A Poem by George Bradley

Finding yourself in the olive oil line
   is not like becoming a poet:
mothers don’t burst into tears at the news,
   and fathers don’t hide behind newsprint,
muttering something about needing now
   to plan for a triple retirement.
Quite the contrary, family desires
   are usually how people get started
(well, of course, but I mean in the trade):
   your uncle, let’s say, is a prominent
mafia boss who cornered the oil
   imported from Campobasso,
but who neglected to get his degree
   and so buys your way into Harvard,
where it will be your privilege to see
   the best minds of a generation
sitting in traffic on Memorial Drive,
   befriending the exiled Caribbean
dictators who frequent the Kennedy School
   of Government, and waiting in endless
queues for fancy ice cream in the snow,
    You’re there to learn accounting,
how to amortize armor in limousines,
   but one day crossing Plympton,
pausing by chance, you glance in the glass
   of what is an overstuffed closet
known as the Grolier Book Shop and find
   there’s no accounting (or even
shame) where poetry’s taste is concerned,
   and seduced by such revelation
you yield body and soul to the urge
   to attract the notice of critics,
aching to pass for a poet of parts.
   You’ve purchased the clothing-as-attitude
needed and wangled permission to take
   the celebrity poet seminar,
when—tipped off by the brutes he assigned
   to cover your backside in Cambridge—
suddenly Uncle gets wind of what’s up,
   and next thing you know you’re shoveling
chickenshit under an olive tree, sent
   for your sins and further instruction
back to the fields of your ancestral home
   in the hardscrabble hills of Trinacria,
there to outgrow poetic conceits
   by gleaning proverbial wisdom
dropped from the mouth of a toothless paesan
   (un uomo, i calzoni di nuovo
su, non sta in pensiero piu)
   and so to learn something useful,
starting in oil from the terrain up.
   That’s one way, a perfectly good way,
not that it’s mine, to find yourself
   in the business. And maybe years later,
after you know all that one can
   about guano, why a sack of pollina
isn’t so cheap as it seems (it’s rich
   in nitrogen but dissolves so slowly
you’ll be forced to use twice as much
   as you would with what are apparently
more expensive artificial manures);
   long after, perhaps, when smuggling
in second-rate product from Spain
   to pass off as yours no longer
offers mystery, and the chemistry used
   in lowering acidity and altering
color has been fully absorbed and applied;
   when the right combination of bribery,
threat, and persistence (which is what it takes
|   to pacify pruners and pickers,
coddle bureaucrats in D.C. and Rome,
   and intimidate the Greek immigrant
owners of pizzerias from Miami to Nome)
   comes naturally to you as breathing;
decades later, when you’re adept
   at extracting a profit from the scenery,
coaxing it off of contorted trees
   and persuading it into a bottle,
out of a warehouse, and onto a shelf;
    when deceptive labelling’s your art form;
when you could write the definitive book
   on fraudulent government subsidies;
when the remaining hurdle you face
|  is finding compliant accountants;
possibly then you will come back to verse,
   your object of first affectation,
brought there by boredom and a newspaper ad.
   One evening at home in Jersey,
scanning the Times alongside a wife
   inspiring no poetry, you notice
notices for venues of verse in New York,
   among them a cultured gymnasium
sporting the name “The 92nd St. Y”
   and touting a suitably strenuous
schedule of readings, and by gum you go
   The choice was either television
personalities celebrating a poet’s demise
   or a highly professional expatriate
said to be reading in Polish, and you opt
   for English, and at long last afterwards,
seriously snarled on the G. W. Bridge
   (by mistake you took the upper
level and forgot to keep to the left),
   you wonder about personalities,
why they insist in affording a poem
   the histrionics of soap opera.
Exiting the mess, you’re left with mixed
   emotions (and right there is poetry’s
marketing problem), at once confused
   and guilty, because you no longer
like what you thought you loved, because
   the diary entries of others
seem by nature best kept to themselves,
   and as you arrive back in Ridgewood,
you have arrived at contentment, too,
   relieved that you found a vocation
where the restraints to be evaded are clear,
   where mature perspective rarely
asks you to reassess your ideals,
   and where you need never apologize,
caught by a mirror half-way through life,
   to the person you were at age twenty. . . .
That, then, is a typical way into oil,
   although not mine, as I mentioned.
My way, you become a poet first,
   and who could begin to tell you
how such a natural disaster takes place?
   And what makes you think for an instant  
mere biography completes the tale?
