I think what most resonates with me about James Schuyler's poetry is its insistence on presentness. To Schuyler, every moment, every day, is a poem. Schuyler's poetry seeks meaning and futurity in the people and things-however mundane-around him. There is a romance to seeing the world that way, a romance that I long for.
There's the person, and what, in relation to the person, subsists with regard to the poem --surely, Schuyler's telling us, it's highly "personal," near-to-hand, your damn phone, fer crissake. Or a lit cigarette you forget you're holding. Thus, the little retardation that's the speaker checking out his animal persona: "You can see: buildings, dogs, people, | cement, etc. The summer city, where, | I suppose, someone is happy. Someone." The verse assumes the retard. Now they're a pair.
I quote from "Thursday," and I could quote this entire moving poem, but who knows but there's a volume of Schuyler, selected or collected, it would behoove you to purchase. So yeah, where would we be without this scaling of so human a testimony?
"...My niece Peggy is at camp in the Adirondacks so I am staying in her room. It's essence of teenage girl: soft lilac walls, colored photographs of rock stars, nosegays of artificial flowers, signs on the door: THIS ROOM IS A DISASTER AREA, and GARBAGEDUMP. 'Some ashcan at the world's end...' But this is not my family's story, nor is it Molly's: the coon hound pleading silently for table scraps. The temperature last night dipped into the forties: a record for August 14th. There is a German down pouff on the bed and I was glad to wriggle under it and sleep the sleep of the just. Today is a perfection of blue: the leaves go lisp in the breeze. I wish I were a better traveler; I love new places, the arrival in station after the ennui of a trip. On the train across the aisle from me there was a young couple. He read while she stroked the flank of his chest in a circular motion, motherly, covetous. They kissed. What is lovelier than young love? Will it only lead to barren years of a sour marriage? They were perfect together. I wish them well. This coffee is cold. The eighteen-cup pot like most inventions doesn't work so well. A few days: how to celebrate them? It's today I want to memorialize but how can I? What is there to it? Cold coffee and a ham-salad sandwich? A skinny peach tree holds no peaches. Molly howls at the children who come to the door. What did they want? It's the wrong time of year for Girl Scout cookies. My mother can't find her hair net. She nurses a cup of coffee substitute, since her religion (Christian Science) forbids the use of stimulants. On this desk, a vase of dried blue flowers, a vase of artificial roses, a bottle with a dog for a stopper, a lamp, two plush lions that hug affectionately, a bright red travel clock, a Remington Rand, my Olivetti, the ashtray and the coffee cup...."
A friend wanted me to read Schuyler, so I complied by getting all of his books from the library. This is the one I grabbed first and I'm about to read another one. I had a strange experience reading this. I felt like I liked him. Would like to hang out with him. But I found his poems were not very poem-y. They read like journal entries--lots of very personal references and reactions to intimate surroundings. One line I love and won't soon forget was, "In the country you can take a walk without spending money."
This collection really turned around for me about halfway through when a few more stylistic and experimental poems started appearing right before the ultimate, long, titular masterpiece "A Few Days." If it hadn't been for the slog through free verse lyrical poems full of exclamation points and rhetorical questions in the beginning, I would have rated it higher.