T D Carroll

I was unable to develop a blog post during the past month of December, but during that time I thought quite a bit about continuing or extending what I'm calling the Eupalinos thread, which I now conceive as a vehicle for capturing and conveying some part of my experience doing ethnographic fieldwork over the past several decades. I have little more to offer on this theme just now, except to repeat that the thread borrows its title from an imagined Socratic dialog by Paul Valéry. I was struck in reading the dialog by a scene in which Socrates is walking along a beach and finds an unidentifiable object, which he contemplates briefly then returns to the sea. I had a similar experience some years ago, while walking the beach at Barnegat Light on the New Jersey coast. In my case, however, I was able to identify my found object as an anthropomorphically carved stone figure, though its origins and meanings were and remain mysterious. I too recommitted my find to the tide, but the stone figure has goaded my imagination since that time.

Apropos Paul Valéry, there's a new translation of his collected writings on the persona he called 'Monsieur Teste'. Reading the piece titled "The Evening with Monsieur Teste" I saw the following, which I'm setting down here as a place marker for the next installment of the Eupalinos thread:

After much reflection, I came to believe that Monsieur Teste had managed to discover laws of the mind of which we are ignorant. Surely, he must have devoted years to this research: even more surely, more years, many more, had been set aside in order to mature his inventions and make them instinctual. Finding is nothing. The difficulty is incorporating what one finds. (translation by Charlotte Mandell, New York Review Books, 2025).

The cover of this edition of Monsieur Teste reproduces Odilon Redon's "Orpheus', which I've in turn chosen to illustrate this post with a nod to Rilke's 'Sonnets to Orpheus' -- thickening the matrix of allusions portended here.

More soon…

Just now I have a few loosely interconnected thoughts, gleaned as usual from my reading over the past day or two. I think of these blog postings as fragmentary, mostly unfinished, to be reworked at some point. So the posts are mainly a gathering or the result of a gathering process  -- of ruminations, readings, relationships -- to be brought into focus later. For the moment what follows is best viewed sidelong.

Here's the latest batch of fragments, whether connected apart from my general enthusiasm remains an open question. Nevertheless, the following:

Reading in PN Review 279  this morning, sitting in a public space at a local hotel, with coffee, I saw the following in an interview with Stanley Moss, who died recently and who is commemorated by the editor in that issue. Here is a longish quote from the interview, or rather 'conversation' (the piece is titled 'In Conversation with Neilson MacKay'). I've interpolated initials to identify the speakers:

SM: My father wrote books, taught history. He knew Greek and Latin. Later in life he told me: 'What I know of poetry I owe to you.' He explained that when I was two years old and he was studying for his principal's exam, he would recite passages from Shakespeare over my head as we walked. I replied that perhaps I owed my love of poetry to him.

NM: Interesting. Eliot – or was it Stevens – has that line about the way that authentic poetry communicates before it's understood.

SM: Yes, I think there's something to it. You mention Wallace Stevens. When I joined the Navy at seventeen, I used to wake up an hour before reveille to read, write poems. I had a copy of Harmonium.

NM: Was Stevens an early influence for you?

SM: Absolutely. I met him – first at Trinity College, I think, after a reading – and again with his daughter before he died, at the house of a very rich gallery owner. I remember sitting with them at the table (it was summer), and the host said, 'Oh, look at the garden, all the trees are white'. I looked at Stevens, and he looked back at me, and we both knew the guy was horribly mistaken.

NM: What impact did he have on your writing, exactly?

SM: Well, first of all, I don't think the word exactly explains anything.

NM: I regretted it as soon as I said it.

SM: The mystery of what makes poetry go, in the debate with William Carlos Williams, who I also knew quite well (after all, I put his books together for him in some ways), I was on Stevens's side. Ordinary speech was not my thing. I didn't write the poetry they speak on the street, like Allen Ginsberg for example. But I wrote about what they speak on the street that others didn't see, and that others didn't hear.

I like this quite a bit -- that poetry communicates before it is understood. As with art more generally: in "Letter from Madame Emilie Teste" (from the new translation by Charlotte Mandell of Valéry's Monsieur Teste, published by New York Review Books) Valéry writes:

Things that are abstract or too lofty for my understanding do not bore me when I hear them; I find an almost musical enchantment in them. A good part of the soul can enjoy without understanding, and in me that part is quite large.

