How Long

by Ron Padgett

Ron Padgett's title poem asks: "How long do you want to go on being the person you think you are? / How Long, a city in China." With the arrival of his first grandchild, Padgett becomes even more inspired to confront the eternal mysteries in poems with a wry, rueful honesty that comes only with experience, in his case sixty-eight years of it.

I never thought,
forty years ago,
taping my poems into a notebook,
that one day the tape
would turn yellow, grow brittle, and fall off
and that I'd find myself on hands and knees
groaning as I picked the pieces up
off the floor
one by one

Ron Padgett is a celebrated translator, memoirist, and "a thoroughly American poet, coming sideways out of Whitman, Williams, and New York Pop with a Tulsa twist" (Peter Gizzi). His poetry has been translated into more than a dozen languages and has appeared in The Best American Poetry, The Norton Anthology of Postmodern American Poetry, The Oxford Book of American Poetry, and on Garrison Keillor's Writer's Almanac. He was also a guest on Keillor's A Prairie Home Companion in 2009. Padgett is a chancellor of the Academy of American Poets and his most recent books include How to Be Perfect; You Never Know, Joe: A Memoir of Joe Brainard; and If I Were You. Born in Oklahoma, he lives in New York City and Calais, Vermont.

Genres: Poetry

91 pages, Paperback

First published March 22, 2011

About the author

Ron Padgett is a poet and translator whose Collected Poems won the William Carlos Williams Award from the Poetry Society of America and the 2014 Los Angeles Times Prize for the best poetry book. Padgett has translated the poetry of Apollinaire, Pierre Reverdy, Valery Larbaud, and Blaise Cendrars.

Reviews

[Andrea Blythe · Rating 5 out of 5]

There are many reasons why Ron Padgett is one of my all-time favorite poets, and at the top of the list is his playful witty approach to otherwise serious situations and events. Reading his work, I have the impression of a man in love with life and laughter, despite the occasional downs that come along. Padgett cartwheels through stanzas and parades words through lines, often skipping through a variety of potential meanings and coming to unexpected conclusions. How Long is no exception to this and is a fun, thoughtful look at growing into adulthood.

[Jennifer · Rating 3 out of 5]

Okay. Some of these poems I liked a lot, but I'm more of a fan of sound strategies and that's not what he's doing. I'm enjoying some of his older poems better. Still in the end, I prefer Frank O'Hara -- the original, not the copy.

[Bookish · Rating 2 out of 5]

I had a really hard time getting into these poems. I'm not sure what the inhibiting factor was, might need another flip through to figure it out in detail, but I was left with a sort of 'huh' feeling for most of it especially after the initial few.

[M.W.P.M. · Rating 4 out of 5]

I never thought,
forty years ago,
taping my poems into a notebook,
that one day the tape
would turn yellow, grow brittle, and fall off
and that I'de find myself on hands and knees
groaning as I picked the pieces up
off the floor
one by one

Of course no one thinks ahead like that
If I had
I would have used archival paste
or better yet
not have written those poems at all

But then I wouldn't have had
the pleasure of reading them again,
the pleasure of wincing
and then forgiving myself,
of catching glimpses of who I was
and who I thought I was,
the pleasure - is that the word? - of seeing
that that kid really did exist.

- Scotch Tape Body, pg. 1

* * *

There are many things to be done today
and it's a lovely day to do them in

Each thing a joy to do
and a joy to have done

I can tell because of the calm I feel
when I think about doing them

I can almost hear them say to me
Thank you for doing us

And when evening comes
I'll remove my shoes and place them on the floor

And think how good they look
sitting? . . . standing? . . . there

Not doing anything

- Inaction of Shoes, pg. 15

* * *

God
give me the strength
to raise this hatchet
over my head
and strike
with all my force
the cubic foot of air
that I imagine
to be in front of me
one foot off the floor
and to strike it so
as so cleave it right in half
and watch the two halves fall
to the left and to the right
still one foot
above the floor

But God did not
answer my prayer
and I remain here
with the hatchet

The cube
is not here
It went away
and took God
with it
and he doesn't have
a hatchet

What a funny life he leads!

- The Hatchet Man, pg. 29-30

* * *

The apples are red again in Chandler's Valley

- Kenneth Patchen

I figured that Chandler's Valley was a real place
but I didn't need to know where,
it was just some place with apple trees,
in America, of course,
but when it went on
"redder for what happened there"
a chill went up my spine
well maybe not a chill
but a heartbeat pause:
who dunnit?
because blood must be involved
to make those apples redder.
Then ducks and a rock
that didn't get redder . . .
You don't know what I'm talking about
unless you know this poem by Kenneth Patchen.
When I looked at it again no too far back
it didn't have the power
it had when I first read it
at seventeen
or heard him read it, rather,
on a record, but it's enough
that once it did have power,
and I am redder for what happened there.

- The Apples in Chandler's Valley, pg. 46

* * *

When Jesus found himself
nailed to the cross,
crushed with despair,
crying out
"Why hast thou forsaken me?"
he enacted the story
of every person who suddenly realizes
not that he or she has been forsaken
but that there never was
a forsaker,
for the idea of immortality
that is the birthright of every human being
gradually vanishes
until it is gone
and we cry out.

