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Wednesday, October 1, 2014

poems for September 29


Speaking Is – by Cara Benson
To an Old Square Piano by Robinson Jeffers
A Gift by Amy Lowell
An Ending—Howard Nemerov
Solitudes by Margaret Gibson
Theme for English B by Langston Hughes
They Sit Together on the Porch by Wendell Berry
A Rune, Interminable by Marie Ponsot

A full slate of poems which started with "speaking" -- and how we speak up, or voice, and ending with listening to Eileen Aroon
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PoWpQWanUAI as "A Rune" reminded paul of "Aroon" which means "a loved one".

Ending of a season, a time, and what is lost along the way, what remains true within us.

The first poem felt delightfully cubist -- geometry (including the comment speaking is a "trap -- e void") and odd assortments of objects, where a chamber pot and helmet fit side by side; the conundrum of the witty reversal of "not customs— accounting" in what is declared or not.
What is our custom, what do we account for general customs we don't speak out about,etc.
Associations included Frost's "Out- Out..." the fatigue at the end of the day and survival vs. "those that lifted eyes could see";
lay-out... If you take the title and last word: Speaking is... accounting...
Judith was reminded of the Cocteau film, Orphée – l’oiseau chante avec ses doigts deux fois...what comes out of radio...
I can't remember who said “I hope whatever team you’re playing on, wins...” or why...

but however it is -- most of us agreed, Benson's poem was worth reading again.

Jeffers poem felt more dated (remember he was born in 1887!) old-fashioned but not treacly...
a sense of wearing down... the piano respected for its own history...with lovely deep O
sounds and end-rhyme ABC ACB.

Lowell's "gift" felt like anything but if the expectation was something not sludgy. Self-centered creepiness? a bad joke? Amy-gist as imagist, an epithet Judith said people applied to her.

Nemerov provided relief...
subtle use of rhythm...the pleasure of the sound texture, diction...
language is tough... intensely thoughtful, external/internal.
We discussed weather/mood... exhausting to be always sunny...

The next poem, posted on Writer's Almanac Sept. 11, has a few "cutesy" line breaks which detracted from a sense of waiting-- perhaps Gibson's idea of reinforcing separation, and Solitude.

How satisfying then, to read the terrific Langston Hughes -- although the poem was published in the 1959, probably written earlier. The separation between white and black, a lot more powerful than the waiting loneliness in the Gibson. Hughes poem walks you into a deeper daring to say I, just like you...have my truth to say. We discussed the idea of writing as being "black ink on white paper" black on white... and the "somewhat more" that comes before "free" -- both about race, but also implying censorship of what is written.


We thorough enjoyed the Wendell Berry -- the conversation an old couple can't bear to voice... We talked about different ways of avoiding saying “die”: – he steps out of the picture...
goes first... gone to your reward... laid down w/ Jesus...
kicks the bucket... bites th dust... called home...
you have two days to go...


A satisfying session -- because of the discussion, bringing to life through words, a liveliness about closure.

Poems for lunch -- September 25

The Persona Poem... what lies between the lines...
Sampling from Mo ’ Joe Anthology, compiled by John Roche, RIT
“There are many Joes throughout the galaxies of Poetry”
Cup a Joe – John Roche
Joeness is -- Carol Moscrip
Joe Wrote a Poem -- Dane R. Gordon
Joe becoming – Paulette Swartzfager
Joe the Photographer – Kitty Jospé
Joe’s “March of Time” -- Larry Belle
Post-Gas Wells, Post-Nuclear Missile Silos -- Karla Linn Merrifield
**
Siren Song -- Margaret Atwood
Strugnell's Haiku by Wendy Cope
+ links to two others.
A Rune Interminable -- Marie Ponsot

I explained how John Roche's anthology "Mo' Joe" came about -- the fun of the reading at BYQE bookshop..
Mike shared a "joe story" about superstar Joe Montana from work where there are a lot of Buffalo Bill Fans...
in his words:
" when a game is coming up there is usually a flurry of e-mails discussing the game, mostly good-natured kidding like “our team is going to demolish your team;” “Oh yeah?! Your team is so bad that [fill in the blanks]” and the like. Once, Buffalo was hosting a team led by an acclaimed superstar named Joe Montana. He was so well-known that people didn’t need to say the full name, they would just say things like “Joe is going to storm into town and take apart your team.” It was all Joe this, Joe that.

