{"id":6438,"date":"2009-12-25T05:22:35","date_gmt":"2009-12-25T09:22:35","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/fryeblog.blog.lib.mcmaster.ca\/?page_id=6438"},"modified":"2009-12-25T05:22:35","modified_gmt":"2009-12-25T09:22:35","slug":"poems-about-frye","status":"publish","type":"page","link":"https:\/\/macblog.mcmaster.ca\/fryeblog\/library\/poems-about-frye\/","title":{"rendered":"Selected Poems About Frye"},"content":{"rendered":"
\n

Compiled by Robert D. Denham<\/p>\n<\/div>\n

\n
\n

James Merrill<\/p>\n

From the Prologue to The Changing Light at Sandover<\/em><\/p>\n

Saw my way
To a plot, or as much of one as still allowed
For surprise and pleasure in its working-out.
Knew my setting; and had, from the start, a theme
Whose steady light shone back, it seemed, from every
Least detail exposed to it. I came
To see it as an old, exalted one:
The incarnation and withdrawal of
A god. That last phrase is Northrop Frye’s.<\/p>\n

[New York: Atheneum, 1984. 3]<\/p>\n<\/div>\n

\n

R.G. Everson<\/p>\n

“Report for Northrop Frye”<\/p>\n

Opening with dynamite blast,
We grope in underground workings
To tunnel Labrador granite.
I find no fossil of igneous rock,
No curious paintings on broken walls,
No lock of hair or mythical token.
Nothing ever alive precedes man here.
If “Poetry can only be made out of other poems”
\u2014In new space, to what may I refer?
We bring our own light to a dark place.
Crowbar, sledge hammer, pick
Pound Labrador granite.
We male sounds from Arctic silence.
Life is here and now\u2014we bring it.
We bring men’s laughter and good sense.<\/p>\n

[Delta<\/em> (Montreal) January 1959: 28]<\/p>\n<\/div>\n

\n

Ivor Tossell<\/p>\n

“Northrop Frye”<\/p>\n

hey northrop frye,
you’re such a funny little guy
with that shock of grey hair on your head
oh, yes it’s true
they’ll name buildings after you
but i don’t understand a thing you said<\/p>\n

so it goes in the halls of the literate dead
where you stand beside giants of marble and dread
that your tubby-tub frame should look silly beside them
oh come back northrop frye ’cause we miss you<\/p>\n

research revealed a code behind the sword and shield
oh the flame, the lover and the crucifix
and longing to be oh that master of taxonomy
i smile and pass your painting everyday<\/p>\n

are you looking for visible means of support?
have you eaten your fill and looked on to the port?
is there nobody left in the ivory diner?<\/p>\n

come back northrop frye
’cause we miss you
come back northrop frye
’cause we miss you<\/p>\n

hey northrop frye
what immortal hand or eye
could make your gentle spirit turn away?
thy kingdom come
since the fall of nineteen ninety-one
the papers said it wouldn’t do to stay<\/p>\n

and do you stop on your cloud when we mention your name?
do you gaze on your bust and discuss with angels
the relative merits of songs about strangers?
oh come back northrop frye<\/p>\n

and so very far from the halls of the literate dead
there are children who wonder each night before bed
is it true, is it true all the legend and rumour?<\/p>\n

oh come back northrop frye
’cause we miss you
come back northrop frye
’cause we miss you<\/p>\n

[from website of Yaacov Iland at http:\/\/theorem.ca\/~yaacov\/lyrics.php?key=song_title&ID=14<\/a>]<\/p>\n<\/div>\n

\n

J. K. Halligan<\/p>\n

“Northrop Frye”<\/p>\n

Late one morning in the evening of his life,
Northrop Frye was waiting for the traffic to stop;
Waiting for the traffic and a gust of wind
To carry him over the road to the tulip beds,
Freshly dug beds of fluttering yellow tulips
Prostrate before the building that bore his name.<\/p>\n

[The Belfast of the North and Other Poems<\/em>. Belfast,
Ireland: Lapwing, 2005. 43]<\/p>\n<\/div>\n

