new old kid on the blog, with an occasional old or new poem written off the old writer's block
Thursday, December 31, 2009
Research Regarding Poetry and Driving
Recently received: A great New Year’s gift lovingly sent and signed by my old friend and author, John Levy. Half a dozen new prose poems in a three-color foldout from Bob Arnold’s excellent Longhouse. Reminiscent of Michaux at times but without the French writer’s pervading sense of terror, these pieces are Levy at his unpredictable, whimsical best. Highly recommended. Available in both signed ($15) and unsigned editions ($7.95).
Wednesday, December 30, 2009
Deconstruction
Near brimming candlelit cemetery
Under a waning winter moon—
Ring of barrels emptied of lime
Next to an ashen shovel, light.
Under a waning winter moon—
Ring of barrels emptied of lime
Next to an ashen shovel, light.
Tuesday, December 29, 2009
Chair Contemplating Colossus of Cyprus
In the Museum garden
Empty chairs:
the statues have returned
to the other museum.
--George Seferis, from “Sixteen Haiku”
Four days on a guided tour of Cyprus during the Christmas holiday (courtesy of the Greek Agricultural Pension Fund) were not enough to fully appreciate this beautiful and still tragically divided island, nor am I well-enough informed to know what really happened there so many years ago; still, the sight of a huge crescent and the flag of the illegal Turkish pseudo-state of "Northern Cyprus" provocatively carved on the mountainside overlooking Nicosia and the barricades dividing the city make me wonder if there will ever be a viable solution to the Cyprus problem. For those interested, you can read what the island has gone through here. Sadly, another tragic story that time is slowly but inexorably erasing.
As for the photo of the gigantic (10m!) statue of Archibishop Makarios situated about 500 meters from his grave, it’s a shame that such a beautiful spot high up in the rugged Troodos mountain range should be defaced by such a monument to bad taste. How the plastic chair found its way up here is anybody’s guess but it makes a fitting complement to the kitsch atmosphere pervading the scene.
NB: George Seferis wrote a great number of poems while on his first visit to Cyprus in 1953; published in 1955, they were included in his Collected Poems 1924-1955 as Logbook III.
NBB: Seferis' haiku should look like this:
In the Museum garden
Empty chairs:
the statues have returned
to the other museum.
Monday, December 28, 2009
On the Road to Shangri-la
Workers of the world
Go to work every day
And do not think
It’s child’s play.
Go to work every day
And do not think
It’s child’s play.
Saturday, December 26, 2009
Friday, December 25, 2009
Xmas in Limassol, Cyprus
Monday, December 21, 2009
Standing One's Ground
In the end meaning may well mean many things to many,
But may it never mean not budging an inch when
Everything crawling becomes suddenly deathly still.
But may it never mean not budging an inch when
Everything crawling becomes suddenly deathly still.
Saturday, December 19, 2009
Clotho at Work
In this instance, my sister-in-law’s long-departed grandmother. Photo taken in the early 70s outside the back entrance to our old house. Judging from the three or four layers of clothes she’s wearing and the fact that she’s huddled in the southwest corner taking in all the sunshine she can get, it must have been a sunny winter's day. Apart from that, this picture also reminds me of how large her hands were and how effortlessly they worked at unraveling the ball of yarn and twisting it onto the spindle until she came upon a knot and had to stop to untangle it. Utterly engrossed in what she was doing, she never realized I was three feet in front of her, never once looked up, never heard the shutter click, never even saw the picture afterwards before her fate called her away.
Thursday, December 17, 2009
Abstract: Poem Penciled in Charcoal
Snowbound dark
Grey twig
Clearing its way through
Tract of white
Birches ringing
A glade.
Grey twig
Clearing its way through
Tract of white
Birches ringing
A glade.
Wednesday, December 16, 2009
Samizdat Revisted
Where one poet confesses
To writing reams
Of clandestine literature, speechless
Others have nightmares
They hand out pieces of his tongue
And dream, dream, dream.
Tuesday, December 15, 2009
Hassle number 8
Recently received from the author: Hassle number 8, featuring David Miller, Hassle Press: 27 Treverbyn Rd, St. Ives, Cornwall TR26 1EZ UK, hasslepress@yahoo.com
Poet, editor, art/lit critic, and accomplished clarinetist, see The Mind Shop, this is Series 5, #5 of Miller’s Spiritual Letters. A short biography, plus information about David’s many publications and some succinct appraisals of his highly demanding but always satisfying work can be found here. My thanks to David for sending me this “Spiritual Letter” under the guise of a plain black-and-white pamphlet. Much appreciated!
Sunday, December 13, 2009
Tangerine
“The commune of Poetry becomes so real that [the poet]
sounds each particle in relation to parts of a great story
he knows will never be completed.”
