This week's poet: Vikram Seth & The Golden Gate

You may accuse me of cheating a bit in my recommendation of this week's poet--or at least this week's poetic text. Because for those of you who haven't picked up Vikram Seth's The Golden Gate, let me just say: what are you waiting for? Go out to your local bookshop and pick up a copy NOW!



Vikram Seth was born in Calcutta, India. He is truly a Renaissance man, for he began his writing career at Stanford, not out of the English Department but in-between writing a PhD in Economics (I think he's still ABD). While working on his dissertation, he decided to apply for the very prestigious Wallace Stegner writing fellowship, got it, and then took some time out from his PhD work in Economics to write poetry -- and he published a book of verse out of that endeavor, Mappings. Then he became fluent in Chinese, lived a few years in China, and published a travel memoir, From Heaven's Lake, followed by another book of poetry, The Humble Adminstrator's Garden, and then The Golden Gate. He has gone on to publish half-a-dozen other books of fiction and poetry and memoir/biography, and he currently lives in San Francisco (although I think he splits his time between CA and India).

Published in 1986, The Golden Gate is a novel in verse, modeled on Alexander Pushkin's novel in verse, Eugene Onegin.

[NOTE: Pushkin, who is REVERED in Russia (something crazy like 90% of Russians have read Eugene Onegin), is also 1/8 African, which makes him one of the world's great mixed-race writers.]

The novel is set in the early 1980s and follows a cast of young, urban professionals (remember Yuppies?) in the SF Bay area, falling in and out of love, protesting nuclear war, trying to reconcile their queer sexual desire with their Catholicism, and, in general, being 20-something post-graduates.



But what makes this novel truly unique is that it is composed entirely in Onegin stanzas. Let me show you through the opening stanza of the novel:

To make a start more swift than weighty A
Hail Muse. Dear Reader, once upon b
A time, say, circa 1980, A
There lived a man. His name was John. b
Successful in his field though only C
Twenty-six, respected, lonely, C
One evening as he walked across d
Golden Gate Park, the ill-judged toss d
Of a red frisbee almost brained him. E
He thought, “If I died, who’d be sad? f
Who’d weep? Who’d gloat? Who would be glad? f
Would anybody?” As it pained him, E
He turned from this dispiriting theme g
To ruminations less extreme. g

I know that a few of you may think, "UGH! A novel composed entirely of sonnets!" But really, after you start to get into the rhythm of the work, you become used to the formality of the verse, and there is something about the juxtaposition of such contemporary themes with such a traditional verse form that is simply wonderful.

Plus, there's the whimsy! Seth has a fondness for animals, especially cats. There is one named Charlemagne who develops a deep animosity for his owner's boyfriend. And there is an iguana named Arnold Schwarzenegger (and all this before he became the "Governator"). He actually rhymes "piranha" with "iguana," when describing how one of the characters, Ed, goes into a petshop originally intending to buy the flesh-eating fish only to walk out with the green reptile.

But this novel isn't just whimsical--it ruminates on the nature of love, on issues of social justice, on queer love, the duty to family, to God, to ourselves. Anyway, if you want to read something truly original, let me recommend that you try Vikram Seth's The Golden Gate. There is just something truly pleasurable about this book, and I believe it is due, in large part, to the brilliance and skill of his verse.

Hug a poet or, even better, buy a book of poetry

So I missed the boat with Women's History Month. I think I squeaked in an acknowledgment of African American History Month. But by golly, I'm an English professor so I'm going to TRY MY BEST to get you a poem a week (for hopefully four total) during National Poetry Month.

Today's featured poet is Gary Soto (click here for his official website). Although I like Mr. Soto's poetry, it's actually a short autobiographical essay that he wrote, "Like Mexicans," that is my favorite piece of writing by him. It's about how he met and fell in love with his wife, Carolyn, a Japanese American woman, and it's about marrying and, more importantly, loving across the racial/ethnic/cultural divide.

[To find a copy of this essay, may I recommend the excellent collection of California literature, Highway 99: A Literary Journey through Califorina's Great Central Valley -- Soto, along with other fine California writers -- is featured in this collection, which is published by Heyday Books.]

So in honor of National Poetry Month, I bring you "Nelson, My Dog" by Gary Soto--because I am a dog lover (and dog owner) and much of what Soto describes about dogs feels very true to me.

