Verona

A city not on the list that Burton and I drew up
Thirty years ago though it would have been,
I’m certain now, as I sit in this bright piazza,
If, among the art books piled on his table,
One hand listed beautiful central squares
With houses meant to be festive, not imposing.
Even the two earnest young men in suits
Buttonholing strollers don’t dull my pleasure,
Two Mormons from Utah, assigned to this outpost
For their stint as apostles among the gentiles.

A winter of weekend planning in Burton’s kitchen
Didn’t seem too much for a summer
That his doctor predicted would be the last
His eyes would show him. After that, the corneas
Would grow too scarred from the stress of diabetes
To let the light in. It’s a shame he faced that future
So honestly that he felt too gloomy to go.
If he were alive now, and sighted, we’d agree
These two young Mormons have a tough assignment,
Making the gospel revealed to Joseph Smith
Near Palmyra, New York, irresistible
To church-going Veronese whose kin
Have sung in the local choirs for centuries.

As for lifting the spirits of nonbelievers,
I’ve only to pause on a bridge spanning the Adige
and gaze back on the fillet of walls and towers
The river looks pleased to wear.
Even Burton, always less likely than I to be mollified
By the Grace of the world, might have been inspired
To judge the townscape nearly as peacetul
As townscape in oil, though its Sunday quiet,
He might have cautioned, shouldn’t make us forget
The broils often stirred up on weekdays,
By the likes of the Montagues and the Capulets.

If the Mormons regard these streets as in need
Of instruction merely, not of appreciation,
They may be charged with a sin in the church of the beautiful
That burton tried to visit in his cheerful moods.
Of course he’d have imagined Verona’s skyline
Serving a painter of landscape as a starting point
For a city even more beautiful, a place for Poussin
To begin his efforts to move the viewer to rise
For at least a moment form a mood that’s passing
To one more permanent, however uncommon.

If the two apostles suppose the actual landscape
Will surpass Poussin’s tranquility of the spirit
Once their gospel is acknowledged by everyone,
They join a crowd of prophets whose promises
Would have angered Burton even before his blindness.
Better not wait around, he would have told them,
For slugs to change into butterflies. Better work
On making the stubbornly untransformed
Civic-minded enough to inform themselves
Which candidates claiming to serve the city
Are tools of the few and which are honest

As for Poussin’s improvements, in my favorite painting of his
The City is only a line on the far horizon.
The human figures set in the foreground
Are thumb-sized blues and yellows in a field of green.
it’s harvest time, and among the harvesters
I can imagine the Capulets and the Montagues
Swinging their scythes together. Also the Mormon boys,
No longer in summer suits but garbed like peasants,
Steadily working besides them while Pan and Flora
Look on approvingly from a stand of willows.

And Burton is there with his sight restores,
Pointing to a hill where the weary workers
May rest in the shade and look about them
And admire the beauty their eyes are blessed with.
And then he shows the new arrivals
How to bale the hay and load the wagons.

Carl Dennis was born in 1939 in St. Louis, Missouri. He earned a BA from the University of Minnesota and a PhD from the University of California-Berkeley. He taught at the State University of New York-Buffalo from 1966 until 2001, where he was both a professor of English and writer in residence. He has also taught in the MFA program at Warren Wilson College. Dennis has published numerous books of poetry, including House of My Own (1974), The Outskirts of Troy (1988), Meetings with Time (1992), Practical Gods (2001), for which he won the Pulitzer Prize, Callings (2010), Another Reason (2014), and Night School (2018).

His work is known for its quiet intelligence, meditative bent, and honest exploration of the times and trials of a certain segment of the American middle-class. Stephanie Burt, reviewing Callings in the New Republic noted, “It is in the minor efforts, the daily or weekly rewards and tasks that make up most of any life, that Dennis finds his métier. He was, and remains at the age of seventy-one, a poet of what we are pleased to call Middle America, of a circumscribed middle class in mid-sized towns, of self-control, long-range planning, and middle age.” Using a plain spoken, even conversational style, Dennis’s work stands out for its consistent ability to shape everyday speech patterns into a “casually regular” pentameter line, as Burt noted. Or as Martin Pops, a colleague at Buffalo, put it: “Carl speaks the same language as we do. The only difference is, he speaks it better.” But Dennis’s moderate, easy tone—his accessibility—frequently masks a deep sense of nostalgia, loss, grief, and even fear. “His level of discursiveness, his ongoing syntax, can become almost scary,” Burt notes. “If you keep talking intelligibly (the style implies), so that other people understand you, you will have some way to know that you are still alive.”

Dennis has also published a book of criticism, Poetry as Persuasion (2001). With its focus on the relationship between reader and writer, the book explores various methods of creating the voice of a poem, including the use of irony, the mock heroic, and myth. Dennis’s argument for poetry as fundamentally a kind of communication dependent upon compelling speakers is augmented by sensitive close readings of a range of poems and poets. Michael Collier noted that the book “brilliantly demonstrates… why poetic voice is essential to the process of lyric articulation. Dennis’s essays are particularly useful to poets learning their craft and to students of poetry, but every reader will find delight in the calm and lucid intelligence each page holds.”

He has received numerous honors and awards for his work, including fellowships from the Guggenheim Foundation and the National Endowment for the Arts. In addition to the Pulitzer Prize, he has received the Oscar Blumenthal Prize, the Bess Hokin Prize, the J. Howard and Barbara M.J. Wood Prize, and the Ruth Lilly Prize.

Dennis once told Contemporary Authors: “I don’t see myself as belonging to any particular school of poetry.” And to the Poetry Society of America, he elaborated on his belief that poetry should not concern itself with movements or groups: “I would like to believe that at least some American poets manage to maintain the faith they can reach in a single work a diverse audience with a variety of perspectives as opposed to one two specific constituencies. I think that this kind of ambition is more likely to produce work that lasts, that will still be read when specific audiences, and the local conditions that have produced them, have ceased to exist. Writers cannot step back entirely from the presumptions of their specific cultures, but they are more likely to be useful critics of those cultures, not merely mirrors, if they make an effort to hold up all they believe to critical scrutiny. And more likely to make this effort honestly if they can imagine readers free of any particular political agenda. The difference may only be a matter of degree, but in these matters degree is everything.”