I recently wrote a blog entry for Brian Brodeur’s valuable “How a Poem Happens,” (http://howapoemhappens.blogspot.com) a collection of many blog posts from myriad poets—many very well known—that ask the same series of questions. My entry centered on “Barn Gothic,” published a while back here at Shenandoah. One of the questions centered on form and application:

“How did this poem arrive at its final form? Did you consciously employ any principles of technique?”

This question proved difficult to answer and elicited a peculiar response. R. T. Smith suggested I expand the answer to explore the process by which this poem came to be while synthesizing the central idea in Brodeur’s blog.

As I noted in “How a Poem Happens,” I am obsessed with sonic lushness—if, for example, I go to a poet to read for pleasure, it will most likely be Hopkins, Dylan Thomas, early Heaney, etc. I love circuitous, complex applications of sound, so much so that in recent years certain sounds summon synesthetic experiences. For example, I pair certain consonantal repetitions (particularly “w” and “s” and “l” sounds) with the sight and smell of flora. I think instantly, for example, of Hopkins’s “When weeds, in wheels, shoot long and lovely and lush,” a line that conveniently marries my synesthesia with the actual motif. This line is delicious to me. I savor it and could say it again and again, which leads to my next idiosyncratic relationship with sound.

I am a fan of verbigeration, the nonsensical repetition of words or phrases. While I never apply this technique within my own poetry, in life I do repeat certain words—some as benign as “and”—over and over until they lose their meaning and take on a purely sonic simplicity. I liken it to staring at someone or something for so long that they take on an otherworldly radiance, simultaneously lose a certain context and yet gain another one as an object that transcends their mere tangibility.

Such practices have their drawbacks. Even in short-lined poems such as “Barn Gothic,” as I noted in “How a Poem Happens,” I’m perhaps overly conscious of imbuing each line with sonic dynamism. The result is often that my poems, relative to other the work of others now being published, appear (or sound) antiquated.

One fellow poet recently wrote to another fellow poet that I was a poet of “old traditions.” I’m not sure what this means, other than to suggest that I am conscious of form to the degree that my work sounds “old” not in its lack of originality (I hope), but in its prolixity or its ornamentation.

I find much contemporary poetry boring, and I flinch at such a general admonition—but it’s true: most of the work I encounter in journals seems like lineated prose. There’s an argument in my mind about the “truth” of poetry—what it’s meant to say, and many writers argue that poetry needs to sound like someone talking, someone relaying the message to reader in a way devoid of adornments. It’s not that I don’t believe in the validity of this style: I appreciate that it exists, but I won’t read it when I encounter it. I don’t think the purity of truth is in proportion to a transcription of actual experience, but just as likely to emerge through a purely imaginative and lyrical exploration—the latter of which opens more possibilities (in my case) for interesting—and mostly not completely purposeful—applications of sound.

For me, sound need not be limited to idiosyncratic sound relationships as in Hopkins, but can be enjoyed in a less pyrotechnic way. One reason, for example, that I love James Dickey’s early work is his reliance on the anapest, which gives his work an almost engine-like quality, a sound-fuel that creates tension, energy, builds to a revelatory climax.

Simply put: I can’t separate my life from my preoccupation with the sounds of words. I find them strange and incantatory, and I enjoy poets who seem to apply them in similar ways (the very ornamental Eric Pankey, the dynamic Betty Adcock, the hewn expansiveness of Steve Scafidi).

— William Wright

Shenandoah remembers the life and work of our fourteen-year contributing editor and former Washington and Lee University professor, the late Claudia Emerson. Born on January 13, 1957 in Chatham, Virginia, Emerson received her undergraduate English degree from the University of Virginia and her MFA in Creative Writing from the University of North Carolina at Greensboro. In addition to W&L, she served as a professor at Randolph-Macon College, University of Mary Washington, and Virginia Commonwealth University. Though a late bloomer in the poetry world, she received numerous awards for her captivating, innovative work, including fellowships from the National Endowment for the Arts, the Library of Congress, the Virginia Commission for the Arts, and the Guggenheim. She earned a membership with the Fellowship of Southern Writers, as well as a position on staff at the Sewanee Writers Conference. In 2008 she was appointed as Poet Laureate for Virginia. The Southern flair and vivid details embedded within the lyrical expressions of her poetry earned Emerson a Pulitzer Prize for her book of poems entitled Late Wife in 2006. Other volumes of her work include Pharaoh, Pharaoh (1997), Pinion: An Elegy (2002), Figure Studios: Poems (2008), Secure in the Shadow (2012), and The Opposite House (scheduled to release in March 2015). She nearly completed a seventh volume of her work, and many of those poems will eventually be published, culminating in a new volume. Her husband, Kent Ippolito, a musician of bluegrass, rock, folk, jazz, and other genres, will carry on his late wife’s legacy. The Cortland Review’s “Poets in Person” video from Spring 2012 ventures to Fredericksburg, VA to capture an intimate look at Emerson’s life in that town, her and her husband’s musical-duo pursuits, and her perspective on her work.