\n

Jay Macpherson<\/p>\n

“The Anagogic Man”<\/p>\n

Noah walks with head bent down;
For between his nape and crown
He carries, balancing with care,
A golden bubble round and rare.
Its gently shimmering sides surround
All us and our worlds, and bound
Art and life, and wit and sense,
Innocence and experience.
Forbear to startle him, lest some
Poor soul to its destruction come,
Slipped out of mind and past recall
As if it never was at all.
O you that pass, if still he seems
One absent-minded or in dreams,
Consider that your senses keep
A death far deeper than his sleep.
Angel, declare: what sways when Noah nods?
The sun, the stars, the figures of the gods.<\/p>\n

[from Poems Twice Told: The Boatman & Welcoming Disaster<\/em>. Toronto: Oxford University Press, 1981. 42.]<\/p>\n<\/div>\n

\n

Jay Macpherson<\/p>\n

From “Notes and Acknowledgements” to<\/em> Welcoming Disaster: Poems 1970\u20134.<\/em><\/p>\n

This, though now in Oxford’s book,<\/p>\n

First came forth on private hook<\/p>\n

Friends assisted, not a few\u2014
Bear up, Muse, we’ll list just two<\/p>\n

In a thanks-again review
(Pausing, though, to not pass over
Picture sourcebooks pub. by Dover):
Best of readers, Northrop Frye
Cast a sure arranging eye:
David Blostein, craftsman fine,
Caught, with steadier hand than mine,
Ted, glum chum, in subtle line.<\/p>\n

Major debts thus once more noted,
Muse, let’s jump: our boat’s refloated.<\/p>\n

[From Poems Twice Told<\/em>, 96]<\/p>\n

[The above appeared as follows in the original edition]<\/p>\n

Oxford let me do this book,
Kindly, on my private hook:
Hine sub regno, Poetry
Printed, some time since, Part Three:
Friends assisted, not a few\u2014
Bear up, Muse, we’ll list just two
(Pausing, though, to not pass over
Picture sourcebooks pub. by Dover):
Best of readers, Northrop Frye<\/p>\n

Cast a sure arranging eye:
David Blostein helped design,
Caught, with finer hand than mine,
Ted, glum chum, in subtle line.<\/p>\n

Major debts thus briefly noted,
Muse, let’s jump: our vessel’s floated.<\/p>\n

[Toronto: Saanes Publications, 1974.]<\/p>\n<\/div>\n

\n

Anonymous<\/p>\n

“Reflections on Spending Three Straight
Hours Reading Anatomy of Criticism<\/em>“<\/p>\n

Northrop Frye
Whatta guy
Reads more books than you or I
Treats them with an equal eye
Archetypes are apple pie
Will she cry? Will he die?
Northrop never wonders why
Shakespeare cannot make him shy
Shylock’s just like Captain Bligh
Value judgments are a lie
Find the patterns that apply
Squeeze out Hamlet, let it dry
Presto! Catcher in the Rye<\/em>.”<\/p>\n

[Toronto<\/em> October. 1986: 8. A poem that circulated among Victoria
College students.]<\/p>\n<\/div>\n

\n

John Updike<\/p>\n

“Big Bard”<\/p>\n

O what a lark it must have been to be
Shakespeare\u2014to face no copyediting,
to never blot a line, to spell a word
the way you wished, or wisht, just anyhow,
without a spinsterish consistency,
so future editors could spend a year
and quarts of ink deciphering what you
or swinish printers botched in a second’s lapse;
to be a happy hack, and take the plots
that Burbage thought would set him nicely off,
and make them rippling spills of golden spieling,
with buffoon bits worked in for Kempe and Armin;
to rip off homosexual sonnets, yet spend
a Stratford weekend now and then with Anne;
to be adored by crown and groundlings both;
to be profound, immortal, smooth, and quick;
to be (to quote Ben Jonson) “honest,” with
“an open, and free nature” plus “brave notions,
and gentle expressions” on top of “an
excellent Phantsie” and “that facility,
that sometime . . . should be stop’d”; to be the pet
of Harold Bloom and Northrop Frye; to sell
like mad in paperback, and outlive Marlowe,
and die scarce able to scratch your name\u2014pure lark!<\/p>\n

