The Lost Lunar Baedeker: Poems Of Mina Loy (1997) - Plot & Excerpts
A frequent topic of tedious pontification by magazine scribes with heated opinions is the average American's lack of interest in consuming modern poetry. This unfortunate circumstance is often chalked up to the matter-of-factly asserted mantra that "modern poetry is too difficult." What does "difficult" mean in this context? After reading The Lost Lunar Baedeker, a collection of undeniably "difficult" verse penned by underrated T.S. Eliot contemporary Mina Loy, I propose the following definition. It seems to me that there are two types of candies: those that are easily chewed and swallowed, like Whoppers malted-milk balls, and those that, like nougats or caramels, require prolonged mastication before they can be digested. While I wholeheartedly enjoy both varieties of sweets, there is an unignorable difference in character between the two. "Difficult" poetry, I think, is comparable to the latter type.Over and over again, while reading Loy's poetry, I found myself faced with a nontrivial decision: ought I to gnaw on each line for as long as necessary to understand it fully before progressing to the subsequent line, or ought I to skim entire stanzas or pages (biting off big chunks of Loy's caramel, as it were) in an attempt to process them as larger units before backtracking and rereading? Sometimes I opted for one strategy, sometimes the other. Neither strategy yielded totally satisfactory results: Loy's utterances sometimes sailed over my head despite my best efforts.Potential first-time readers should be forewarned that Loy is a poet who possesses, and wields, a gigantic vocabulary, bigger than any writer I have ever come across except perhaps Samuel Beckett. I recently had lunch with a nationally ranked Scrabble player, and I showed Loy's book to him. Flipping through its pages, he was instantly captivated by Loy's liberal usage of obscure polysyllabic words, truly head-scratching words like "vinous," "adamic," "indirigible," and "baldachin." If the use of such ten-cent words perturbs you (or, God forbid, elicits from you the knee-jerk response "How pretentious!"), you should avoid this book.(Incidentally, I have been told that Latinate polysyllables have fallen out of favor among contemporary poets, and Anglo-Saxon monosyllables are now preferred. Why this should be so is not entirely clear to me. I decline to make a normative judgment on this matter.)Loy's poetry is not really comparable to any other American's. It bears some similarities to the work of Continental European poets like Guillaume Apollinaire, who also trafficked in meandering free verse that shuns punctuation and displays a heady enthusiasm for anything and everything modern. The lankiness and double-jointedness of Loy's lines should not lull you into believing that she is a lax, careless, or sloppy poet. Despite its deceptively soft contours, her poetry is not flaccid: it is always highly controlled, guided by deliberateness and intentionality rather than hazard. I am convinced that her poems always have meaning, regardless of whether you--the reader--succeed in accessing that meaning or not.There is much beauty here. In one poem, Loy describes a pigeon's red feet as "coral landing-gear." In another poem, she evocatively describes the process of mourning for a deceased spouse: "Slyly, soporose,/patience creeps up on passion." The emotionally harrowing act of reading her dead husband's old love-letters is described thusly: "This package of ago/creaks with the horror of echo." In another poem, the act of getting drunk is described as "pouring a benison/of internal rain/leaving a rainbow in your brain." Loy's facility with intricate slant-rhymes and alliteration is astonishing, and her poems are marked by a mix of ironic humor and deep-felt compassion for the unfortunate. This is not a book for everyone, but I am glad I read it.
4.5/5 […]The smell of small cookingFrom luckier housesIs cruel to the maimed catHidingAmong the carpenter’s shavingsFrom three boys—One holding a bar—Who neverthelessBorn of human parentsCry when locked in the dark[…]t-Italian Pictures: The Costa San Giorgio I want someone with the tendency to obsess over Modernism and Futuruism and other Patriarchal Eurocentric Difficult Things (I know you're out there) to pore over this with a fine-tooth comb. I know I missed the most of it, what with not being fluent in French/German/Italian/smattering of Spanish and all the requisite references, but what I did manage to get is simply extraordinary. There's also the Latin business, but let's work our way up, shall we? […]Defiance of old idolatriesinspires new schools[…]t-Lions’ JawsMost of what I got went along the lines of sex and censor and the matter of thought not fitting into body into box. History talks about First Wave Feminism and its complacency with legality, a nice and neatness that would work if Loy hadn't been rocking around Second Wave (right to fuck) and Third Wave (right to not be white/rich/straight/cis) with her poems on childbirth and […]And I who am called heretic,and the only follower in Christ’s foot-stepsamong this crowd adoring a wax doll—for I alone am worshipping the poorsore baby-the child of sex igno-rance and poverty.[…]t-The Prototypeand likely the only reason she and they survived is due to her not making a ruckus in the society spreadsheet of the time and drawing as much attention as the rest, aka “One wonders what the devil anyone will make of this sort of thing who hasn’t all the clues….I am aware that the poems before me would drive numerous not wholly unintelligent readers into a fury of rage-out-of-puzzlement.”-Ezra Pound, The Little Review 4:11 (March 1918, pp. 56-58)but of course must one keep in mind that she spent a good portion of that talked-about time unmarried and taking care of her child. Which meant money, which meant reputation, which meant her not only seeing everything in terms of sex but writing about it in as esoterically linguistic a manner as possible just wouldn't do while she was a woman if she wanted to eat. […]Is it trueThat I have set you apartInviolate in an utter crystallizationOf all the jolting of the crowdTaught me willingly to live to shareOr are youOnly the other halfOf an ego’s necessityScourging pride with compassionTo the shallow sound of dissonanceAnd boom of escaping breath[…]t-Songs to JoannesAs you can see, it didn't stop her from publishing every so often, drawing enough attention and the rare combo of literary editor and rabid fan to bring her work into the new millenium. I question the "new", really, for her life will still attract the "whore" and "slut" and every other word the gynephobic use when especially afraid of women embracing their sex drive. You are not free to malign such a phenomenal spirit in such a way, but if you wish to say as such while fucking a pinecone, be my guest. […]You may give birth to usor marry usthe chances of your fleshare not our destiny—The cuirass of the soulstill chines—And we are unawareif you confusesuch briefcorrosion with possession[…]t-Apology of GeniusShe hung out with Stein and Barnes and this Nancy Cunard person whom I'd kick myself for not hearing about sooner except for, well, she's exactly the type to be buried in the chronicles posthaste. […]The impartiality of the absoluteRoutestthe polemicOr which of usWould notReceiving the holy-ghostCatch ittand caging Lose itOr in the problematicDestroy the UniverseWith a solution.t-Human CylindersSeriously, Modernist Extraordinare. She wrote a poem about Ulysses. Go forth.