There's a little poem, translated by Louis McKee and collected into a little book called Marginalia, Poems from the Old Irish, that resonates cryptically here. Titled 'Apology', the poem says,

Don't be blaming the poets, man,

     it's not their fault;

You will get no more from a pot,

     than what's in it.

Looking elsewhere, this idea about 'authentic poetry' is reflected (and extended) in the epigraph that Thomas Meyers appends to his book, Essay Stanzas (The Song Cave, 2014), first glossing then quoting from Freud's essay On Dreams:

What is dreamt, it is proposed, has no more claim to sense and meaning than, for instance, the sounds which would be produced if "the ten fingers of someone who knows nothing about music were wandering over the keys of a piano."

Moss calibrates Freud's meaning for poetry and poets when he says, "But I wrote about what they speak on the street that others didn't see, and that others didn't hear." Presumably, Moss didn't have Freud in mind during this conversation, nor would Thomas Meyer have been in the picture for him at that time. By way of aside, the gist of this exchange may also be understood, I think, as obliquely suggesting that Freud was not a poet.

One more thing on this. In Philosophical Investigations (as translated by G.E.M. Anscombe), says Wittgenstein:

78. Compare knowing and saying:

     how many feet high Mont Blanc is --

     how the word "game" is used" --

     how a clarinet sounds.

If you are surprised that one can know something and not be able to say it, you are perhaps thinking of a case like the first. Certainly not of one like the third.

Hmm-- "how a clarinet sounds"...

I want to conclude this peroration with another loosely related bit from my reading this morning, arising out of my continuing fascination with what I vaguely understand to be a tradition of 'walking poetry' in Japan. I first read about this in an essay by Gary Snyder, which I've not been able to locate or identify. I keep looking. Closer to hand are the travel diaries of Matsuo Bashō, though that is a separate and distinct tradition.

Closer to my purpose here, Earl Miner has an essay that was published in Pacific Coast Philology way back in 1968, titled 'The Traditions and Forms of the Japanese Poetic Diary', where he writes,

The significance of those two elements is such that without an appreciation of them we are unlikely to gain any adequate feel for Japanese diary literature. Compared with Western fiction, the diary is seemingly episodic and formless. Closely ordered plots are not to be found in the diaries -- or in other forms of earlier Japanese prose fiction, or in drama, or in most modern fiction. Japanese conceptions of form are in some important respects different from Western, and what the differences are can be understood in considerable measure from the diary. One of the significant differences between Western and Japanese prose fiction (as represented by the diary) is that the Japanese is formulated in close relationship to poetry, which both affects its principles of coherence and has meant that it did not need to go through the stage of the well-made novel or play before it could seek out freer forms. To attempt generalization of a larger number of works, the diaries combine or poise, two formal energies: the ceaseless pressure of time implied by the diary form itself and the enhancement of the moment, or related moments, usually demonstrated in poetry. It is the flow of time rather than the concatenation of events that is important, and it is the sudden glowing of poetic experience rather than the order of a well-lighted city that gives the diaries their sense of depth of experience.

'The sudden glowing of poetic experience'.

Echoing Stanley Moss in an indeterminate way, the following translation appears in the same issue of PNR. These poems are part of a series announced last year by the editors, and are offered by New Zealand poet John Gallas. The series is titled 'Mondo de Kvar Anguloj' (World of Four Corners), with the first entry titled 'Mondo de arboj'. The editors write:

In coming issues of PN Review, John Gallas will contribute to the 'Reports' pages five-poem anthologies of translations from many corners of the world. He is, after all, the author of The Song Atlas. Esperanto provides our titles going forward. The next five are proposed as:
2. Mondo de mašino
3. Mondo de dormo
4. Mondo de sunbrilo
5. Mondo de melankolio
6. Mondo de birdoj

The current gathering (Set 6) in the 'World of Four Corners' series is titled 'Mondo de Malverma', differing from the title previously announced as 'Mondo de birdoj'. Here's the concluding verse from one of the current set of poems:

Homesun Sands     Grímur Thomsen (1820–1896)/Iceland

Yet Homesun Sands is desolate and sad.
No sound of man or woman echoes here:
Its solitary Things commune in tongues
That few can fathom, alien and drear.