--Robert Duncan, Bending the Bow
The Sung, tangible as
The word sounds.
In this instance, poet,
A small round
Reddish-orange object plucked
From a mandarin’s bough.
sounds each particle in relation to parts of a great story
he knows will never be completed.”
--Robert Duncan, Bending the Bow
The Sung, tangible as
The word sounds.
In this instance, poet,
A small round
Reddish-orange object plucked
From a mandarin’s bough.
Saturday, December 12, 2009
Immaterial
Nothing substantial, a revenant
Forever taking us back to where
We thought we were relevant.
Forever taking us back to where
We thought we were relevant.
Thursday, December 10, 2009
Southern Exposure
In a stretch of winter sunshine,
Against a harsh weather-
Worn veranda wall,
Soft blue slippers up-
Right in the afternoon,
Next to a beckoning
Red-pillowed chair.
Against a harsh weather-
Worn veranda wall,
Soft blue slippers up-
Right in the afternoon,
Next to a beckoning
Red-pillowed chair.
Tuesday, December 8, 2009
Monday, December 7, 2009
Starship Earth
Beam us up, Scotty—
Our captain was dead right when he told us
There’d be enough light
Years here for only
One night.
Our captain was dead right when he told us
There’d be enough light
Years here for only
One night.
Saturday, December 5, 2009
Narcissus
Perhaps
One imagines himself,
As in that line
Of Oppen’s,
Addressing his peers,
Or one does not. If he does,
He may well wonder how;
If not, he may fancy himself
Lost in reflection,
Wondering why.
One imagines himself,
As in that line
Of Oppen’s,
Addressing his peers,
Or one does not. If he does,
He may well wonder how;
If not, he may fancy himself
Lost in reflection,
Wondering why.
Friday, December 4, 2009
Bird in the Hand
im. Kurt Vonnegut (1922-2007)
One crow cawing in the luminous
Distance remains
Never so ominous
An omen
As one groping in desperation
For the next one waiting
To hand him over
To despair.
(Thanks to Annie Wyndham, whose blog post here inspired the above.)
One crow cawing in the luminous
Distance remains
Never so ominous
An omen
As one groping in desperation
For the next one waiting
To hand him over
To despair.
(Thanks to Annie Wyndham, whose blog post here inspired the above.)
Thursday, December 3, 2009
Token of Appreciation
Love, here’s a penny for your thoughts—
The word I gave you had a hole in it,
Not worth a plugged nickel—now tell me
When are you going to give it back?
The word I gave you had a hole in it,
Not worth a plugged nickel—now tell me
When are you going to give it back?
Wednesday, December 2, 2009
Subterfuge
Dummy, you still don’t get it—
To reach the truth, death must
Pretend to lie about it through your teeth.
To reach the truth, death must
Pretend to lie about it through your teeth.
Tuesday, December 1, 2009
Monday, November 30, 2009
Enemies of Promise
“Whom the gods wish to destroy they first call promising.”
--Cyril Connolly
Tottering from within—
Enterprise
That what will not be
Breached, though treacherous
Enemies have sworn
They will try to
Bring it to rubble whenever
Promise gathers the anointed
Rabble before the gates.
--Cyril Connolly
Tottering from within—
Enterprise
That what will not be
Breached, though treacherous
Enemies have sworn
They will try to
Bring it to rubble whenever
Promise gathers the anointed
Rabble before the gates.
Sunday, November 29, 2009
ServesUright.com is never wrong
Dear Mr. Zambaras:
ServesUright.com regrets to inform you that your application to register the name Saffilis Zaengmac as your lawful nom de plume cannot be accepted due to the fact that said aforementioned name was duly registered by one Goask Elgart on June 20, 1972.
Illegibly yours,
(signed)
Saffilis Zaengmac, Jr.
PS. Serves you right for not writing your name in block letters instead of signing off with just your signature, BLOCKHEAD.
Friday, November 27, 2009
Lie of the Land
1.
Our luck,
stopped among
the carobs and pines.
Needles. The beckoning stone
hut sunk in whitewash, inside
the heart lines creasing
familiar land.
2.
Coming out
now, the close lie
of the gulf
for a thousand miles
between us,
the hard truth hurting,
absolute light.
(First published in a somewhat different version in Sentences, 1976)
Our luck,
stopped among
the carobs and pines.
Needles. The beckoning stone
hut sunk in whitewash, inside
the heart lines creasing
familiar land.
2.
Coming out
now, the close lie
of the gulf
for a thousand miles
between us,
the hard truth hurting,
absolute light.
(First published in a somewhat different version in Sentences, 1976)
Thursday, November 26, 2009
Soulmonger's Thanksgiving
Ungrateful chattel,
Munching on every minute
Of every day, lest you forget
The hand that feeds you,
Give thanks
For all that is given,
All shall be sold,
All carted away.