Washington and Lee professor Lesley Wheeler remembers her former colleague with admiration:

 “Her first book, Pharaoh, Pharaoh, means a lot to me, not least because I watched her pull the book together while working here in Payne Hall. From those first poems through Secure the Shadow, she worked through an especially nuanced relationship to place. Place is always imperiled in her work, infused with loss, but in the latter book place is also imperiling her. Poems such as “Half-Life” consider the large vein of uranium in her home county and the prevalence of cancer in the families she knew growing up. Her poems exhibit exceptional intelligence as well as care about getting the details right.

 Personally, she taught me a great deal about dedication both to her students and to her own work. We had a lot of conversations about the debts we owe to our poems, our careers, and ourselves, and one of my big debts is to her. Our early friendship was potent but tricky (I describe it briefly in my latest blog post at http://lesleywheeler.org/blog/), so I was grateful to reconnect with her in the last few years. I’m still in touch with many W&L students who cite her as one of the most inspiring, helpful teachers they’ve ever had, and I can testify that she was an inspiring person to teach alongside as I was learning the ropes. I still introduce the Great War poets, for example, the way she did in a great guest lecture for my class nearly twenty years ago.”

Poets, colleagues, and readers across the country sing praises of Emerson’s work and her character:

 Prof. Lyrae Van Clief-Stefanon of Cornell University (former student) described Emerson as one of her “favorite people in the world,”  “smart, joyful, open, quick to laugh and quick to share.”

“Claudia Emerson brings an undeniable reputation to our department,” said Katherine Bassard, Ph.D., professor and chair of the VCU Department of English. “A poet of her caliber and teacher of her aptitude will enhance and inspire students and faculty peers alike.”

Writing in Newsweek, David Gates called [Late Wife] “such a smart, intense, satisfying and approachable book that readers will return to it for decades.”

“I really do not know of another writer of her generation who can weave such diverse materials together to make such a cohesive and urgent whole. With Secure the Shadow, Emerson once again proves that she is among our essential poets.”—David Wojahn

A poem from Pinion: An Elegy (2002) and featured in Shenandoah’s “Strongly Spent: 50 Years of Poetry” edition in Spring/Summer 2003.

The Admirer

September, 1926, clear

He had before come courting—with pecans
or peaches, berries. She had those times been able
to thank him with one of her pies and be
done with him. For this, though he would want
supper, to sit at the table with her
after supper. For this, reckoned he had
spent most of the morning emptying
the sky of its plenty: the doves spilled from
burlap in iridescent disarray,
three dozen at least, a shimmering

bouquet. And so the afternoon was for her
defined; the hour deepened the mound of feathers,
blue-gray, plucked in porch-dusk, and the wind,
disinterested, would once in a while stir them.
She knew they were easy to bring down
over a field where they would fall into
the tangled grasses and go on flying against
what had been wind. Easy—as this was not:
feet, gut, heart, the smooth brow with eyes open
like garnets glowing; she cut and tossed over

and what was in the end useless
onto the feathers, a last and bloody bed,
or to the cats, who growled and circled her,
to keep the peace. A dove would amount to,
at best, a half-dozen mouthfuls, the dark
breast tender but gristled with shot—black seed. She
threw a whole bird to the nursing cat
and wondered whether the white kitten had opened
its eyes; if they were blue, it would be deaf,
she had been told and told she could not let it

live. She would see about that. Her mother called down
how are they coming. More work than they’re worth,
she answered back, for such a little meat.
Even with the birds still baking, yet to be
eaten, with still the biscuits to stir up
and gravy yet to make from the meager fat—
with a strait hour to pass before he would
lean back from the table to pick his teeth and sigh—
she had decided he should have left the doves
their beloved sky, for she would not be won.

Shenandoah’s Editor R.T. Smith wrote the book jacket blurb for Claudia Emerson’s second book, Pinion, which reads, “In her carefully unfolding chronicle of quietly claustrophobic rural life, Emerson has reawakened the vernacular of hard times and yearning.  She has conjured an exquisite lament from the drought and fallow ground of a family farm and reminded us of the durability and splendor of the human heart.”

On the poet, Smith remarks, “In subsequent books, she continued to explore with deftness and tact a variety of vernaculars of suffering, and she was so often pitch-perfect that I began to see her as the signature Southern poet of her generation.  Fortunately, she also had the opportunity to write about exhilaration and sweet seasons, which she addressed with equal vigor and originality, and in those later poems she disassembled some of her narrative strategies and reached new heights of lyric expression.  Claudia Emerson could tell a story and she could sing a song, and was not much tempted by nonsense or ordinariness.   She is a poet to be read and re-read, and the only consolation I can find in her passing is that she has left us two more volumes of poems, so her voice will still be singing for a long time.  Let the birds and the bards get ready to shiver with envy.”

Claudia Emerson left a permanent footprint in the world of poetry. Shenandoah and Washington and Lee are blessed to have had the opportunity to be influenced by her work and character. A tribute to the poet will appear in Shenandoah later this winter.