   Besides, it’s hopeless unraveling
all of the strands of that Bildungsroman,
   that Buddenbrooks thick with collapsing
middle-class circumstance (Thomas Mann
   was right about writing, how it
flourishes in the mulch of bourgeois decay,
   and while the training in hypocrisy
helps—the instinctive grasp of good form
   as something arbitrary by nature—
what’s of greater value is the sense
   of nostalgia instilled by declining
fortune, since the author’s sine qua non
   is memory amplified by wishful
thinking and ready access to books),
   unthreaded labyrinth, backlashed
reel, that steel-belted Gordian knot,
   the tangle of factors hovering
over the page and in each fingertip
   as the oddest kid in the high school
tiptoes down art’s primrose path;
   retracing those steps is beyond us,
so we won’t bother, aware that the past
   arrives by chance and anyway
poets aren’t born, or even made,
   they’re stung. It happens you’re wading
up to your short hairs in the tropical swamp
   of adolescence, feeling the hormones
frisk, when—ZAP!—you’re bit by the bug,
   as fateful to you as Darwin’s
contact with the germ of Chagas’ disease,
   and you find yourself at that juncture
sentenced for life to evolving dreams,
   a willing host to consuming
fevers the unstung don’t know exist,
   become a teen-age ancient
mariner of incomprehensible concern
   and disproportionate project,|
all of which is to say that the case
   of the freshman possessed in the bookstore
isn’t unusual and might even have worked,
   if only the kid had told Uncle,
cancel the ticket and flat-out forget
   that trip to Palermo, spurning
sight unseen that arena of peaks,
   their impassive audience, wanting
nothing to do with the stingy earth
   behind them, where the olives
straggle across inaccessible slopes
   and the terrible sun of summer
turns the field grass to tinder set
   for the immolation of prospect:
all it takes is lightning to strike,
   and sheets of flame can envelop
whole hectares of ancient estate,
   the oily smoke ascending
hour after hour, as wells are low
   in August and no hydrant’s handy.
Unmown groves that catch and burn
   are a warning to all, eyesores
visible far and wide, charred
   and smoldering ruins, a wasteland
such as a would-be poet must make
   of competing deliriums, seeing
sooner or later, no matter how fierce
   or loving the family, you have to
pole-axe their hearts, utterly refuse
   to become the adult they imagined,
need to replace their hope with your own,
   and, turning your back on attachments,
lie the young Goethe skating away
   from Mutti towards his selbstsüchtig 
future, turn into a creature unfit
   for their intentions as for every
other employment, and assuming that you
   have somehow contracted the fever,
too, now what are you going to do?
   You’re going to answer to “freelance,”
that’s what, working a succession of jobs
   which defy all résumé building:
guarding galleries, delivering food,
   constructing, telemarketing,
standing and also serving (there’s
   a waiter in every poet),
sitting babies and houses and pets,
   assisting, flattering, groveling,
actively drifting from this dead end
   to the next, and each day progressing
nowhere, and provided you manage to avoid
   an “entry position” as an escort,
don’t complain, because that’s the point,   
the best way to wind up a poet
is to resist being anything else,
   which sounds easy but isn’t,
no, it’s hard to hold out, with hell
   to pay and with opportunity
threatening, but give it a little time,
   and the slough of available drudgery
drains, and you’re either a poet or a bum,
   and by then you’ll make such distinctions.
Anything you happen to make of yourself
   in the process is optional, though getting
passably versed in verse couldn’t hurt:
   you’ll find that to spit out a single
poem will entail chewing a lot
   of poems to pieces, a mouthful
yours to bite off, since no one receives
   a foundation breakfast in poetry
these days, when going to graduate school
   is madness and your average professor
sells out of literature to set up in the chic
   arrondissement of critical
theory and its anfractuous, siccative prose.