Munching on every minute
Of every day, lest you forget
The hand that feeds you,
Give thanks
For all that is given,
All shall be sold,
All carted away.
Wednesday, November 25, 2009
Scrabble of Sweet
Lethe-bound, I had a dream
In which all I remembered
Remained a three-word puzzle:
Short, mysterious, sweet.
In which all I remembered
Remained a three-word puzzle:
Short, mysterious, sweet.
Tuesday, November 24, 2009
Harmonium
Let it be decreed and duly inscribed:
The word of a poet’s passing
Shall be accompanied
By a pealing pandemic
Multitude of reads!
The word of a poet’s passing
Shall be accompanied
By a pealing pandemic
Multitude of reads!
Sunday, November 22, 2009
Village Coffeehouse, Summer 1969
Sunday morning after church, 40 years ago: My mother's brother's coffeehouse in my home village of Remmatia--one refrigerator, one sink, one tiny butane cooker for the preparation of Greek coffee, three small round metal tables, a few wooden chairs, a hard-packed dirt floor, and the village's only telephone.
From left to right: My first cousin on my father's side of the family, my father, the village priest, my uncle, my cousin John on my mother's side--the only person still alive--all captured in a room inundated with incredible, bright late morning light.
Saturday, November 21, 2009
Machiavellian
Comforting
To know poets are
As good as their word—
It’s their politics
That’s disturbing.
To know poets are
As good as their word—
It’s their politics
That’s disturbing.
Friday, November 20, 2009
À Rebours
Concealed
In the golden autumn
Leaves of the Judas tree,
There is a solitary
Goldfinch
Whose every note threatens
Betrayal.
Thursday, November 19, 2009
Morning
The village was a hard place--a few white squares against
the mountain. No wells, no streams, a taste of cisterns on
the widow's lips who had brought him food--white cheese,
hard gray bread, black olives. She watched him eat and
told him to stay for the cool hours of evening and the
morning that would come alive like the light moving along
her lips now.
(From Sentences, 1976)
the mountain. No wells, no streams, a taste of cisterns on
the widow's lips who had brought him food--white cheese,
hard gray bread, black olives. She watched him eat and
told him to stay for the cool hours of evening and the
morning that would come alive like the light moving along
her lips now.
(From Sentences, 1976)
Wednesday, November 18, 2009
Metaphor
Wallace,
When we got to the moor,
We saw the one thing still
Moving on that mossy-like surface
Was a waterlogged semaphore.
When we got to the moor,
We saw the one thing still
Moving on that mossy-like surface
Was a waterlogged semaphore.
Tuesday, November 17, 2009
Today as April 21, 1970
Who will calculate for us the cost of our decision to forget?
--George Seferis
For the past
three years, she's been at it,
nagging as I descend
the steps into the garden, bent
over, bringing the sky with me:
Elias, where's the sun? You forgot
the sun again. You know how
we depend on you.
Hag. How she stumbles
in her garden, blistering her knees
against the rocks, while I sit here,
idle, and think about it:
"You know how we depend on you..."
I should have been an owl in daylight
or a marble face dumb in the night.
It would have been easier then,
hating her.
(From Sentences, 1976)
NB: Today is the 36th anniversary of the fall of the repressive, brutal and despicable Greek junta which seized power on April 21, 1967; true to form, the US was one of the first countries--perhaps the first--to recognize the dictators.
--George Seferis
For the past
three years, she's been at it,
nagging as I descend
the steps into the garden, bent
over, bringing the sky with me:
Elias, where's the sun? You forgot
the sun again. You know how
we depend on you.
Hag. How she stumbles
in her garden, blistering her knees
against the rocks, while I sit here,
idle, and think about it:
"You know how we depend on you..."
I should have been an owl in daylight
or a marble face dumb in the night.
It would have been easier then,
hating her.
(From Sentences, 1976)
NB: Today is the 36th anniversary of the fall of the repressive, brutal and despicable Greek junta which seized power on April 21, 1967; true to form, the US was one of the first countries--perhaps the first--to recognize the dictators.
Air of Gravity
Raindrops tripping the light
Fantastic?
On high tree limbs, light-
Headed wind brings them
Down to earth again.
Fantastic?
On high tree limbs, light-
Headed wind brings them
Down to earth again.
Monday, November 16, 2009
Kismet
desert storm
. . . . . . . . . . . .
mirages err
or ages speak
mirrors terror
. . . . . . . . . . . .
crushed the bones
jaws of asses
do not clatter
. . . . . . . . . . . .
thus of error
Sunday, November 15, 2009
Saturday, November 14, 2009
Immaculate Conception
Not what you would think but
Poems as pure,
Crystalline
As the snow
That’s driven us
To perfection.