Understanding come follow...

Some time ago I posted one of my poems on this website as a work in progress. I thought of it as an experiment in editing, in developing a poem into some sort of final form within the more 'public' space of this blog. I posted the poem intending to work on it in this more visible context but did not follow through. I was unhappy with the poem in some sort of vague way, couldn't find my way to a more satisfactory version, and just let it lie there, on virtual display. The poem lay fallow for months, until I finally and perhaps a bit reluctantly took it down, demoting it from 'published' to 'draft' status on this blog.*

Meanwhile, I found a way forward. Following the death of poet Louise Glück, PN Review 274 published a commemorative note by Philadelphia poet Daisy Fried, on getting poems right:

I remember going to her readings a number of times, and one particular Q&A, maybe at Bryn Mawr, when she gave some advice about revision, wherein she said that with drafts she wasn't happy with sometimes she would take the ending of the draft and put it in the middle of the poem and then keep on writing from there. This blew my head off, poets. I've passed that suggestion along (with credit) ever since. It doesn't always work, but it often does.

I took that advice and was happy enough with the result to read the poem at last year's annual meeting of The League of Vermont Writers. Here's the revised version -- still a work in progress -- with 'help' from Louise Glück via Daisy Fried:

Where does memory live?

   A clutch of elk

   The forest door

Light tilting

Against a thickening sky  

The gloaming

Tentative

then flaring

touching

         nose

         tail

         flank

Voices pitched at low thrum

"Indefiniteness is an element

Of the true music"

         says Spicer

         the poet

Cut from blue metal   

inchoate

tumbling

         Shavings drift to the floor

         smoking

         coalescing

         clustering

uniquely forming

this one sentence

Clacketyclacketyclack

  clattering

  riving

  my dream

Planetesimals whirr the dark

Seventeen billion

         spheres

Cut from hard metal

Seventeen billion

         trees

In a red-shifting forest

Our names carved

         into just

         this one

         tree

Walking these streets

Shadows blot the sun

I'm a cotton weevil

Caught in a loose cotton weave

Unbuttoning one ear

I hear the muttering voices

         Of the jabberwocky elk

Dreaming

Riding bareback through the forest

I taste the trail in my mouth

And think to write this down   

Having re-posted the poem, I wonder whether the poem is 'finished'. I tend to cover, listing any given poem as a 'work in progress', such as perhaps all poems may/must necessarily be. That thought back of mind, I opened the current issue of PN Review (No. 279) this morning, and read an appreciation by the editor of his longtime collaborator and fellow poet Stanley Moss, who died recently at age 99:

Often he would complete a poem and then follow on with three or four revisions: these sequences are editorially fascinating. He was profligate in discarding memorable lines, heaping up darlings like Herod's babies. He usually knew when a poem, whether his own or those of his authors, was finished.

Stanley Moss 'knew' when a poem was 'finished'. As editor who would publish one or more of Moss's poems from time to time, he might be in a position to comment on the poet's skills; on the shared challenges poets must face:

My occasional complaints were with his syntax, his sporadic doggerelish rhymes, and sometimes with enjambments, line and stanza breaks.

Enjambment! Yes, I know.

But there's more. Extrapolating now... The Thinking-About-Gladys-Machine is a fascinating collection of early stories by the Uruguayan writer Mario Levrero, in a new translation by Annie McDermott and Kit Schluter, published by & Other Stories (www.andotherstories.org) and offered by Asymptote Journal through their translation book club (www.asymptotejournal.com). 'The Abandoned House', one of the stories collected here, comprises brief sections, each detailing the experience of a 'select few people who fall under its [the abandoned house] influence'. In the final section, 'Ants', the narrator conjures a solitary ant occupied with building a mysterious structure out of "little sticks and other small objects'. Archie the engineer in their group believes 'it's a giant engineering project' that will 'help him to revolutionize bridge-building techniques'. But the narrator thinks otherwise:

She uses them all to build something that isn't a nest; we don't know what it is, and for the ant it seems to serve no practical purpose. She walks about on it, enraptured, then forgets the whole thing, and returns, for a while, to her contemplative state.