   Abandoned by high educators,
apt to read up a bit on their own,
   your poets are autodidacts,
always and everywhere and now more
   than ever, their minds irregular
landscapes of panoramic peak
   and appalling abyss, accidents
waiting to happen upon the right word,
   and I have met poets entirely
ignorant of, oh, Foucault who know
   a surprising amount regarding
Byzantine history, or Renaissance art,
   or astronomy, or Mediterranean
agriculture, about olive trees, say,
   the varieties found in an orderly
grove, each with its role, like vines
   in Bordeaux: the Morolino,
easy to work and giving good oil,
   but never the best; the Leccino,
which is resistant to frost but bland
   in flavor; the Pendolino,
named for a drooping habit that weeps
   at the wretched stuff it renders,
planted as a matter of course nonetheless
   for the purpose of cross-pollination,
scattered about amid better trees
   instead of the outmoded Morchiaio,
which was used in the old days but throws
   an especially heavy sediment;
finally, there’s the Frantoio, king
   of the slope, producing an exquisite
oil that’s the basis of every fine blend,
   yet a torment to grow, maddening
first on account of its fruit, which matures
   at intervals and so must be harvested
several times at considerable cost,
   and second because it is delicate,
dropping its blossoms at the drop of a hint
   if springtime weather turns chilly,
so that come autumn there’s nothing to pick,
   and moreover in danger of freezing
down to the ground in winter, an event
   that decimates hillsides in Italy
every few decades, when truncated boles
   come up from the roots like clustered
spindles, shrubbery too young to yield
   a single olive with foliage
areas barely adequate to support
   the extensive subterranean
network that fed the departed limbs.
   Reducing a coppice to a coherent
tree is tricky and can’t be rushed,
   and it might take all of twenty
years before one hard frost is repaired,
   the way that winnowing saplings
sprung from poetry’s taproot down
   to a few careers of significance
waits on the pruning shears of time,
   the aspirant authors dwindling
gradually, first those who can’t stand
   rejection, lacking the rhinoceros
hide required to send off new poems
   to The New Yorker, there to settle
under a radiator or behind a desk
   till maintenance comes to the editors’
rescue by sweeping them out with the trash;
   and then those acceptance discourages
(meeting success as a poet is like
   encountering failure at anything
else), those daunted by risible sales,
   a skull-and-crossbones on royalty
statements; and lastly those whom life
   depresses past all prescription,
Zoloft and Paxil and Prozac, and while
   America’s an up-to-the-eyebrows
drugged culture, and artists have a right
   to be just as crazy as anybody,
still it seems poems are rarely improved
   by such measures, quite the contrary,
Prozac more often shepherding flocks
   of lines best called Prozaic,
which is why in treating oneself
   for the manic-depressive symptoms
common to poets (to people), I use
   that old-time religion, the mortal
mixture of aspirin, alcohol, and caffeine.
   A deft touch with stimulants has given
wings to many a career, but while
    you’re waiting to see if you have it,
don’t discount the element of luck,
   and nothing’s luckier than randomly
reading and thereby becoming enslaved
   to a stylishly accomplished poet,
preferably reassuringly dead.
   The object of your veneration
can’t be predicted and appears to choose you,
   but once the selection has happened
you will be able to ape to your poems’
   content (copying the eponymous
primate skill and the best way to learn),
   and as long as your efforts resemble
others, it means they’ve no self to be like,
   so you mustn’t attempt evasive
action, but rather plow straight ahead,
   producing your votive images
lovingly, lavishly, loyally, until
   at last you are disenchanted,
freed mysteriously as once enthralled,
   released yet defined by the experience,
taking identity, strangest gain,
   away, and that reminds me,
not the least important thing
   you’ll learn by imitation is never
be too proud or too stupid to steal,
   for that’s what the long shelf is there for,
all those metaphors leaked from the pens
   of poets who thought they were seeking
fame, or maybe the meaning of life,
   but instead were merely reserving
room in the seedy motel of your mind,
   and to quote the apposite idiom,
“same difference.” All right, you’ve dreamt
   the dream with no bottom and awakened
into the glare of its broken spell,
   and how to dispose of such acolyte
ardor? At a loss for mastery, you
   have reached a developmental
moment of risk, faced with a choice,
   a quandary, a puzzle like planting
olives, given that seedlings you strive
   to establish in spring must weather
summer’s drought to reach the rain,
   while those held back till autumn
have to survive the winter cold
   before their roots have burrowed
deep enough to be safe, and because
   the wrong decision can wither
promise, consider the lay of the land
   when someone proposes to nurture
talent, ponder the brochure you are sure
   to receive, for, Eager Author,
you’ll be the target of junk in the mail
   promoting a poetry conference
set in an obligingly picturesque state
   and featuring a pool, dormitory
dining, a library/video lounge,
   and instruction by Real Writers.