One of my friends responded with a short poem that he made up on the spot as he was responding to an e-mail:

Joe
Here comes Joe
The Bills welcome Joe
Joe now sad
Joe

The response was overwhelming. All these guys who never gave a thought to poetry were suddenly analyzing and deconstructing this poem:

“The symmetry!”

“It starts small, builds up, then fades into an anticlimax.”

“The first line says it all: ‘Joe.’ That’s what the buzz is, the popular sentiment: Joe can do it all, ‘Joe’ is all you need to say. Then, Joe is coming to your town! Watch out! Everybody go hide!! Then the Bills’ response to the hype: Yeah, so he’s coming to our town; big deal. We welcome him. We’re up to the challenge. Bring it on. We’ll give him our brand of ‘welcoming.’ Then: Joe now sad. Three little words that sum up the outcome of the game: Joe’s team lost. He’s sad. His team and their fans are in mourning. Finally: ‘Joe’ again. A single word summing up the disposition of all the sound and fury. Look at Joe now; see what became of the mighty Ozymandias Joe.”

It was just a funny, interesting little interlude that we still remember and kid each other about."

Indeed -- we enjoyed hearing the story!
We discussed what made Joe special.. the humor of Joe who misspells, his journey, the nature of "joeness"how maybe "Joan" the poet would pick up on the O of hope and pOet.
I appreciated that people like Joe the Photographer... his unflinching desire to capture and convey what he sees in spite of the danger.

In contrast, Atwood's siren song, which repeats the word "song" as it wraps around the secret of the ego... and co-dependence, draws us in with the first line:
"This is the song everyone would like to learn..." the voice is universal, seductive... only you-- only you can help-- coupled with "you are unique" -- aren't those two things we'd love to believe? Boring song... and darn it, it does work every time (to our unspoken down fall).

We had fun imagining Strugnell... we read it line by line and played around with reading only the first lines together, the second and the third to see if that might help out his Haiku... a fun teaching non-haiku poem,
rather Falstaffian.

The Rune, Interminable -- people picked up the key of "unhurrying", the timing of time, both as first forms of life, in seed, the winter/spring of wintergreen as the poem's rich rhyme, the O's of first word "low" and last word "lost" against the tick of the I.

Reading at Brockport -- " A Different Path Gallery" September 27, 2014 : post-reading ruminations

I love readings... it's more than a birthing process, bringing a poem to its audible life to sit in the light of an audience...after the gestation period in which each poem grows...
there is also the "nursing period" where often another layer of revision takes place...

Dream Lens: one of the Borderliner poems shared-- I'm not sure "madeleines and mad lenses" worked... but realize how much importance I attach to "The Joy of Cooking" -- as poems such as "Butter Butter" (to be published) and "In Mother's Kitchen" (Gathering Lines) also come from there. Dream Lens, unlike the other two, one recounting a slant memory of my mother's madness, the other the processed foods which had nothing to do with the recipes from scratch, deals with the mystery of a dream -- combined with Proust's memory triggered by a Madeleine dipped in Tilleul. Does the poem do justice to the conceit of "attending to what is before us?" with its feet in the hopes and dreams of a 14 year old girl? The point isn't "what to make of the mystery of hidden messages" in a dream 50 years later. The Poem isn't ready yet... goes into the "to work on" pile.

On Spells : interesting concept of "wordless charcoal" that's in my poem "Golden Smoke", and section of a new book I put together in June of that title. R: came up as a letter when I first started writing poetry -- the tool for Regret. This time, it is for "Rise" -- the lower case r speaking: "hold up your corps" -- the verbal match for "are" connected to "we, you, they" -- the little i rolling a head of wonder... s snaking into a mobius strip emphasized by e for ease of silence... OK for sound and spell in a reading, but not publishable.

The ekphrastic poems worked: the Lewis Hine photo -- already per for

I love cleave poems. I had read "On silk road" at Litsplosion, but here read "An Old Japanese Mask" -- that will be a good one for Valley Manor 10/15...

