Poem Poem
(circa 1185) I love the jubilance of springtime When leaves and flowers burgeon forth, And I exult in the mirth of bird songs Resounding through the woods; And I relish seeing the meadows Adorned with tents and pavilions; And great is my happiness When the fields are packed With armored knights and horses. And I thrill at the sight of scouts Forcing men and women to flee with their belongings; And gladness fills me when they are chased By a dense throng of armed men; And my heart soars When I behold mighty castles under siege As their ramparts crumble and collapse With troops massed at the edge of the moat And strong, solid barriers Hemming in the target on all sides. And I am likewise overjoyed When a baron leads the assault, Mounted on his horse, armed and unafraid, Thus giving strength to his men Through his courage and valor. And once the battle has begun Each of them should be prepared To follow him readily, For no man can be a man Until he has delivered and received Blow upon blow. In the thick of combat we will see Maces, swords, shields, and many-colored helmets Split and shattered, And hordes of vassals striking in all directions As the horses of the dead and wounded Wander aimlessly around the field. And once the fighting starts Let every well-born man think only of breaking Heads and arms, for better to be dead Than alive and defeated. I tell you that eating, drinking, and sleeping Give me less pleasure than hearing the shout Of "Charge!" from both sides, and hearing Cries of "Help! Help!," and seeing The great and the ungreat fall together On the grass and in the ditches, and seeing Corpses with the tips of broken, streamered lances Jutting from their sides. Barons, better to pawn Your castles, towns, and cities Than to give up making war. (Translated from the Provençal by Paul Auster)
Feb 18, 2009 / Books & the Arts / Bertran de Born
The Battle Over Birth of a Nation The Battle Over Birth of a Nation
The pro-Ku Klux Klan message of Birth of a Nation inspired thousands of Americans to join the hate group and helped get government censors work.
Feb 17, 2009 / The Editors
D.W. Griffith, Remembered D.W. Griffith, Remembered
The death of pioneer filmmaker D.W. Griffith in 1948 prompted this appreciation from The Nation's film critic James Agee.
Feb 17, 2009 / James Agee
The Leavetaking The Leavetaking
What legacy did Harold Pinter leave behind?
Feb 17, 2009 / Books & the Arts / Richard Byrne
Slide Show: The Nation’s Oscars Slide Show: The Nation’s Oscars
Images from the Oscar-winners of the past and reviews from Nation critics who loved/hated them.
Feb 17, 2009 / Photo Essay / The Nation
Secret GOP Strategy Session Revealed Secret GOP Strategy Session Revealed
The Republicans on Capitol Hill celebrate their 'victory' in the stimulus fight and plot their next scheme: taking down the Obama girls.
Feb 16, 2009 / Saturday Night Live
The Nation Critic’s Picks: Gommorah and The Class The Nation Critic’s Picks: Gommorah and The Class
The Nation's film critic Stuart Klawans weighs in on two of the most acclaimed foreign films of 2008.
Feb 12, 2009 / Books & the Arts / Brett Story
Three Poems Three Poems
These three poems from Blackbird and Wolf are published with permission of Farrar, Straus and Giroux. Homosexuality First I saw the round bill, like a bud; then the sooty crested head, with avernal eyes flickering, distressed, then the peculiar long neck wrapping and unwrapping itself, like pity or love, when I removed the stovepipe cover of the bedroom chimney to free what was there and a duck crashed into the room (I am here in this fallen state), hitting her face, bending her throat back (my love, my inborn turbid wanting, at large all night), backing away, gnawing at her own wing linings (the poison of my life, the beast, the wolf), leaping out the window, which I held open (now clear, sane, serene), before climbing back naked into bed with you. Poppies Waking from comalike sleep, I saw the poppies, with their limp necks and unregimented beauty. Pause, I thought, say something true: It was night, I wanted to kiss your lips, which remained supple, but all the water in them had been replaced with embalming compound. So I was angry. I loved the poppies, with their wide-open faces, how they carried themselves, beckoning to me instead of pushing away. The way in and the way out are the same, essentially: emotions disrupting thought, proximity to God, the pain of separation. I loved the poppies, with their effortless existence, like grief and fate, but tempered and formalized. Your hair was black and curly; I combed it. Beach Walk I found a baby shark on the beach. Seagulls had eaten his eyes. His throat was bleeding. Lying on shell and sand, he looked smaller than he was. The ocean had scraped his insides clean. When I poked his stomach, darkness rose up in him, like black water. Later, I saw a boy, aroused and elated, beckoning from a dune. Like me, he was alone. Something tumbled between us-- not quite emotion. I could see the pink interior flesh of his eyes. "I got lost. Where am I?" he asked, like a debt owed to death. I was pressing my face to its spear-hafts. We fall, we fell, we are falling. Nothing mitigates it. The dark embryo bares its teeth and we move on.
Feb 12, 2009 / Books & the Arts / Henri Cole
Henri Cole: The Art of Violent Concision Henri Cole: The Art of Violent Concision
Henri Cole's Blackbird and Wolf contains some of the most truthful poems in modern American poetry. He is this year's winner of the Lenore Marshall Poetry Prize.
Feb 12, 2009 / Books & the Arts / John Koethe
The Human Metaphor: Marlene Dumas and Barkley Hendricks The Human Metaphor: Marlene Dumas and Barkley Hendricks
The paintings of Marlene Dumas, at the Museum of Modern Art, and Barkley Hendricks, at the Studio Museum of Harlem.
Feb 11, 2009 / Books & the Arts / Barry Schwabsky