- The Joke, pg. 59

* * *

Could I have the strength
to life my stone fingers to wave at you,
cloud,
in the dark of night
when I know you are there
above my roof
as I lie in bed
looking at the ceiling?
Could I have the strength
of character to salute you
whom we think of
almost as a person,
though it's a wasted gesture,
a whimsy that serves no purpose
but its own?
Why yes, I could,
if I wanted, but a man
with fingers made of stone
can't want to do that
or anything else,
for the only desire he has
is the one sent to him
on invisible waves
that shake his insides
so hard he wants to laugh.

- Statue Man, pg. 64

* * *

The waitress
at lunch today
could have been
in a 1940s movie,
an innocent,
sheerful, and open
young woman - ah,
girl! - with a smile
that brings back
a time
that probably
never existed.
Did people
really say Drat?
Or just characters
in films
and comic strips
who now
are as real
as real people.

- Drat, pg. 75

* * *

I saw my name in boldface type
lying on the ground among the orange and yellow leaves
I had placed there to simulate autumn,
but someone else had placed my name there
and set fire to its edges.
That effect was lovely.
This was not, but the way,
a dream. It was also not
something that really happened.
I made it up, so I could
set my name on fire
for a moment.

- Flame Name, pg. 80

[Liaken · Rating 3 out of 5]

There are some really great poems in here. There are also quite a few that felt to me like a long ramble to the point that rather than drawing me through and carrying me forward— well, they just didn't work, for me.

[Yana]

This collection of poetry doesn't leave much of an impression.

[Cheryl]

liked a piece from him in Short

[A.M. · Rating 4 out of 5]

Ron Padgett's How Long is a reflective, introspective and often humorous collection of poetry from the perspective of an elderly man. Some of the poems are memories of events past and others musings on the meaning of life, the universe and everything.

What I like about Padgett's poems is that I can relate to them - they are approachable, and he is conversational in his style when addressing a deeper idea, like in "Thinking About a Cloud":

There's not a lot of time to think
when one is assailed by activities and obligations
and even less time to do it
when one is free of them
because then one spends one's time thinking
about how little time there is.

That's what it's like to be in America
early in the twenty-first century:
there are fewer spaces left
between things, and it is in these spaces
that thought comes forth
and walks around and lies down
sometimes all at the same time
it is so elastic and like an altocumulus cloud
with a sense of humor ...

The poem continues with a humorous dialogue between the cloud and the poet, and here is a small excerpt:

Hello, cloud. It's nice to see you again.
It says, "A cloud does not reply, it is a reply."
"But you just answered me."
"No, that was you answering yourself."
"But you enabled me to do so, didn't you?"
"Yes, but only because you believed it possible."
"Are you implying that anything I believe possible will happen?"
"No, I never imply anything. In fact, I never say anything."

And who hasn't thought of their own mortality, morbid as the idea is and reflected with an underlying sense of amusement in Padgett's "The Death Deal":

Ever since that moment
when it first occurred
to me that I would die
(like everyone on earth!)
I struggled against
this eventuality, but
never thought of
how I'd die, exactly,
until around thirty
I made a mental list:
hit by car, shot
in head by random ricochet,
crushed beneath boulder,
victim of gas explosion,
head banged hard
in fall from ladder,
vaporized in plane crash,
dwindling away with cancer,
and so on. I tried to think
of which I'd take
if given the choice,
and came up time
and again with He died
in his sleep.
Now that I'm officially old,
though deep inside not
old officially or otherwise,
I'm oddly almost cheered
by the thought
that I might find out
in the not too distant future.
Now for lunch.

There are also just some beautiful lines, this this tiny excerpt from the collections title - and longest - poem, "How Long":

"The water lilies float on the surface of the water
unaware that they are being depicted
by brushstrokes ..."

There are so many good poems in here that I will return to again and again - simply because I enjoy reading them! I look forward to exploring his other collections, as well.

[Louis Cabri]

"I remember the mill, a piece of currency that was used for a few years near the end of World War II and just after. A thick paper (and later a lightweight metal) coin with a round hole in the center, the mill was worth one-tenth of a cent. It was fun to press it hard enough between thumb and forefinger to create temporary bumps on those fingers. On price tags, it was written as if it were an exponent; for example, ten cents and four mills was written 10[superscript]4. I don't know if mills were used anywhere other than in my hometown, and since they went out of use I have heard references to them only once or twice. They have faded away, even more forgotten than the black pennies of the same period. But if you mention the mill to people old enough to remember them, their faces will take on a rising glow of recognition that turns into a deeper pleasure in your company." From "I Remember Lost Things," How Long p. 44

[Larry · Rating 5 out of 5]

Another AWP find -- new Padgett!

[Laura · Rating 3 out of 5]

Walking with Whitman.

[Jake Cooper · Rating 2 out of 5]

Padgett was on a list of Billy Collins' favorite poets, so I was banking on some transitive property of liking poets. Oh well.