The Postman in His Own Words

For 17 years, James Joyce worked on Finnegan's Wake.  In this work, he creates what could be considered his own language.  In preparing to write FW, Joyce had a notebook, his Scribbledehobble, over 1,000 pages of hand-written notes and neologisms on unlined paper.  FW is practically unreadable, but scholars sure can talk purty about what Joyce accomplished with this work.  Here is reproduced the opening page, notice it begins in the middle of a sentence, begun on the last page.

"riverrun, past Eve and Adam's, from swerve of shore to bend of bay, brings us by a commodius vicus of recirculation back to Howth Castle and Environs.

Sir Tritram, violer d'amores, fr'over the short sea, had passencore rearrived from North Amorica on this side the scraggy isthmus of Europe Minor to wielderfight his penisolate war: nor had topsawyer's rocks by the stream Oconee exaggerated themselves to Laurens County's gorgios while they went doublin their mumper all the time: nor avoice from afire bellowsed mishe mishe to tauftauf thuartpeatrick: not yet, though venissoon after, had a kidscad buttended a bland old isaac: not yet, though all's fair in vanessy, were sosie sesthers wroth with twone nathandjoe. Rot a peck of pa's malt had Jhem or Shen brewed by arclight and rory end to the regginbrow was to be seen ringsome on the aquaface.

The fall (bababadalgharaghtakamminarronnkonnbronntonnerronn-

tuonnthunntrovarrhounawnskawntoohoohoordenenthurnuk!) of a once wallstrait oldparr is retaled early in bed and later on life down through all christian minstrelsy. The great fall of the offwall entailed at such short notice the pftjschute of Finnegan, erse solid man, that the humptyhillhead of humself prumptly sends an unquiring one well to the west in quest of his tumptytumtoes: and their upturnpikepointandplace is at the knock out in the park where oranges have been laid to rust upon the green since devlinsfirst loved livvy."

sic

from

Finnegan's Wake

James Joyce

1939

Inauguration

Yesterday Elizabeth Alexander recited a poem for the inauguration of Barack Obama. She is only the fourth poet to speak on inauguration day for the third president (Kennedy had one [Robert Frost], Clinton had two [Maya Angelou and Miller Williams- one for each inauguration]). Here is another work by Elizabeth Alexander.

Ars Poetica #100: I Believe

Poetry, I tell my students,

is idiosyncratic. Poetry

is where we are ourselves,

(though Sterling Brown said

"Every 'I' is a dramatic 'I'")

digging in the clam flats

for the shell that snaps,

emptying the proverbial pocketbook.

Poetry is what you find

in the dirt in the corner,

overhear on the bus, God

in the details, the only way

to get from here to there.

Poetry (and now my voice is rising)

is not all love, love, love,

and I'm sorry the dog died.

Poetry (here I hear myself loudest)

is the human voice,

and are we not of interest to each other?