I also read Madonna and Child -- in the section of Golden Smoke I call "color for burnt land" -- it was OK, but revised it, and realized "In Cappadocia" is stronger.. both have the spirit of "there are hundreds of ways to kneel and kiss the ground"

I thoroughly revised "Stealing a Line" -- going back to think about what "wailing under aboutness" meant in an interview with Lucia Perillo. It's now called "wailing" -- my friend Linda says my first ending in response
to my mother's "All I want is a little white pill to end this all" of "I told her, go ahead" might be alienating to the reader. She's right -- much better to include the reader and ask "what would you have said" -- and allow such a thought to be one of the many one shuffles in one's head witnessing someone else's despair.

The "Evening Thief in the Storefront Window" I revised to be a "Joe the Evening Thief" -- in the spirit of
Joe the photographer... which I read. I am so grateful to John for having put together this anthology.

Grateful to the 2013 Fringe poetry chain which provided "Next" which turned into Golden Smoke, title poem for the ms I put together in June which needs re-submitting after revising.

I did read the Cummings' inspired "Sea of faces" -- little face dots like iiiiii's which I had read better at Litsplosion -- and in the second half of the reading, following a Q&A, explained the process of composing like Cummings, but combining musical settings which use his poetry as with the background of his paintings as lyric.

The fun of reading the Lord's Prayer backwards in a new, "selected" Backwards activity. Good for certain readings.
Not sure this would work in a book -- inspired by Robert Marx -- and I wouldn't have known about him without photographer friends...

the story of my roommate (also a poem workshopped by JP in August) in "No Orioles Sing in the Willows" seemed to work, as did "Real, tailing" -- a kind of prosy way of visiting the rice terraces near Guilin, prompted by the sign "do not climb the tailings" -- what is real following, or what tails "real"... not a bad question...

Walk-Stitch seems to work -- inspired by the plants in Centennial Sculpture Park at the MAG -- another one that will work at Valley Manor...

Van Gogh's boots from Cadences... a good one for readings and one of my favorites...
Word of the Day -- fun poem for readings, also done at Litsplosion...


I am so grateful for all who came... so grateful for such an opportunity...

Wednesday, September 24, 2014

Rundel Poems for Lunch -- September 18

Seen from Above by Jennifer K. Sweeney
Music at My Mother's Funeral by Faith Shearin
You're the Top by Tony Hoagland
They Sit Together on the Porch by Wendell Berry
No by Mark Doty

potpourri of poems

Seen from above, blends a repetition of “steady” applied to trains, “missives” from other-where, dislocation ... and you think you might be entering an idea about winter’s reach as “steady” connects to icicles, leaves, people with their clocksongs and deaths.
At this point the tone changes; maybe the poem could end there—“keep the fire lit/
things are not as they seem.” But the poem insists on an enigmatic instruction about bell-ringing, with both feet off the ground. What has this to do with the title?

What do we look for in poems? Intrigue, mystery but yet, which invites in spite of not being able to put our finger on it, that leaves us feeling satisfied.
The tercets allow the eye to tumble from “other-where—
from “clocksongs” through white space, “and filled-up lives” .


The next poem, Music at My Mother’s Funeral, in one unbroken stanza, starts in media res, where the mother is part of planning the music, but leads to “the soundtrack of her life”. The humorous details, including the music of the seat belt reminder she ignored
paints a delightful picture of a woman who knew her own mind.

How different from the memory of a Grandmother in Hoagland’s poem, also written in triplets, but with the unwarranted enjambement of un-/ politically correct. Diction, word choice is pleasing and captures the age of Cole Porter – whose lyric is bright, beautiful and useless – the ending words of the poem, which at first comes as a shock, as if it is the grandmother’s life, caught in her ignorance about the world, or her red high-heel kicked into the chandelier. It led us into a discussion of how we remember grandparents, as opposed to our own parents. Jim went on a tangent about what’s broken in society
the juxtaposition of Ghandi and Napoleon brandy, the suspension of “just” and prohibition (shelter of a dry martini). The speaker of the poem establishes an adolescent view of the flavors of this woman compared to trivial rhymes, that transitions to how she saw herself – which surprisingly seems no different, and sad.