What to make of this? The narrator:

I don't think they're bridges; I have my own views on the matter. Everyone uses magnifying glasses, everyone focuses on the detail and praises the meticulous work and delicately balanced little sticks. Personally, I prefer to see it as a whole and say that it's beautiful, and that its shape is not unlike that of an ant.

...

*I'm 'republishing' the original version of the above poem, which can be read at my blog post dated October 22, 2021.

Two possibly interrelated extempore notes. Reading in The London Review of Books just now. A review of The House on Via Gamito by Domenico Starnone, translated by Oonagh Stransky (Europa: March 2024). Reviewer Thomas Jones writes,

…Starnone is married to the writer and translator Anita Raja; they have both, jointly and severally, been fingered as the authors of [Elena] Ferrante's novels. When Jhumpa Lahiri translated Starnone's novel Lacci as Ties in 2017, the New York Times reviewer described it as 'in some ways a sequel' to Ferrante's Days of Abandonment, 'in other ways an interlocking puzzle piece' – though what other kind of puzzle piece is there? – 'or another voice in a larger conversation'. But novels don't have to have been written by the same person, or by people who are married to each other, to be in conversation with one another. That happens anyway, in readers' heads.

This right away put me in mind of something from Roland Barthes' S/Z as quoted in M/W by Matt Longabucco. (Longabucco's book is subtitled An Essay on Jean Eustache's La Maman et la Putain.) Here's the quote from Barthes (not the full passage as quoted by Longabucco):

The commentary on a single text is not a contingent activity, assigned the reassuring alibi of the 'concrete': the single text is valid for all the texts of literature, not in that it represents them (abstracts and equalizes them), but in that literature itself is never anything but a single text: the one text is not an (inductive) access to a Model, but entrance into a network with a thousand entrances…

Longabucco:

Typing out the passage, I feel his pleasure, the permission he gives himself, in extending this single sentence, a sentence that itself describes the vast, singular, interconnected texts we find when we turn to literature and in which we confront everywhere the intractability of difference…

In a review of The Collected Books of Jack Spicer, originally appearing in the Village Voice in 1975, Gilbert Sorrentino writes that,

Spicer did not, after 1956, write single poems. He composed books that are serial poems or that have within them more than one serial poem. This conception of poetry grew out of his deepening involvement with the process of dictation and with his conviction that there is no such thing as a single poem, that "poems should echo and reecho against each other. They should create resonances. They cannot live alone any more than we can."

(This review appears in Something Said, a collection of Sorrentino's writing and reviews, mainly about poetry and poets, published by Dalkey Archive Press in 2001.)

I record these instances of reading here as evidence of the serendipity that persistently/insistently addresses the writer, eyes/heart open.

Following on that, another related/unrelated note: reading Behind the Tree Backs by Iman Mohammed (translated by Jennifer Hayashida; Ugly Duckling Presse, 2024), I came across the following standalone poem (quoted in part):

…Mesopotamian sculptures float in the water, they suddenly rise and begin to walk toward land, lips sometimes smile in deep sleep, the body is slack yet the face possesses thousands of nerves wanting to speak to it all.

I've been reading these poems, translated from Swedish to English, cross-checking the original to mark the continuities/adjacencies of these related/interrelated languages. Here's the quoted portion in the original Swedish:

…mesopotamiska skulpturer flytter i vattnet, de reser sig plötsligt och börjar gä mot land, läparna ler stundtals i den djupa sömnen, kroppen är slapp men anskitet besitter tusentals nerver som vill tala till alltet.

I've written on this blog about the stone figure I found on the beach at Barnegat Light many years ago and later rendered into the 'Eupalinos' thread, after the invented Socratic dialog concocted by Paul Valéry. It may have been as if/that the stone figure arose from the sea and walked toward land, as the poem says, waiting for someone to nestle it. I've imagined/understood that the stone figure was ancient; erratic; remotely surfaced. Either way, the figure is strange and wants reckoning. Anything that comes to hand would help:

mayhap

this poem

Note: this is a revised and expanded version of a post that was previously published on this website. I haven't spent significant time in Camden for several years; here's hoping that things have changed for the better.