[American Scholar<\/em> 70, no. 4 (2001): 40.]<\/p>\n<\/div>\n

\n

Florentin Smarandache<\/p>\n

“The Philosophy of Psychology”<\/p>\n

The room in which I sleep has the shape of dreams.
Even Northrop Frye cannot bring order
from my goods.
I know only the inside of life.
What immense philosophy is this psychology?
When I read Sigmund Freud, I feel
a throwing out. The man turns your soul
upside down,
Gets into you and never gets out again.
O, man, do not stay alone on irelands!
O, men, do not stay alone on their own.
From the hotel, opening to the sea,
I see little:
caves of myself, corpses of me
caves of myself, corpses of me
I am working in a mine of myself.
[from http:\/\/www.agonia.net\/index.php\/poetry\/63679\/]<\/p>\n<\/div>\n

\n

Irving Layton<\/p>\n

“The Excessively Quiet Groves”<\/p>\n

I said: Mr Bucthevo Phrye
Make no mistake,
I’m the reincarnation
Of William Blake
But alas: Mr Butchevo Phrye
Was born to pry
Among old bones
And cemetery stones.<\/p>\n

[Cerberus: Poems by Louis Dudek, Irving Layton, and Raymond Souster<\/em> Toronto: Contact Press, 1952. 55]<\/p>\n<\/div>\n

\n

Roger Angell<\/p>\n

from “Greetings, Friends”<\/p>\n

. . . Come on, everyone and Northrop Frye,
Sing \u2018Angels We Have Heard on High’
For Famous Amos, Richard Leakey,
The Andersons\u2014Cat, Joh, and Keke\u2014
Dennis Conner and the Freedom’s Crew,
Greenpeach, and Roche and Dinkeloo! . . .<\/p>\n

[New Yorker<\/em> 29 December 1980: 35]<\/p>\n<\/div>\n

\n

Richard Outram<\/p>\n

“In Memory of Northrop Frye”<\/p>\n

Perhaps back to the hinterlands, to the clear cold springs
that reflect everything but his image, from which rivers rise.
Perhaps to the slopes of mountains, to which he could say
with complete assurance: “Remove hence to yonder place . . .”
Perhaps to the swept meadows of perfect minuscule flowers
and thousand year-old shrubs. Not to the barren peaks.<\/p>\n

He was known along the coast where, as he would have insisted,
he was only “. . . finding a smoother pebble or a prettier shell”;
and at the deltas of tawny rivers where dugouts are clustered
he could be found in familiar discourse with the natives,
who trusted him. He would not be revered. And spent long hours
scrutinizing the great ocean all undiscovered before him.<\/p>\n

When he departed, he left behind him elaborate maps of Terra
Incognita<\/em>; the rudiments of a grammar; a code broken open;
a Sailing Directions<\/em> for mariners that, if many will perish
in the destructive element immersed, some lives may be saved.
These survive him, his graceful anatomies. He was much loved.<\/p>\n

We could mourn him. But that would be boasting.<\/p>\n

[Globe and Mail<\/em> 16 February 1991, and Northrop Frye Newsletter<\/em>
3, no. 1 (Spring 1991): 36]<\/p>\n<\/div>\n

\n

Ron Schoeffel<\/p>\n

“Poem on the Occasion of the Launch of Two Collected Works Volumes, Plus Jean O’Grady’s Book on Margaret Addison and Nella Cotrupi’s on Frye”<\/p>\n

Wonderful People are filling the sky
With the Collected Works of Northrop Frye.
Under the aegis of Alvin and Jean
The books arrive in a great long skein.
Late Notebooks, Education, Literature, Religion\u2014
For every taste we’ve got a smidgeon.
From Bob and Goldie, and Nella Cotrupi,
The result’s always lively and never droopy.
Practical thanks to Roseann we express,
And to George, Bill, and Anne at U of T Press
So please raise your glasses to the man they call Norrie:
There are twenty-five more volumes to the end of this story.<\/p>\n<\/div>\n

\n

Jeffery Donaldson<\/p>\n

“Museum”<\/p>\n

But one writes only after one has willed to renounce the will,
and the wisest of poets have always insisted that in the long
run all poetry that is worth listening to has been written
by the gods.<\/em><\/p>\n

