherent to what they are.
And that’s not entirely a bad thing. It works for music as a way of introducing folks to new artists (same as poetry), without drowning them in the complete oeuvre. If you like what you hear, you can go listen to the album it came from on Spotify or head down to Amoeba and buy it on CD or vinyl.
Poetry doesn’t quite have that option. The industry ain’t got the same amount of money as music. (I just had an image of a Billy Collins halftime reading at the Superbowl. He looked...so spice!) Because of this, most poetry books are out of print, or require a bit of doing to get. If I want something specific, like Nemerov’s second book, I go to Amazon and find it. Order it, and hope it isn’t full of weird notes and dong doodles.
by Howard Nemerov
One lives by commerce, said the guide.
One sells the available thing, time
And again: the ruins, the temple grove,
The gods with their noses knocked off.
One profits by the view.
It is a difficult trade, he said,
To give to the dishonored dead
Their stature and their stony eyes.
The vulgar paint has flaked away
Leaving the color of time,
The unimpassioned grey which is
Not now in commodious demand.
One gives, with broken Herakles,
A premium of legend, a pamphlet
To certify the chill.
What is it that one sells, the self?
I think not. One sells always time
Dissembled in heroic stone: such eyes
As look like cloud-reflecting lakes
In the old mountains of time.
And we’re back! Hello, hello, hello and how ya doin’? I got one of my favorite new books last week: Guide to the Ruins by Howard Nemerov. It’s not at all new; it was Nemerov’s second book and was originally published in 1950.
But it’s new to me, and I can’t stop smelling this old book. The dust jacket is barely there, the binding almost disintegrated. It’s great. I love getting the actual book of poetry, not some selected works mess.
Initiate rant: I think the publishing industry isn’t doing itself a lot of favors by putting out one greatest hits collection after another for poets, especially modern(ish) ones. Poems spanning an entire career show only the great mountains and valleys that a person may reach while writing. Does this mean that there weren’t aberrations, missteps and tangents that occurred as well?
 |
| I'm saying Pulling Teeth actually makes Welcome to Paradise and Basket Case better. |
Think of it this way: how many bands have great songs never anthologized? I know they exist, but how stupid are the Pink Floyd and Radiohead greatest hits albums? Even if you’re not a fan of these bands, you can understand that their albums are often fashioned as a whole, not a series of tracks. Greatest hits albums cannot include the in-between sounds, the long silences, intros, instrumentals, and epilogues. It’s kind of inherent to what they are.
And that’s not entirely a bad thing. It works for music as a way of introducing folks to new artists (same as poetry), without drowning them in the complete oeuvre. If you like what you hear, you can go listen to the album it came from on Spotify or head down to Amoeba and buy it on CD or vinyl.
Poetry doesn’t quite have that option. The industry ain’t got the same amount of money as music. (I just had an image of a Billy Collins halftime reading at the Superbowl. He looked...so spice!) Because of this, most poetry books are out of print, or require a bit of doing to get. If I want something specific, like Nemerov’s second book, I go to Amazon and find it. Order it, and hope it isn’t full of weird notes and dong doodles.
 |
| Except if it's written by Long Dong Silver |
I wish I could go to a bookstore and find a neat row of books to peruse (by Nemerov, hell I'd check out Long Dong's poetry too). Sadly, there are very, very few poets with whom this is a possibility. I don’t really blame publishers for not reprinting books. I’m sure there’s not a lot of demand or money in it, but it’s just the state of things.
Anyway, it’s too bad. I wish I had lots of small books on my shelf. Instead I have all these tomes. Artifacts of an art form, not the fruits of this year and vintages of the past, replete with bruises and a bit of cork here and there.
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