Nelson, My Dog
by Gary Soto

Like the cat he scratches the flea camping in fur.
Unlike the cat he delights in water up to his ears.
He frolics. He catches a crooked stick –
On his back he naps with legs straight up in the air.
Nelson shudders awake. He responds to love
From head to tail. In happiness
His front legs march in place
And his back legs spark when they push off.
On a leash he knows his geography.
For your sake he looks both ways before crossing,
He sniffs at the sight of a poodle trimmed like a hedge,
And he trots the street with you second in command.
In the park, he ponders a squirrel attached to a tree
And he shovels a paper cup on his nose.
He sweeps after himself with his tail,
And there is no hand that doesn't deserve a lick.
Note this now, my friends:
Nelson can account the heritage of heroic dogs:
One, canines lead the blind,
Two, they enter fire to rescue the child and the child's toy,
Three, they swim for the drowning,
Four, they spring at the thief,
Five, they paddle ponds for the ball that got away,
Six, for the elderly they walk side by side to the very end,
Seven, they search for bones but stop when called,
Eight, they bring mud to all parties,
Nine, they poke among the ruins of a burnt house,
Ten, they forgive what you dish out on a plate.

Nelson is a companion, this much we know,
And if he were a movie star, he would do his own stunts –
O, how he would fly, climb the pant legs of a scoundrel
And stand tall rafting on white-water rivers!
He has befriended the kingdom of animals:
He once ran with wolves but admittedly not very far,
He stepped two paces into a cave and peeked at the bear,
He sheltered a kitten,
He righted the turtle pedaling its stumps on its back,
Under the wheeling stars he caravanned with the mule,
He steered sheep over a hill,
He wisely let the skunk pass,
He growled at the long-bearded miser,
He joined ducks quacking with laughter,
Once he leaped at a pheasant but later whined from guilt.

Nelson's black nose is a compass in the wilds.
He knows nature. He has spied spires of summer smoke,
He circled cold campfires,
He howled at a gopher and scratched at the moon,
He doctored his wounds with his tongue,
He has pawed a star of blood left in snow.
He regards the fireplace, the embers like blinking cats,
This too we know about Nelson.
True, he is sometimes tied to parking meters
And sometimes wears the cone of shame from the vet's office.
But again, he is happiness.
He presents his belly for a friendly scratch.
If you call him, he will drop his tennis ball,
Look up, and come running,
This muddy friend for life. When you bring your nose
To his nose for something like a kiss,
You can find yourself in his eyes.

[Taken from Poets.org, where you can sign up for a poem a day to be delivered to your email account.]

Poetry celebration month coming to a close

We are nearing the end of April, which means your chances of hugging a poet are becoming slim, so go out there, find a poet, and hug the stuffing out of him/her!

And buy a book of poetry. Preferably by a living writer, because poets do this out of love and passion, and like all artists I think they deserve some compensation for their effort and art. Of course, memorizing a poem is also nice--and a fine tribute.

One living poet in particular, Mary Karr, has a way with words I find both haunting and dazzling.


Here's a poem from her latest collection Sinners Welcome. It's called

"Easter at Al Qaeda Bodega"

At the gold speckled counter, my pal in white apron--
index finger tapping his Arabic paper,
where the body count dwarfs
the one in my Times--announces,
You're killing my people.

But in Hell's Kitchen, even the Antichrist
ought to have coffee--one cream
and two sugars. Blessings
upon you, he says, and means it.
--Mary Karr

[an appropriate poem for our times, because the body count keeps getting higher and higher--and it's not just U.S. soldiers, it's the people of Afghanistan and Iraq, because they have to actually live their daily lives in a war zone. Karr reminds us of this in such a concise and powerful way.]

"I will live an die a banana man"

Another entry in honor of National Poetry Month. When Robert Pinsky was the National Poet Laureate, he initiated the Favorite Poem Project, where various people around the nation are profiled and they read their favorite poem (President Bill Clinton and First Lady Hillary Rodham Clinton are featured, so you can guess how long ago this project took place).

The profiles of the people and the poems they read are emblematic of a "mixed-race" America. If you go to the website (click here) you can scroll down and see the various poems and the various people who have chosen to read these poems. And when you click on a window, it will give you the story of the person and their reasons for choosing this poem.

Among the ones I hope you will click on is "The Song of the Banana Man" by Evan Jones, a Jamaican poet, and it is read by George Scott, a Jamaican American bakery owner in Hartford, CT. My cousin "I" sent this link to me (thanks "I"). Listening to George Scott read this poem you get a feel for the language of Jamaica and the beauty of poetry. Enjoy!