I read an essay by Guy Davenport not too long ago, focusing on the rediscovery of the archaic in modern poetry and art, and implicating the modern city as a symptom of cultural amnesia and loss -- but notably for my purposes here -- gainsaying our collective experience of place. The essay appeared in the Georgia Review in the Fall of 1974, and is titled "The Symbol of the Archaic". I want to provide a brief excerpt from that essay followed by the text of a piece I wrote some months ago, which examined the possible relationship between the New Jersey cities of Paterson and Camden. I'm lifting the following passage from Davenport's essay, and in the process may be confusing his argument -- I may return to his essay at some point to reconsider. Meanwhile, here's an excerpt from Davenport that struck me as relevant to my interests here:

The unit of civilization is the city. The classical ages knew this so well that they scarcely alluded to it intellectually. Emotionally it was a fact which they honored with rites and a full regalia of symbols. The city appeared on their coins as a goddess crowned with battlements. She was the old grain goddess Cybele-Demeter, and it is clear that ancient men thought of the city as a culmination of a process that began among the cityless hunters who learned to pen cattle and live in the enclosure with them, who developed agriculture (the goddess's second gift, after the bounty of the animals) and made the city a focus of farms and roads.

About the time the Romantic poets were being most eloquent about ruined cities, the city itself was undergoing a profound change. The railroad was about to cancel the identity of each city, making them all into ports of trade, into warehouses, and markets. Eliot's Waste Land, Joyce's Ulysses, Pound's Cantos, Bëly's Petersburg, all epics of the city, appear at the same time as the automobile, the machine that stole the city's rationale for being and made us all gypsies and barbarians camping in the ruins of the one unit of civilization which man has thus far evolved.

The city lasted from Jericho, Harappa, and Catal Hüyük to its ruin in Paterson, New Jersey (as one poet specified), from Troy to Dublin: Joyce's long chord. Pound in the Cantos makes another chord of meaning with the beginning and end of Venice, Europe's first outpost against the barbarians. (Georgia Review, Winter 1974, Vol. 28 No. 4, pp. 645-6; accessed online at https://www.jstor.org/stable/41397160).

Keep in mind that the period invoked by Davenport opened in the wake of World War II (Williams' Paterson was published in parts between 1946 and 1958) and had witnessed the rise of Fascism and Totalitarianism in Europe, arising from developments further back, in the late 19th and early 20th centuries. I believe that this history forms the background for Davenport's argument. But my intention here is nevertheless to suggest that place, perhaps especially as defined in connection with urban environments, continues to resonate and matter to the making of meaning within human communities-- though given the geomantic implications here I might suggest that space, rather than "place" per se, may matter more. Davenport has a point in suggesting that with the advent of the automobile, the city became an occluded locale, somewhat alienated from human experience, but the image he conjures of people morphing into "gypsies and barbarians camping in the ruins of the one unit of civilization which man has thus far evolved", overreaches. Davenport's railroad, and later, the automobile, may stand in for the depredations of Industrial Capitalism more generally. But my experience of cities and of human communities -- whether in cities or in outlying areas -- has been quite different. Human capacity is dauntless; which is to say that people do not simply succumb. In my view, the city has retained its significance as a locus of meaningful human experience and identity.

I'll offer a closer look at Williams' Paterson at some other time. For the moment, here are some thoughts on Paterson – and Camden – spun on a thread of personal reflections.

Psychogeography

I grew up in Paterson, New Jersey, and have always felt I'd lived a charmed life there. Although I moved away with my family before entering high school, I continued to visit my grandmother, who had stayed on, and my aunts, uncles, and cousins, who'd stayed on even if temporarily, relocating, family by family, from the city to the suburbs. But for me, that pattern of returning to Paterson has been a force that's remained. When I had the opportunity to attend college in Paterson, I seized it. Seton Hall University operated a branch there in the 1960s (now long gone). And it turned out that the Paterson branch was enormously interesting because it drew professors not only from the ranks of the main campus in South Orange – including highly-educated Jesuits – while also tapping newly-minted PhDs from Columbia University (Paterson and New York are only about 15 miles apart) who were hip to all the recent and emerging intellectual trends. So although Seton Hall Paterson may not have been an especially prestigious place to go to college, put on your resume, or evolve a professional network, that education was profoundly important to me. It fed my intellectual curiosity and led me into areas of reading and research that have stayed with me these many years since.

