I’m writing this in fall, a time of year that just somehow seems to concord with the work of Robinson Jeffers. Jeffers was a modern American poet who wrote in long, teeming relentless and lines, never seeming to shy away from dramatic, big-picture issues like violence, war and mortality. In his work, he plays with the romantic, typically, but always toggles it closely with what he apparently perceives as an omnipresent potential for violence, attrition and disaster, in this world we live in as people. Still, he understands the ebbs and flows of things, as the line in one of his poems “Peace now for every fury as had her day” will indicate. It seems like that is what we’re going through now, actually, in America, as it’s been a while since our last big skirmish but the relapse into such imperious bloodlusting seems fully impeding.
Anyway, he was the type of poet who just seems like he would have been a recluse, with such strong convictions and vivid, exact imagery bulwarking his prolix, verbose pieces. With this being the case, it’s especially appropriate taking in his work in autumn, a time of year when even commercially voluminous football Saturdays have a way of emanating as peaceful and still. Just last week, I went to the Notre Dame library, to the ninth floor, found his Selected Poetry and sat there reading hit for an hour and a half.
I don’t really feel like doing back there again today, the next day-off Monday of mine, mostly because this one Notre Dame douche bag saw fit to remark to me on the elevator that “I go up here to take a dump.” Actually, with the nauseating litany of coeds who show up to campus in leggings, you might say it was a very butt-oriented trip to the holy house of our lady, if you will. I was planning on going to Griffon, our downtown bookstore here in South Bend, as a way of avoiding the $20 price tag I found on Ebay. The masters are quick, mean and expensive, and when aliens attack us, they won’t be sticking around for jollities, revising their work or hosting workshops.
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