The Usual Suspects

“Those who will some day live here where we end—

should the blood happen to darken in their memory and overflow—”

—George Seferis, from Mythistorema

Only a passing

Glance in the dark

But we can tell

They are backing

Into the picture again

Before something else develops.

March 19, 2011: The Day the Laptop etc. Went Away

Due to unforseen circumstances (in this case, a burglary at our house), my posts will be restricted until I can get a replacement for my stolen laptop. That might be easier than recovering all the data I had on it since I was stupid enough not to have backed up everything onto my external hard drive.

Paradise, As in Green Cheese

—after Huuklyeand Cinquor

Poets weaned on bucolic should return

Every spring to old familiar meadows where

Transmogrified into sheep, they munch

On sweet, heavenly grass and dream

Of idyllic shepherds suckling their teats

Week after week. 

Huuklyeand Cinquor on Drooling over the Prospects

You who wish your every word

To be on everybody’s lips,

The next time you feel

Your creative juices over

Flowing, use a spittoon.

Moderator’s comments: I see what Cinquor’s aiming at, but when was the last time anybody saw—or more to the point—used a cuspidor?

Huuklyeand Cinquor As Well-Bred Epicurean Cynic

My sire and my lady exquisite connoisseurs

Of proper cast and breeding,

I was breast-fed first on caviar and wine,

Then led to believe the world was my oyster—

So where’s my pearl, you swine?

Moderator’s comments: Talk about biting the hand that feeds you—not even a titbit of gratitude and respect.

The Doors

Picture taken about 20 years ago, a few kilometers past the town of Zacharo on the Ionian coast on the way north to Patras. Sadly, this construct is no longer standing; whoever put it together using old doors is probably no longer standing either.

Thanks to Bob Arnold and his Earth Builder's post for the reminder.

Blooming Conflagration of the Senses

Mauve the hills on fire with heather—

You can almost hear the smell.

Apotheosis Made to Measure

“And sometimes for great poetry, an infinitely small vocabulary is what you want. Perhaps that would be the ideal, except for the fact that it’s pretty hard to write a poem that way.”—Jack Spicer, from Vancouver Lecture 1

Ideal it would be indeed,

And infinitely hard and great yes,

But imagine

How easier that way would be

If only our words were

As modest as our measure.

The Trial

Believe me, I’ve tried

To be as honest

As I believed

A poet should be—

Forgive me.

Huuklyeand Cinquor on Putting Your Money Where Your Mouth Is

Enough, I say—

Only a fool would think seriously

Of writing poems

Day in and day out

And then

Go on and do it.

Moderator’s comments: Don’t look at me, Huuklyeand—I think I’ve paid my wages; now all I have to do is sit back and wait for an eternity to see if my investment pays off.

Have Poems, Will Travel

 
Depending on your time frame, this could be either 1) an announcement for an upcoming poetry reading, or more plausibly 2) a souvenir from my one and only poetry reading  32 years ago when I returned to the Pacific Northwest for three months during the summer of 1979. John Levy was living in Seattle at that time and was instrumental in setting up the reading. I think there must have been about thirty people in attendance.

The flier announcing the event is from the cover of my first book, Sentences, and most of the poems I read that night were from that collection, though I did read some translations I had done of Seferis' Mythistorema.

If anybody out there wants to pay my travel expenses, I'd be more than willing to return to the US for my second poetry reading! I'd even be willing to dispense with the honorarium. If interested, please submit your proposal within the next 32 years. 

 

 

Urban Indian Legend

No place

on any white

man’s map—

red

abstract

rib

like

tracks

treading

a

cross an end

less pale

concrete

tract.

Huuklyeand Cinquor on Levity in Poetry

Levity does have a place in poetry—

It has to be somewhere 

Between having your head stuck 

In the ground and your feet 

Ascending in air.

Moderator’s comments: I felt so giddy while reading this poem that at first I thought Cinquor had written “feat” instead of “feet”—but then again, I’ve always been a sucker for puns—like John Donne—or should that be “did?”

Stillborn

that

we

could

be

whatever

we

wish

what

a

wish

that

could

be

Charles Baudelaire , The Exterminator

My latest offering over at Weekly Hubris shows how you can dispose of work written by pestiferous, pretentious pseudo-artistic poseurs by employing Monsieur Fleurs du Mal as a hit man. While you’re on the premises, check out what the other columnists have to offer!

You Can Lead a Horse to Water. . . .

In my wildest dreams, Pegasus has me

Riding high in the saddle—

(Never a care)

*

When I wake from my nightmare,

I find myself bronco busted—

(Flailing the air)