Don Paterson’s “Rain”

Today Don Paterson’s new book “Rain,” slim and buoyant, appears with this near-perfect poem:

CORRECTIVES

The shudder in my son’s left hand
he cures with one touch from his right,
two fingertips laid feather-light
to still his pen. He understands

the whole man must be his own brother
for no man is himself alone;
though some of us have never known
the one hand’s kindness to the other.

Don Paterson

Order Rain
More on Don Paterson
Paterson is also a jazz guitarist
read his playlist from The New York Times

Poem copyright © 2009 by Don Paterson

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Letters by Anthony Hecht: In the Atelier

A heaping plateful of correspondence by poet Anthony Hecht is served up by Jonathan F. S. Post in the current issue of The Hopkins Review.  Thanks to the editors for allowing us to pass on three letters that offer a glimpse into the poet’s atelier.  In the first, as a mere lad of twenty-seven, Hecht responds to a meticulous unwrapping of his poems by W. H. Auden; of course Hecht later spent a whole book reflecting on Auden and the demands of his medium (The Hidden Law: The Poetry of W. H. Auden, Harvard, 1993). Order the full trove of letters from The Hopkins Review here.

Photograph of Anthony Hecht by Lotte Jacobi, courtesy of the American Academy in Rome

October 4, 1951
American Academy, Via A. Masina 5, Rome, Italy

Dear Parents:
[…] Let me tell you about my interview with Auden. It lasted two and a half hours, and he went over each one of my poems very carefully with me. It was a slightly tense business, as I had anticipated, because he was naturally concerned that I shouldn’t take offense at any critical comment he made, and at the same time he wanted to be as honest and scrupulous as he could be. I took no offense at anything, of course,  but when I tried to defend certain things I had done, he behaved as if he thought I resented his criticism, and he would modify his position and qualify his comments into oblivion. He told me he liked the poems very much, though I don’t know what that really means, since I think he would have said that in any case, providing he didn’t actually dislike them. Some of his comments about details were very apt and helpful, but he has a totally different way of conceiving a poem from the way I have, Continue reading »

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A Groaning Board This Thursday

This Thursday, Little Star and the Christopher Street Coffee House join up to sponsor a groaning-board celebration of things Irish: Paul Muldoon reads poems by himself and others, Bill Turner plays Irish classics, and Susan McKeown and friends will lift their voices in song. Please join us at the Christopher Street Coffee House, 81 Bleecker Street between 7th Avenue and Bleecker Street, Thursday, March 18 at 7:30 PM.

Check in at Facebook for more information and to tell us we’ll be seeing you. (By the way, hear Paul Muldoon read his poem “The Fish Ladder” and read a new poem by Seamus Heaney from the current issue here at littlestarjournal.com.)

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Welcome to Little Star

Welcome to Little Star and thank you for joining us! In Little Star’s journey to print of these last months, few have asked me the obvious question why, in an environment where the end of print is every day lamented, one would create a new print journal. That much seems self evident. The more frequent question seems to be how a journal today circumscribes its aesthetic turf—discover the young or celebrate the established? declare a school or cover the field? My answer to that would be exactly coterminous with the excellent works that appear in Little Star 1. But I might gloss this with a thought or two about our name and our epigraph. I lit on the little star as a motif because it seemed to me to embody the idea that literature inclines toward impulses that are enduring and expansive. While the literary business often gets caught up in the search for the new, writers, and readers, are working on a longer time horizon. I wanted to create a journal with that wider focus, a journal that would provide, in a hectic world, a refuge for more reflective forms of literary experience.

Another thought about that refuge: I’ve noticed in my years as an editor that people arrive in New York with the idea that they might find a “literary community,” only to realize, after a number of awkward parties and somewhat embarrassing encounters, that such a thing mostly exists on the page. It’s the editor’s dream to invite writers and readers into a room (albeit two-dimensional) where literature meets literature in a way that perpetuates this illusion. I hope Little Star will preside over many such encounters, with your help. Please order our inaugural issue and read the wonderful writers who have consented to join us, and please return to this page for a taste of their society.

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