How The Irish Saved Civilization.
Thomas Cahill.
Doubleday. Paperback. 250 Pages.

This is a passionately written look at the dark ages of Western Civilization, when the barbarians were not only at the gate, but had taken over the whole kingdom and all the knowledge we value from the Classical worlds of Greek and Rome was in danger of disappearing. This charming book tells us of the few hearty Celtic Christian monks who spent months huddled together copying the precious manuscripts before dispersing to the four corners of Europe (and as the author briefly contends–even to the New World) carrying their precious cargo with them.

Cahill presents a convincing picture of the break-up of the Roman world, and, without so much as naming America, and Bush, and the rest, points out some sad similarities that may bring our modern world tumbling about our ears.

Cahill explores the nature of the Irish as reflected in their art and literature, and in so doing pointed me in the direction of a real treasure: Thomas Kinsella’s translation of the old Irish epic of the Tain, which we will consider at a later date. In addition to the epic, Cahill introuduces us to fierce lines of Dark Eileen O’Connell’s “Lament for Art O’Leary” as well as these charming verses written by an Irish copyist in the margins of a manuscript:

I and Pangur Ban my cat,
‘Tis a like task we are at:
Hunting mice is his delight,
Hunting words I sit all night.

‘Tis a merry thing to see
At our tasks how glad are we,
When at home we sit and find
Entertainment to our mind.

`Gainst the wall he sets his eye,
Full and fierce and sharp and sly;
`Gainst the wall of knowledge I
All my little wisdom try.

So in peace our task we ply,
Pangur Ban my cat and I;
In our arts we find our bliss,
I have mine and he has his.

This book, moreover, is filled with treasures in the form of new takes on old subjects. For instance, Cahill points out that one of the nightmarish Celtic gods (whose hideousness is only surpassed by the Mexican Coatlicue), is in a state of sexual excitement while in the midst of devouring the arm of a human sacrifice. I’d never noticed that before.

Cahill wears his learning lightly. He sends us back to Plato, Augustine, Virgil, and others with a new appreciation, and he allows us to examine the intricate script of the illuminated manuscript books with an eye steeped in the glitter and the darkness of Celtic culture. A fine book to take with you on the train. Cahill is not Gibbon, but perhaps he is just right for our times.

For Samuel Beckett.
Morton Feldman.
Kammerensemble Nue Musik Berlin,
Roland King, conducting.

This piece presents a solid wall of noise–((like a steam-powered garment factory of sound working intricate cycles in a windowless, cement-floored building–(like a Tinguely self-destroying sculpture that does not manage to self-destruct, but instead grinds to a halt when the momentum it builds up is suddenly shunted off to power some other impossible, pataphysical machine beyond the range of our hearing, but which causes the dogs to prick their ears and to howl up and down the block)))–which we cannot pierce. We are swept up in the movements of this sonic process, and it is fascinating, challenging, but it is not pleasant. In fact, this is some of the least restful music I have encountered. Oddly enough, though this piece resembles “In Coptic Light” I found the latter to be of more interest, because it was somehow “softer”. Perhaps it’s the interpretation of this ensemble, but the total effect is one that I have no wish to repeat often.

Intimacies of Sound; Poems by David Jaffin
Shearsman Books. 216 Pages.
Available through Small Press Distribution.

Just returned from a great 5 a.m. bike ride to the central post office in Shin-Urayasu! The heat hasn’t set in yet. Trucks and taxi cabs on the roads, mostly. An old man fishing by himself in the river as I crossed over the bridge. Lots of jungle crows out scouting from the tops of buildings and wee black birds threshing the lawns in the parks–where early rising residents are taking their dogs for their morning constitutional. And the beautiful sound of the summer crickets–suzumushi, the Japanese call them–rising up from the weeds! Usually the sound of traffic drowns them out, but at this hour I hear the one sound that draws me back to my earlier life in Nagasaki and Fukuoka prefectures.

But to the business at hand: David Jaffin has got to be one of the most prolific of the marginal poets (meaning, literally, poets who write poems as commentary in the margins of their books, or on the “margins” of the music that they hear or of the art that they see. “Marginalized” is another good word for Jaffin, who’s lived in Germany for most of his creative life, just as Cid Corman spent a good part of his existence on the frontiers of English in Japan.) In the space of one year Jaffin (as he refers to himself in writing and conversation) has produced three books that I know of, all published in Germany under the aegis of Shearsman Books, U.K.

I haven’t had a chance to read through the whole collection, but will share with you a “handful” as Cid would say:

Mussorgsky/Janacek’

s rough-

hued called-
out music

Veined from
running

stone’s light-
celebrat-

ing.

Some masterpieces in the Kassel museum (5)

a) Asnath (from “Jacob’s blessing” Rembrandt)

almost sub

missively
thoughtful

Ringed in the
circling pen

siveness where
all those je

wels seemed so
subdued

from touch.

b) “Man with a hat” (Hals, 1660)

Rough-

edged hand
s slouched

hat Angled
face between

pose and a
certitude

in-glanced.

c) Italian aristocrat (Titian, 1550)

The dignity

of man’s triumph
over primieval

forces Straight
ened to a

height of self-
satisfying

stance with an
almost cosmic

assurance
Costumed thor

oughly through
in red.

d) Jacob and the blessing (Rembrandt)

the aged

ness of Is
rael’s suffer

ing selection
And the bless

ed youth al
most angeli

cally curled
in to a bright

ness for futur
ing hopes.

c) Elsbeth Tucker (Durer, 1499)

There were

more pattern
s about her

than that
boned-in

Eye-search
ing view could

possibly be
signifying.

Along with poems about culture and culture-heroes and heroines we find delicate responses to nature such as this one:

Rain-drop window

these tiny-

touched-
sounds of

that slight
edged-in

percept-
ing

I musologiz frhe lack of accent marks! This programming doesn’t allow me to use them, so I ask my readers to please “think” them in place!

While we’re at it, I’d like to give a big thumbs-up to Tony Frazer’s Shearsman books and Shearsman Magazine! Always filled with high-quality poetry on the cusp of the cutting edge! More about this on-going venture soon.

Now to crawl back into the futon for a few more winks before the day really begins!