Now, if the writers are rarities who impart
   technique or are connected in publishing,
maybe it’s worth the money, since skills
   exist to be learned and acquaintance
raises no obstacle to placing a book;
   more likely, though, you’ll meet with
fettered rhyme and frittered time,
   a hellish circle of abandoned
hopefuls who teach only to avoid
   starvation; and if so, be generous,
dropping a coin in the cup, and get out
   and instead swim off to the biggest
fishpond available, a metropolis where
   you’ll camp in that part of the city
currently settled by artists and stand
   in the corners of parties, pretending
not to be feeling too ill at ease,
   until eventually you realize
you are no dumber than everyone else,
   and when the ones standing near you
come to the same conclusion, why that’s
   a Movement, a New Generation,
bingo, this is it, you’ve arrived,
   your agent is calling to remind you
books you blurb may be your own,
   to mention that fifteen percent of
nothing is nothing, is prose such a crime,
   and say by the way your persona
needs a major makeover, ciao.
   Your agent knows the business,
sadly, so now you’ll have to decide:
   to self-promote or not bother,
it’s a question, if effort and time
   devoted to your reputation
might not better be spent on your poems,
   or if careerism is a separate
craft, the ignoring of which is naïve.
   The quantity of energy writers
waste in their burning rage to emit
   the mandorla of success is a caution;
still, if you feel you must join them, you can.
   To make a splash is simple:
just be impossible. From day one
   of kindergarten to the final
scene on an opera stage, if possessed
   of the tiniest bit of ability,
playing the prima donna is the way
   to get that ability noticed
(lift a leaf from an olive, that asks
   for no end of attention, insisting
bags of fertilizer be hauled up hills
   and requiring semiannual
pruning for optimum yield, once
   in winter to remove damaged
wood and improve overall shape,
   and again in summer to eliminate
excess growth, the suckers that sprout
   at the base of each trunk and siphon
nutrients off, if left untrimmed,
   from fruit in the process of ripening):
take my advice and act like a jerk,
   and your clothes will be mentioned in Vanity
Fair, your poems featured in Vogue,
   you’ll be known as an enfant terrible
when not plain called a pain in the ass,
   and then one day you’ll stumble
on an anthology fifty years old
   and run your eyes over the echoless
names in the table of contents to see
   that while publicity makes every
difference in who gets published today,
   it makes none at all to the remnant
destined to be read tomorrow, and from
   that weedy Gethsemane of versifiers
runs the Via Dolorosa to your art
   and its improvement, though having
disavowed instruction, ditched
   the poetry conference, rejected
seminars and graduate school, you
   are left to your own devices,
cast away on the rocky coast
   of inner resource, and frankly
but for the ploy of reading this poem,
   your posterity’s dead on arrival. . . .
Call it your luck, then, and not just
   my own, that by an unprecedented
piece of prosody, the vestigial urge
   to verse, by the miracle of modern
metrics, I’m in the giving vein
   and the mood to chat, the meter’s
running by the ride’s on me, so find
   a moment’s peace and a private
place and feel absolutely free
   to examine this offer at leisure,
weigh each word, consider with care,
   and make my work your workshop.
Now then, five conditions must meet
   and be met in all poems, including
yours: First, it’s poetry that shows
   an abandoned love of language,
pleasuring itself with inebriate speech,
   and if you wish to incorporate
words such as propaedeutic, yark,
   or cacozeal merely to gloppen
readers, why put them in, for verse
   is nothing if not autotelic;
Second, a poem in progress takes pains
   concerning its each enjambment,
otherwise it’s no more than prose,
   for lines must be coherent
entities even as stanzas are
   and, as any vessel, shapely;
Third, true poetry must betray
   a metaphysical ambition,
since the art is a religion, and since
   a question chaperoned by answers
doesn’t require a second thought,
   much less a second reading;
Fourth, in pursuing its own end,
   a poem must be ambiguous,
which is not the same thing as confused;
   and Fifth, no matter how voluble,
vigorous, or vasty the verse may be,
   a poem must have a conclusion,
not an accident, and enough said.
   And that should get you started,
though as the conditions outlined above
   are necessary, not sufficient,
often your start will be startlingly bad,
   yet do not despair, but remember
Virgil, no less, who is said to have said
   his poems began as inchoate
blobs that had to be licked into shape
   as bear cubs are formed by their mothers,
which illustration, if not the new
   zoology, remains a metaphor
grizzly with unaging intellect when
   it comes to the role of revision,
molder of brightly beslobbered beasts
   and patron saint of poets,
call him San Remedio, invoked
   in the hour of need to polish
erstwhile unreadable verses or put
   them out of their ill-made misery,
mercifully striking what cannot be saved,
   and OK, there you have it,
that’s as helpful as I get, and as such
   will have to do and conceivably
might, for wise to the second glance
   that constitutes art’s unsettling
gaze, by now you must be prepared—
   ephebe seduced and abandoned,
bit by ambition and stubborn enough
   to persist in ancestral folly—
ready at last for the olive oil trade.