\u2014Northrop Frye<\/em><\/p>\n

Subway, in the middle of my commute,\n   I found myself in a dark corner.\nThe line vanished into the underground\n   in two directions, the clack and crow-screech\n\nof steel wheels echoed in recession\n   of the just missed five-o-nine\nfrom the tunnel\u2019s depths. Museum Station.\n   A chilled solitude widened around me\n\nand water-drops pooled in mimicked snips\n   between the rails below. The ceiling lamps\u2019\nsubdued fluorescence seemed to cast no shadows\n   and were like peering through green water.\n\nExhibits from the ROM in glass cases\n   with aboriginal wooden masks descended\nlike messengers from the real world above,\n   whose outsize faces gestured witness and alarm\n\nin the apocalyptic style of indigenous myth.\n   Farther up, the February dusk\nwas tawny, the air tasteless and dull\n   as pewter plate. Fog had moved in on\n\nOld Vic\u2019s scrubbed-stone but now vague\n   turrets uncobbling upwards to the last\nvanished spire, as though parting illusion\n   from the epigraph above the stairway arch,\n\nstill insisting, after these twenty years,\n   that the truth would set me free.\nAll gone up in a mist now, as far\n   as I could see. I pictured them above,\n\nthe Burwash quad, Pratt, and residence,\n   whose faux-gothic walls hold the city at Bay\nlike the brim of an empty cup, and where\n   the mind-set of college years, memories\n\nof what unwritten words, burn perpetually\n   as in a crucible. I wonder now had I known,\nthose years hiding my fidgets, of the tics\n   Touretters spend their days trying to release,\n\nor heard of how the obsessive\u2019s repetitions\n   grind every last impulse to its death,\nwould I have finished more, managed\n   the regimental habitus<\/em>\nand got things done?\n\nToo skittish by far to do as that passage\n   from Faust always roared mockingly I should,\nfrom its perch on the cork board above my desk,\n   Settle your studies! and sound the depths\n\nof that thou wilt profess.<\/em> Get real! I still\n   have the welts from the nightly tongue-lashing.\nBut now school\u2019s out at last, and the long ghostly\n   hours of doodling, daydreams, lectures, lessen.\n\nThe students pouring from Northrop Frye Hall\n   slushed in out of the fog in private directions\nescalating down into the commuter scrimmage\n   towards the platform. And that brought it on.\n\nThe clapping heal, nasal-snort, the lurching nod,\n   the whooped-up screech and cluck.\nI tried to catch the right patterns up,\n   send them unfolding in dervish rhythms,\n\nunstoppable as blinking. Suddenly,\n   out of the unasked-for corporal hootenanny\nI sensed a conjured presence whirled out\n   in tangents from myself echoing\n\nin the sniggers I bounced off the walls,\n   until in my thinking, it appeared,\na stooped man stood apart,\n   behind a pillar, unhurried, thoughtful,\n\nneither leaving nor arriving, one I seemed\n   to recognize or remember, coming through\nand breaking up like a cell-phone signal\n   too far from its source. The chunky glasses\n\nand electric hair, plain, perennially ancient,\n   he was there, bunched up within himself\nlike New Brunswick brushwood, swaying\n   like a scraggly jack-pine or as a man\n\nin thought at arm\u2019s length from a lectern\n   will rock, it seems, to captivating rhythms\nfor the sake of argument. Sheet folder.\n   Waiting for this line to take him home.\n\nHe spoke up under my own chirps and wheens\n   snickering back under the stone work,\nlike a cold draft working itself out.\n   \u201cStill conjuring ghosts, are you Hamlet,\n\nfrom the depths of the waiting place?\n   Have you forgotten my Shakespeare lecture\nin \u201881, on how the Danish spook\n   is not one jot less real than the made world\n\nhe rises in?\u201d He looked himself over.\n   \u201cNot that I can say much in the matter,\nbut you might have made me younger.\n   When you conjure someone in a dream,\n\n(where are<\/em> your manners?) it\u2019s best to be more\n   generous than time was . . . . But look at you<\/em>.\nWhy you look as though you see a burning\n   bush or a hanging disk of fire.\u201d\n\n\u201cOh no no, I see you, heavenly ghost,\n   old sky father, old officer of art!