Poems as pure,
Crystalline
As the snow
That’s driven us
To perfection.
Thursday, November 12, 2009
Supposition
What does it mean,
To grope? To an inquisitor,
I suppose it must
Mean to find yourself
Feeling uncertainty when
It happens
You find yourself fumbling
At the end of a rope.
To grope? To an inquisitor,
I suppose it must
Mean to find yourself
Feeling uncertainty when
It happens
You find yourself fumbling
At the end of a rope.
Wednesday, November 11, 2009
Tuesday, November 10, 2009
Careless
YOUR MISSION, SHOULD YOU DECIDE TO ACCEPT IT,
REQUIRES YOU TO DESCRIBE CAREFULLY
IN FIFTEEN WORDS OR LESS
THE PITIFUL STATE OF AMERICAN POETRY
Who cares if care is required
To enrich poetry, pity
The poor slob who cares.
REQUIRES YOU TO DESCRIBE CAREFULLY
IN FIFTEEN WORDS OR LESS
THE PITIFUL STATE OF AMERICAN POETRY
Who cares if care is required
To enrich poetry, pity
The poor slob who cares.
Invasion of the Slug People
You know
They’ve finally taken over
The world
When we no longer
Have the time
To shovel the slime
We’ve left behind.
They’ve finally taken over
The world
When we no longer
Have the time
To shovel the slime
We’ve left behind.
Monday, November 9, 2009
Environmental Awareness
Lone predator
Scouring the environs,
Peregrine falcon out
On uppermost branch
Of blighted tree limb—
Pray keep an eye on him.
Scouring the environs,
Peregrine falcon out
On uppermost branch
Of blighted tree limb—
Pray keep an eye on him.
Sunday, November 8, 2009
Quintessence
Worthy
O gods, the sprawling earth-
Bound spirits spawning
Their issue in aether,
Spilling their fire-
Like essence over
A consummate
Wine dark sea!
O gods, the sprawling earth-
Bound spirits spawning
Their issue in aether,
Spilling their fire-
Like essence over
A consummate
Wine dark sea!
Friday, November 6, 2009
Whence the Problem of Poetics
Poetry? I remember
I had a soft spot for it in my heart
That became hard to explain
Once I let it enter my brain.
I had a soft spot for it in my heart
That became hard to explain
Once I let it enter my brain.
Thursday, November 5, 2009
Good-For-Nothing Record of a No-Account
His ledger rife with minuses,
Two plus two never making four,
He put a rifle up his sinuses—
Nothing made sense anymore.
Recently Linked: My thanks to Elisabeth Hanscombe, who has just signed on as a follower. Elisabeth hails from Victoria, Australia and is a writer and psychologist who can be found writing on her blog , Sixth In Line.
Two plus two never making four,
He put a rifle up his sinuses—
Nothing made sense anymore.
Recently Linked: My thanks to Elisabeth Hanscombe, who has just signed on as a follower. Elisabeth hails from Victoria, Australia and is a writer and psychologist who can be found writing on her blog , Sixth In Line.
Wednesday, November 4, 2009
Another Oral Writing Lesson
--after Claude Lévi-Strauss(1908-2009)
Whoever said that
Writing could change
The intellectual
Conditions of human existence
Should have thought twice
Before writing it.
(Written after learning of Claude Lévi-Strauss' death on
Ron Silliman's blog.)
Whoever said that
Writing could change
The intellectual
Conditions of human existence
Should have thought twice
Before writing it.
(Written after learning of Claude Lévi-Strauss' death on
Ron Silliman's blog.)
Tuesday, November 3, 2009
Monday, November 2, 2009
Supplicant
High above the ruins
Of Ancient Messene
And below the lone village restaurant,
There is a haggard dog chained
To a large, earthenware jar.
His view of this once-rich
City is indeed magnificent, truly
Uplifting to the spirit, but
As he knows it by heart,
He prefers to sit on his haunches
And turn his back on it,
Looking up instead for any sign
Of the bones he prays the gods
Might find it in their hearts
To throw down to him.
Of Ancient Messene
And below the lone village restaurant,
There is a haggard dog chained
To a large, earthenware jar.
His view of this once-rich
City is indeed magnificent, truly
Uplifting to the spirit, but
As he knows it by heart,
He prefers to sit on his haunches
And turn his back on it,
Looking up instead for any sign
Of the bones he prays the gods
Might find it in their hearts
To throw down to him.
Sunday, November 1, 2009
My Friend Tree
Lorine,
I thought it was
the wind,
and turned in time
to see
leaf after leaf falling
between
my friend and me.
I thought it was
the wind,
and turned in time
to see
leaf after leaf falling
between
my friend and me.
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