Growing up in Paterson was important for other reasons too. We lived in a diverse neighborhood – working class for the most part – comprising whites (Irish, Jews, Italians, Germans, and English) as well as African Americans, Puerto Ricans, Syrians (mainly from Aleppo), Lebanese, and Jordanians, among others). The latter group has continued to grow, supplemented by more recent immigration from Turkey and Palestine. (At this point Paterson may boast the largest population of Turks in the United States.) There's also a sizeable Peruvian population there (some refer to Paterson as "Little Lima") which was well-established by the time I did fieldwork in the city in the 1990s.

Paterson's proximity to New York was also a factor. I routinely went into the city from a very young age, at first with my parents, especially my father, and later got there on my own. In the early days, I went mostly down to the area around the south side piers, and the West Village, but by the time I got to college, I shifted my focus mainly to the East Village, to hear music at the Fillmore East, and to the great museums farther north on the island – the Met, the Guggenheim, the Whitney, MOMA, and the American Museum of Natural History. And of course, there was The Cloisters, that magnificent collection of medieval art and artifacts located far uptown, on a bluff overlooking the Hudson River.

Given the Columbia PhDs and the Jesuits who instructed me at Seton Hall, and having had access to the great cultural institutions of New York City, and having grown up in a culturally diverse neighborhood, I feel that I've been fortunate. My identity as a writer, especially as a poet, was awakened by the towering muses of William Carlos Williams and Allen Ginsberg -- two widely admired Paterson poets. Allen's father Louis was also a poet, who regularly published his poems in the Paterson News. I read Louis Ginsburg's poems as a boy and aspired to publish my poems in that same newspaper. All of this contributed not only to my self-identification as a poet, but also to my abiding feelings for the city.

When some years ago I worked in Paterson on a project for the American Folklife Center (Working in Paterson; https://www.loc.gov/collections/working-in-paterson/about-this-collection/), I had the opportunity to meet with Paterson mayor Bill Pascrell, who has since gone on to Washington to serve in Congress. When we met in his mayor's office that day, the first thing he asked me, knowing that I like he am a Paterson native, was, "What is it about Paterson that makes it so special?" At first, I could only marvel that he shared my feelings for the city. But I recovered and tried to answer (rather ineffectively, I might add, and we both agreed that we hadn't decided anything). Anyway, Mayor Pascrell just shook his head, I shrugged my shoulders, and we got on with the business at hand. 

I've thought about that conversation quite a bit since that meeting, and more recently have come to some conclusions -- emotional and personal, not rational -- and probably not conducive to argument or debate. But here's my thought. First, Paterson is a relatively small place – it's about two miles in any direction from the geographic center of the city. Second, it's geographically defined by the Passaic River, which flows west to east to form an arching, dancing dome over the city. From a geomantic perspective, I believe that would mark Paterson as a propitious and potentially sacred space. And finally, the Passaic Falls – the second-highest falls east of the Mississippi. Those falls would inspire Alexander Hamilton to establish the Society for Useful Manufactures (SUM) at Paterson in 1794; Paterson would be the place where the Industrial Revolution was jumpstarted in this country. Contra Davenport, not the railroad, nor any other development would "cancel" Paterson's identity; the Falls would preserve -- and enhance it.

I mention the Falls for their historical importance, and their symbolic dimension as well. The Falls are a powerful presence, centrally located within a relatively small geopolitical space. And it seems they're part of everyday consciousness; it's as though everyone in the city can "hear" or otherwise perceive them at a deeply sensory level, much or all of the time. That, along with the shaping activity of the Passaic River, evokes a profound feeling of belonging, of deeply embedded shared experience. Paterson has had its problems – poverty, crime, lack of opportunity for many residents – but I've never spoken with anyone who lives or has lived in the city who hasn't felt that there's a significant though indefinable quality about Paterson.