\nbut holy company of angels\n   what are you doing<\/em> here? Fifteen years\n\nhave passed since we sat through the Blake\n   readings at your remembrance service,\nand together cracked what wine bottles afterwards\n   launched you on your way across the Styx,\n\nthat second journey you once wrote about\n   as having rather less to do with ego\nthan the first. You always looked for how\n   to get past it without actually dying,\n\nand I thought if I kept reading your prose\n   you might show the way chosen ones take\nto the spiritualized secular,\n   and find you again, or myself at least.\n\nBut not haunting some in-transit concourse\n   buried under old grounds I\u2019ve already trod.\u201d\n\u201cYou\u2019re still looking in all the wrong places.\n   Time you saw through your own smoke and mirrors.\u201d\n\n\u201cA window then? Not a thing I see?\u201d\n   \u201cCloser, yes, but don\u2019t get your hopes up\non clarity, too many hands and noses\n   have been pressed to the glass for you to find\n\nwhat you\u2019re looking for in someone like me,\n   even in this state. I was never much\nfor small talk, as little on subway platforms\n   as on that elevator we once rode together.\u201d\n\nHe shied away three steps and started to fade,\n   searched himself as for the rumpled coat\nhe was still wearing. But I wanted more,\n   moved to step clear of my own withholdings.\n\n\u201cI\u2019ve long imagined I had missed my chance,\n   had lost you to the ranks of bygone\npaternal mentors, fathers in whom I planted\n   the seeds of long-nursed dependencies\n\nfor the tall harvest that never came.\u201d\n   \u201cStill stripping grafts from confidences\ngreater than your own? You\u2019ve a way to go,\n   and it won\u2019t be this old crow, cocking\n\nhis eye at you under these shady lights,\n   who will get you there. Don\u2019t you know\nthat mine too was the ventriloquist\u2019s thrown voice,\n   and that what I spoke was a stirred echo?\u201d\n\n\u201cI\u2019ll never write as much as you did, spirit,\n   the endless notebook-drafts of plumbed inklings\nand the thirty odd volumes of limpid prose.\n   I can\u2019t pinch off a dozen lines in a year.\u201d\n\n\u201cYou could use some metaphoric roughage\n   in your diet. An evacuation and purge,\nas Auden said, can be a positive omen.\n   But you\u2019re the one who goes on about Whitman . . . .\n\nYou have to keep the tics down in public,\n   and the vocal dirt from passing at all times,\n(like kegel exercises for the mental sphincter . . . ).\n   I can understand that. But your verbal\n\nwarm-ups are over-worked, if I may say so,\n   too handled and pushed, too proudly shaped.\nYou\u2019d rather lay off the inkpot than risk\n   the odd bad sheet, won\u2019t commit a line\n\nnot already hammered into its promise.\n   You have this chiselled-phrase stuff backwards.\nA poet finishes<\/em> with cut gems\n   for the jeweller\u2019s eye, his sturdy maxim\u2019s\n\nsculpted waterfall hefted upwards\n   into empyrean, he doesn\u2019t start there.\nYou\u2019re a Touretter. Why not write like one?\n   Hold off the perfectionist blocking out phrases\n\nto exhaustion, those worrying threads,\n   the Penelopian back-ravellings of the unmade.\nYour repetitious tics have always come first,\n   and so they should, the ecstatic rhapsodist\u2019s\n\nSt. Vitus\u2019 Dance, slangster\u2019s whizzle\n   and conjuration, philologist\u2019s hullaballoo.\u201d\nYou think of Moses breasting the mountain top\n   to find the right words already<\/em> carved\n\nin stone. But Moses too went round and round,\n   \u2019til he found the clearing and the words came.\u201d\nMy tics slowed, and he dimmed like a science fair\n   light bulb, whose frail filament is\n\nkept lit by the frantic, pumping cyclist\n   \u2019til he tires. I cried, \u201cBut wait! What words?\nSuppose I did<\/em> dance circles, made off-beat\n   tongue-claves my first exuberance, tell me\n\nwhat I\u2019ll find there beyond<\/em>.\u201d \u201cNo time,\u201d he said,\n   turning away, \u201cand we\u2019ve both said enough.\nBut look, you\u2019ve waited on this line for some time,\n   haven\u2019t you. I think I hear what you need coming,\u201d\n\nhe said, and fading, said something else I missed,\n   when a shriek, as from depths within, drowned him out,\nand it was then I saw, what else?, a light\n   at the end of the tunnel, and heard the train\u2019s\n\nsliced-steel, involuntary skreak and howl,\n   an offense to all, but look with how many\nalong for the ride! One last tic, I sounded\n   my barbaric yawp. And a door opened.<\/pre>\n