   To tell the truth, you’re probably
ready for anything now, who
   have profited little by employment,
labored to acquire no expertise
   beyond an arcane avocation;
lost to the world of sensible work,
   you’ll find yourself in pipe dreams
puffed by others, at continual risk
   because you appear to be idle,
staring out windows for much of the day
   with a blank, if not empty, expression,
letting the ideas arrive, an act
   which drives your average relative
batty and leads in-laws to despond
   and so suggest a business
venture involving the FDA,
   for God’s sake, and multinational
paperwork, and, Reader, I told them yes,
   and oh, about this idleness
issue—a charge so damning and vague,
   like emotional abuse or latent
racism, that poets will tender claims
   for art’s industry and banausic
import in hope they not be condemned
   as superfluous and inherently worthless
drones rather than worker bees,
   those fundamentally American
moral insects—I’ve heard about
   enough, I don’t wish to discuss it,
period, but instead hereby propose
   to do so much to alleviate
human misery in the remaining lines
   of this poem that poets forever
after will be unconditionally absolved
   of a thing so shopworn as utility.
Ready? For canker sores (don’t laugh,
   I’m serious; look, living
isn’t that different from writing: you solve
   the small problems, since big ones
have to resolve themselves), ignore
   the folk remedy of baking
soda, which saliva soon washes away,
   the pH of the mucous membrane
left unchanged, but rather obtain
   a prescription for silver nitrate,
cauterize each little festering wound,
   and rinse with a good disinfectant.
Your tormented mouth will heal
   by morning, and your temporarily
hobbled speech flow freely again.
   For dandruff, don’t listen to hairdressers
pushing pricey medicated shampoos.
   The problem in almost all cases
isn’t disease but a dry scalp,
   and too much soap is directly
counterproductive. What you want
   to do is remove the squamous
scurf by massaging with some sort of grit
   (the baking soda you purchased
earlier but didn’t use is just
   the thing), and every so often
wash and rinse with a product designed
   to maintain follicle moisture.
Lastly, for piles, you’d better forget
   pomades and pads, which rectify
nothing, and instead send out for ice
   (alas, not to mix cocktails:
alcohol only thins the blood
   and further inflates the swollen
blebs, even as aspirin does)
   to attack the problem directly,
sitting in ice water and holding cubes
   against the offending area.
This will require concentration, but life
   asks courage of us at unlikely
moments, and there is little to gain
   in any pursuit that doesn’t
come with its share of discomfort; take
   the gathering of olives, for instance,
which is the last harvest of the year,
   occurring in early November,
after the wind has shifted to the north
   and winter rains begin falling;
nearly frozen, the olives are cold
   as marble chips, the bearing
branches studded with rough twigs,
   and so the pickers must bandage
fingers and wield forceps to strip
   the fruit, collected by preference
slightly shy of ripe, from limbs
   inclined above the stony
slope but disinclined to yield.
   The men and women bringing
in such crops are indigenous as the trees,
   and of course one’s called Maria,
dressed in boots and skirt and scarf;
   today—imagine!—is Maria’s
final day among these hills
   in which she’s spent her seventy
years, for after the harvest she plans
   to live with relatives in the city;
pausing for coffee and a chunk of bread,
   she regards the valley with oval
eyes as lovely, dark and deep
   as olives, and the long perspective
spread before her, which to her mind
   has never seemed so beautiful,
surely will never look the same
   without her, will be missing
something of its sweetness, although
   the haze remain to soften
outlines of all particulars and the hills
   continue their blue recession,
first the ridge with the olive press,
   then farther off the little
town where Maria’s marito was born,
   then places she has heard of,
never having been, and then
   the shimmering lines she cannot
name as they dissolve into the sky,
   so lovely that just observing
them is a satisfaction rich
   as the luscious, electric liquid
which is soon to be expressed
   from pomace spread on circular
mats of straw, the pallets stacked
   and squeezed for twenty minutes,
minimum, while unction oozes forth,
   a raw result inducing
tears and green as antifreeze
   at first, but transmuted over
time to achieve its gold-leaf glow,
   composing both the sufficient
means and object of a sort of life—
   of Maria’s—the stuff she rations
out upon her daily bread
   (her eyes squinting, her fingers
blistered and aching, after all
   these callused years), the pungent
elegance now on her tongue’s tip,
   a nourishment, a custom, an accent,
cultivated residue of time and place,
   this complex and savoring essential.

[from Some Assembly Required, © George Bradley]