Now it happens that I had a significant experience that led me to this, far away and at some distance from Paterson. After moving back to Philadelphia from Pittsburgh in 2003, I determined to develop project work in the Delaware Valley, rather than travel distantly to do fieldwork. I'd still travel, but I wanted to develop local connections, dig in more deeply, and have the opportunity to follow up. That opportunity materialized in Camden, just across the river from Philadelphia.

At the time, according to statistics, Camden had the highest crime rate in the country. It was plagued by poverty, and as I came to believe, by corruption in city hall. Money had been pouring into the city, but with scant if any visible results in the neighborhoods. I developed contract work with a local arts organization and began going over the river and into Camden regularly. I didn't own a car, so I took the PATCO train into Camden and walked from the station into the neighborhoods. Although the city was regarded as a dangerous place I didn't know how else to do my work. But as I've learned over the years, people everywhere love, work, raise kids, gather, party, and so on, even in the so-called dangerous places. Life went on in the Camden neighborhoods pretty much as it did in other, more fortunate places.

But I want to say that when I first stepped foot in the neighborhood known as North Camden, I was overtaken by a feeling very much like the feeling I had in Paterson! It may have had to do with the streets, or the houses, or the people. I didn't know. But when I rode on the bus through the city, as I did on occasion, observing Camden from that perspective, I realized that Camden doesn't look anything like Paterson. Or at least, there wasn't any obvious comparison. So then what was it?

I've always loved looking at maps, and still use them extensively. And of course, doing fieldwork in the days before GIS I depended on published paper maps and atlases to navigate to places and find my way around once there. I also used maps to plot any more significant social, cultural, or geographical features I'd identified during fieldwork, and if possible identify and study any emerging patterns that could be meaningful. So when I first looked at a map of Camden, I was surprised to find that like Paterson, it had been shaped by the protective dome of a river – or in this case, two rivers. At  Camden, the Delaware River flows along the western boundary of the city and rises over the top of the city, where it meets the Cooper River flowing in from the south and east. To the south, there's Newton Creek, which feeds the Delaware and jabs east towards the center of the city, to form a watery southern boundary. (I've been told that Newton Creek has silted up quite a bit over time and that many years ago it joined the Cooper River, forming a defining circle around the city, forming an insular space.

landsat.com

In Camden, too, I recognized that same feeling of uniquity I'd personally felt in Paterson. In Paterson, however, I hadn't associated that feeling with the river dome, until I had that experience in Camden; until I'd noticed that the geography, and the riverine setting, were fundamentally the same in both places.

I've shifted attention and argument here, divagating along a geomantic fractal to bring Paterson and Camden into alignment -- rather than estabish the uniquity of Paterson per se. But what interests me here is the alignment, the common experience to be had in both places, as I myself experienced it. Does lived experience in either place reflect the commonality of topographical conditions beneath the respective river domes of these two cities? The question is probably unanswerable. Speaking personally, however, my answer would be yes -- irrespective of whatever civilizing process may have been at work to radically transform our cities, and empty them of meaning.

I want to close with a postscript on poetry, reemphasizing the references in the preceding text. These two cities -- these places -- have engendered a significant and enduring body of poetry during the past two centuries. Two poets, in particular, come first to mind: Walt Whitman in Camden, whose Leaves of Grass revolutionized verse form -- and content -- in the second half of the 19th century, and William Carlos Williams, whose verse epic, appropriately titled Paterson (alluded to by Davenport), written almost exactly one hundred years after Leaves of Grass, was and remains a key modernist text. There were other significant poets in both places too – Allen Ginsberg, a native of Paterson (whose father Louis was also a poet), and the notable American haiku poet Nick Virgilio in Camden (Virgilio died in 1989). Ginsberg's Howl, a signature work of the Beat movement, is another foundational 20th-century text. Virglio's output and his impact in and around Camden and neighboring Philadelphia was large, with what is perhaps his most famous poem, reflecting the Japanese roots of haiku:

Lily:

   out of the water …

       out of itself.

Nick Virgilio
Photo by J. Kyle Keener