Location, Location, Location
Another chapter in the history of Shenandoah has come to an end.  During the week of December 15 we will be moving our offices again, this time from our historic brick tower across from the Stonewall Jackson House to the basement of Early-Fielding (sounds vaguely agricultural) Building at the corner of (really) Lee Avenue and Washington Street.  It’s also right across Lee from Mattingly House, where we were lodged before moving to our current location.

When classes resume on January 12, we’ll be open for business again with a new set of interns, but our Submittable site will not be ready to receive submissions until later in that month.  Stay tuned.

Our current (17 Courtyard Square) address was the launching pad for our on-line version of Shenandoah, and it’s been an eventful three and a half years, sad in the loss of our contributing editors Jake York and Claudia Emerson, but in other ways provocative and challenging.  The building is a wonderful example of 19th century construction with huge windows and, partly because it once served as the Commonwealth Attorney’s office, an atmosphere of resourceful professionalism, bolstered by the two walk-in safes.  Our previous querencia Mattingly House, which we shared with publishing and communications professionals, had been a fraternity house, and despite the chimney’s penchant for trapping or admitting birds, it had a good feel, a picturesque hearth and one grand room with pine wainscotting.  Longtime followers may even recall that in 1995 Shenandoah moved from its first port-of-call with the English Department in Payne (!) Hall to the upstairs suite of the well-known Troubadour Theater.  That was on the occasion of my arrival, and my office window allowed a fine view of the First Baptist Church and, at times, an inspiring view of the rising moon.  Sometimes it backlit our resident bats.  From “17” the winter sunset was the resident spectacle.  That old Troubadour building now houses a hair salon and an upstairs apartment.  Time marches on.

What to make of all this peregrination?  Hard to say.  Home is where you dock your laptop?  Travel is broadening?  Wise to present a moving target?  It’s a mystery to me, but James Joyce could have told us more about the joys and sorrows of changing addresses.  At the end of Ulysses, reflecting his own brand of musical chairs, he wrote Trieste-Zurich-Paris.  Location, location, location.  It worked out fine for him.  Wish us luck.

It travels the airwaves for 25% of the year. The subliminal messaging has mixed effects – sheer joy and utter disgust. It overwhelms us, forcing its tune into some hearts, but all minds – yes, it’s Christmas music. To some, the boy’s choirs sound as jolly as one of the “Saw” movies, to others, it warms them from the Christmas cold spreading cheer to all. The infidelity depicted in “I Saw Mommy Kissing Santa Claus,” one might argue, is not the best message to be sending to adolescents. “Oh Holy Night” has become Christmas’ solemn anthem. There is a certain serious sadness inflicted by some of the Christmas ballads; they sound almost depressing about one of the supposed happiest times of the year. But then, *song ends* and up next is “Rocking Around the Christmas Tree.” It is difficult to reconcile the joy and grief that are spread from the infectious music.

Why is there a need for music in the first place? Isn’t the whole point to be celebrating the holiness of the day, and is that by any means lost when we are decking the halls? Kimberly Moore’s three-part article, “A Brief History of Holiday Music” argues that, “Music is an integral part of our holiday experience.” Moore divides the melodies by time period. The majority of the earlier Christmas songs were in veneration of the religious part of the day; think: “The First Noel,” “O Come, O Come Emmanuel” and “Silent Night.” They are more serious and less likely to facilitate a dance around a Christmas tree. These hymns are more contemplative and allow the singers and listeners to ponder the religious significance of the holiday season. For years Christmas was a solemn holiday.

Joy, celebration and song became a part of the Christmas season in 1840 when German Prince Albert married English Queen Victoria. In Germany, Christmas means Yuletide, a joyous celebration including songs, celebration, gifts, and more marketable forms of Christmas celebration. As the celebration of Yule caught on, “Jingle Bells,” “Up on the Housetop,” and “Jolly Old St. Nicholas” became the songs of the season. Christmas became commercialized and became more about the celebration than the religious sentiments of the season.

Christmas tunes remained consistent until the Great Depression when Americans became the songwriters, commercializing Christmas as a holiday for everyone rather than a strictly religious day. Songs became more about celebration than about spirituality. In addition, the music industry employed famous singers to gain popularity for the new genre of songs. Christmas hits were also debuted in movies, inviting a new audience to enjoy the upbeat music.

Something that has occurred to me while the reverberating beats of “Little Drummer Boy” bump through my car: why Christmas? What I mean is, why is Christmas the only holiday permitted songs to play on the radio? What about Arbor Day? Easter? There are plenty of other holidays worthy of broadcasted music, yet we preempt a single day with 3 months of loud, proud holiday music. Why does Christmas deserve that more than any other day? I find Thanksgiving to be pretty important, can we celebrate that with a song? The attention and importance allotted to Christmas seems unfair, particularly when a large part of America’s population does not even celebrate the day. While Christmas monopolizes the radio, Kwanza and Hanukkah’s songs are without airtime. With the new novelty and lightheartedness of Christmas, everyone is able to enjoy the celebration, regardless of religious affiliation, subjecting us all to the unending holiday cheer.