[From Palilalia<\/em>. Montreal & Kingston: McGill-Queen\u2019s University Press, 2008. 18–26.]\n<\/div>\n
\n
Margaret Atwood<\/p>\n
“Norrie Banquet Ode”<\/p>\n
\nWe live in interesting times; here come deplor- \nable fire and flood, hurricane, plague and war. \nWe and our books feel trivial, amid the uproar \nand general chaos. Believe me, colleagues, there are mor- \nnings when I think\u2014hell, what\u2019s this for? \nMaybe this writing stuff is just verbal mor- \nphine. Confess\u2014who hasn\u2019t felt wor-\nn down in the textual salt-mines, or\nto use the sort of terse bad joke that Norr-\nie used to slip in, up shit creek without an oar?\n\nDear Norrie, if you were here with us, at the cor \nner, more or less, of Queen\u2019s Park and Bloor, \npacing the overheated halls and creaking floor \nboards of rambling, many-turreted Victor- \nia, as for how many years before, \nfollowing your inner track, hunting the word quarr-\ny through the jungles of the text, the distant roar \nof incandescent tigers hinting at glor-\ny; and in your labours, loading every rift with lore; \nmeanwhile, in your disguise of elderly professor, \npeering at us benignly, looking somewhat like a tor- \ntoise with an overcoat and briefcase, what would your \nopinion be, of us? You didn\u2019t suffer\nfools gladly. Would you find us very bor-\ning? Too ingenious by half? Preposter-\nous?\n\n     Well, what is done is in your honour, \nso I\u2019m sure you\u2019d be polite. Ignore \nthe worst, accept the best, give us an encore—\nas on so many occasions, say a few cheering wor- \nds: such as: the creativity\u2019s not in the for-\nm, but in the writer. Anyway, you\u2019d think of something to restore \nour sense that what we do is wor-\nth it after all\u2014the articulation of the central core \nof our real being, and the opening of the most impor-\ntant door.\n\nTo write, to read and think, are to be mor- \ntal, but also to build a truly human structure, \n\u2014no tyranny or bloody chamber of hor- \nrors, poisoned wasteland or for-\ntress, but a city-garden, through which Nature \ntoo could flourish.\n                          Is it we who write the story \nor perhaps, is it the other \nway around? We know one thing, dear Norrie, \nthanks to you: What keeps us going is the story.\n<\/pre>\n
[Read at the banquet on the final day of the conference on \u201cThe Legacy of Northrop Frye,\u201d October 1992.  Published in the Northrop Frye Newsletter<\/em> 6, no. 1 (Fall 1994), 38, and in The Legacy of Northrop Frye<\/em>, 171]\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"
Compiled by Robert D. Denham James Merrill From the Prologue to The Changing Light at Sandover Saw my way To a plot, or as much of one as still allowed For surprise and pleasure in its working-out. Knew my setting; and had, from the start, a theme Whose steady light shone back, it seemed, from […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":20,"featured_media":0,"parent":6147,"menu_order":0,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","template":"","meta":{"_monsterinsights_skip_tracking":false,"_monsterinsights_sitenote_active":false,"_monsterinsights_sitenote_note":"","_monsterinsights_sitenote_category":0,"footnotes":"","_links_to":"","_links_to_target":""},"class_list":["post-6438","page","type-page","status-publish","hentry"],"yoast_head":"\nSelected Poems About Frye - The Educated Imagination<\/title>\n<meta name=\"robots\" content=\"index, follow, max-snippet:-1, max-image-preview:large, max-video-preview:-1\" \/>\n<link rel=\"canonical\" href=\"https:\/\/macblog.mcmaster.ca\/fryeblog\/library\/poems-about-frye\/\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:locale\" content=\"en_US\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:type\" content=\"article\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:title\" content=\"Selected Poems About Frye - The Educated Imagination\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:description\" content=\"Compiled by Robert D. Denham James Merrill From the Prologue to The Changing Light at Sandover Saw my way To a plot, or as much of one as still allowed For surprise and pleasure in its working-out. 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