What do You think about The Lost Lunar Baedeker: Poems Of Mina Loy (1997)?
"We might have coupledIn the bed-ridden monopoly of a momentOr broken flesh with one anotherAt the profane communion tableWhere wine is spill'd on promiscuous lipsWe might have given birth to a butterflyWith the daily newsPrinted in blood on its wings"not everything in here is amazing,but everything amazing in hereis really amazing.sure, she's pretentious & wordy.maybe it's the part of me that lovesPatti Smith & J D Salinger.no... something else.the part of me that loves shelley?oh, dear... how'd i let that slip out?
—bill greene
An inspired and inspiring collection. The appendices are thorough, accessible, and invaluable, though the introduction carries an apologetic tone that I can't see sitting well with Ms. Loy. Nonetheless, this volume is a bookshelf treasure trove, filled with such gems as,"There is no Life or Death,Only activityAnd in the absoluteIs no declivity.There is no Love or LustOnly propensityWho would possessIs a nonentity.There is no First or LastOnly equalityAnd who would ruleJoins the majority.There is no Space or TimeOnly intensity,And tame thingsHave no immensity."and"We might have coupledIn the bed-ridden monopoly of a momentOr broken flesh with one anotherAt the profane communion tableWhere wine is spill'd on promiscuous lipsWe might have given birth to a butterflyWith the daily news Printed in blood on its wings"and"We are the sacerdotal clownswho feed upon the wind and starsand pulverous pastures of povertyOur wills are formed by curious disciplinesbeyond your lawsYou may give birth to usor marry usthe chances of your fleshare not our destiny--"
—Sarah
I first encountered Loy's poetry in Rothenberg and Joris's Poems for the Millenium, Vol. 1, and was immediately intrigued by her and wanted to read more. However, this collection of her poetry slipped under my radar until Jenna posted her review of it last fall. Her review is very much worth reading since it does a wonderful job of expressing the difficulty of reading Loy. It is here https://www.goodreads.com/topic/show/...I love this book. Much is made of Loy's life. I doubt I would have liked her, but I love her poetry. Why when it's so difficult to grasp all of the things she's getting at? Well, because she's getting at so many things while using such spare and fascinating language. Her use of such compact, complex, loaded language strikes me as playful. Some people have found it pretentious but I think they're taking her the wrong way. For me, her work brings to mind the best of Dickinson--taken to another degree and then adding collage. Another way that Loy pulls me in is her playfulness with sound. Her work is full of alliteration, admittedly sometimes overburdened with it in her later work. I'm a sucker for sound effects so I enjoy this even when overdone.On this first reading I chose not to mark all of the passages that wowed me because it was clear there would be many. This will be a treasured book to be gone over again and again it that impractically expected Nevertime when I will be free to read and contemplate what I read without concern for other demands in life. However, I'll provide some examples to give people a taste.Here is the last stanza from "Joyce's Ulysses" that I think is such an apt and verbally quirky summing up that it tickles the funny bone:Empyrean emporiumwhere the rejector--recreatorJoyceflashes the giant reflectoron the sub rosa--An instance of her being more concrete from "Ephemerid" the first part of which has her eye catching on something she can't quite make out in the hustle-bustle of the city:As always, has a wisp of whiteness lovelinessto lift the eyelids;to whisper of subvisual resourcesin the uncolor of the unknown.Across indefinite curbstonesfocusthis creature of fictitiousfaery,this eccentric of traffic:after allthe illicit insectis onlya little girl----a long white muslin curtain,tied to her pull-over,afloat from her,she pilots an ideal loadAnd an example of her loading obscure associations from the poem "Lunar Baedeker." Baedeker referring to a tour guide:From the shoresof oval oceansin the oxidized OrientOnyx-eyed Odalisquesand ornithologistsobservethe flightof Eros obsoleteAnd "immortality"mildews . . .in the museums of the moon"Nocturnal cyclops""Crystal concubine"------------------Pocked with personificationthe fossil virgin of the skieswaxes and wanes--------------The dashes are Loy's though fewer in number to cover the same space. There are extensive notes in the back of the book but I partook of them sparingly this time around. This poem itself probably requires looking at a map of the moon to become familiar once again with the names of the features. And to stop and think about associations with the moon. Loy has a mind that has sucked in huge amounts of information and impressions that are being flashed in her poems. On top of that, she's undermining about half of them with multiple meanings. Orient as in the East, or as in orientation on a map or as in orientation in space? How do we orient ourselves by the moon? I have no idea what ornithologists are doing in there unless the moon is thought of as a bird in flight, which I've never considered.So there is Mina Loy. I think she's fantastic and worth a lifetime of investigation. This is a book I'll keep and plague teenage nursing home volunteers by asking them to read to me from it and stop after a stanza or two and start prying about what she must mean.
—Jen
