There are a lot of David Gordons out there, and a lot of them have written books; in trying to disentangle the LibraryThing author page I managed to separate out six different ones before it was time for dinner, and there are still over a dozen books labeled “David Gordon (unknown).” The one I want to talk about here is currently author #6, the American poet. I bought his Rest: Part III of a Long Poem some years ago, instantly attracted by the Cantos-like air of it… well, hell, it’s basically a ripoff of the Cantos, in fact you could (if you were in a cruel mood) photocopy a page or two and use it to separate a true scholar of Pound from a phony who would be taken in by I Can’t Believe It’s Not Ezra. But what do I care? I’m a sucker for the polyglot, polymath, polyrhythmic style, and if I can get it without the typos and antisemitism (and with explanatory notes at the back), all the better. I always wondered who Gordon was, and now the magic of the internet brings me this biographical page from the Galerie Arnaud Lefebvre (30 rue Mazarine, 75006 Paris), from which I present to you the first few entries:
1929, Washington, D.C. born.
1932, New Iberia, LA, picked up Cajun phrases from playmates.
1939, Began to piece together that my paternal grandfather, Alexander was born in Sialkot, in the Punjab of Pakistan, which city was founded by an uncle of the Pandavas, heros of the Mahabarata. As a young child Alexander spoke Punjabi; his missionary parents had escaped by a 60 mile night ride to Lahore by horse and buggy through the midst of the Sepoi Mutiny, where more than 70,000 Sepois were massacring foreigners. As a kid I puzzled over some of the mysterious inscriptions.
1941, Just after Pearl Harbor my father mentioned a Huguenot ancestor’s horror tales about Louis XIV’s dragoons being quartered in the citizens’ homes without their consent.
1945, Met Yehudi Menuhin in an ice cream parlour, who expounded a 15 minute music lesson that remains useful to this day.
1948, Trombonist in a Navy Band, where in Guam I heard some Polynesian dialects. Got polio.
1949, Renewed interest in Sanskrit at an Indian temple.
Then he met Ezra Pound and Louis Zukofsky and Hollis Frampton and E. E. Cummings and Guy Davenport and Reno Odlin and Hugh Kenner… Well, I’m jealous, and I’d like to hang out with him sometime. Anyway, here’s a brief excerpt from page 43, so you can get an idea of what he’s like; someday I’ll have to get parts I and II of the “long poem”:
To break loose, fog-locked,
locate our own place,
landnám, settle, get stone, lay house groundsel
(murre holds narrow ledge long before egg is laid),
to break through fog-slab somewhere, Skagafjord to Thule,
Tyli, Θούλη, “not land, sea nor air” Pytheas saw,
but real fog, niflheim, “jellyfish” fog, niflhel.
To navigate the thick of Ginnunga-gap,
ΧΑΟΣ ΧΑΣΜΑ ἄπειρος, out of which
all comes, fog-gulped, sky without confines;
what good bearing-dial disk,
sólar-stein, no sun to see,
no ice blink, geese, driftwood, weed,
sound in void, out of magic gap comes being…