The Wendell Berry portrait could be played in d minor, a sad end of life snapshot,
with the word “dark” used in 3 different ways: night, without light; and death as the dark doorway.
Doty’s “No”
With all the hard “c” and “cl” sounds, the vivid adjectives (alien lacquer, ruined wall paper, smell unopened) the turtle, like God, is the one in charge, at the center of everything. A delightful poem in both conceit and manner. As I mentioned in the August discussion of this poem, Doty captures the world of the child, and layers in this line, "I think the children smell unopened," both their own "unsmelled" lives, as well as understanding the unopened secret of the turtle they hold to each adult face. The verb “heft”, the slant rhyme of “unlit”, with “single” reinforce the sense of possible which they love, that “he might poke out his old, old face”.

Because we had some time left over, we also read Lisel Mueller’s poem “Things and Naomi Shihab Nye’s, “The Art of Disappearing” and Mike noted how we could end many of the poems sooner –
Seen from above: “things are not as they seem”
Music: but it did not seem to matter.
You’re the top: suspended in a lyric by Cole Porter
No –the single word of the shell

Wendell Berry was the only one where such a cut would not be good.

Jess had the idea of saying just the last line. Applied to Seen from Above
Seen from above
from other-where
bandwidth
last leave winnowing
with their clocksongs
like chaff from a scythe
keep the fire lit.
(end there.)

Applied to the Doty:
Because they want us to feel
in their own hands, want us to feel
he’s the color of ruined wallpaper
nothing but the plummy leather.
They know he makes night
as they do. His age
from which they are excluded,
building anywhere. They love
unopened
the single word of the shell.

Social Media... and poetry: fear of obliteration and alienation

How does social media and internet enter the picture? Robert Pinsky believes poetry destabilizes mass culture (source of tremendous collective anxiety), but the poet also is afraid of obliteration and alienation...becoming like everyone else /and losing connection if we are fluently different.


Wendy Willis,in her article, “A Million People on One String: Big Data and the Poetic Imagination” published in Poetry Northwest helped me to think again about the meaning of "art" in the context of poets and writers as citizens of “modernity” as producers of content. She compares Internet to a chocolate factory, churning out specially designed confections to satisfy our deepest and most compulsive cravings, play to our weaknesses.
For poets these are existential... clattering craving for recognition... desire to be seen... Facebook, twitter for all (or none) to admire...

I wonder what Cummings might have thought about this? A nuisance? something that could perk his imagination?

Willis reminds us of Wallace Stevens, "Man with the Blue Guitar". Even though the artist may not play things as the reader sees them, the job is to see how the artist is playing..

"The man replied, "Things as they are
Are changed upon the blue guitar."

And they said then, "But play, you must,
A tune beyond us, yet ourselves,

A tune upon the blue guitar
Of things exactly as they are."

We will start the discussion with a look at the Stevens' poem and a short look at Cummings' spirit... the relevance and acceptability of the lyric was certainly called into question in their times.

In 1969, John Ashbury's "Soonest Mended" where long sentences are broken into lines to look like a poem, seems to make the poem a vehicle for ruminations and musings.
45 years later, we read efforts such as Mathias Svalina: Dream Delivery Service: “I will write the dreams without consultation with the dreamer,& deliver them daily.”
Champions of social mediated poetics sometimes sound gleefully dystopian: “We’ve all been flattened to virtual handles and data” they say, “so literature should be similarly flattened...
Flatness of unqualified exuberance; rote positivity; flatness of pious conceptualism; wry deflection; language authentic when simplistic, but wallowing in inability for nuanced response...


But the fantasy makes it ours, a kind of fence-sitting
Raised to the level of an esthetic ideal. These were moments, years,
Solid with reality, faces, namable events, kisses, heroic acts,
But like the friendly beginning of a geometrical progression
Not too reassuring, as though meaning could be cast aside some day
When it had been outgrown. Better, you said, to stay cowering
Like this in the early lessons, since the promise of learning
Is a delusion, and I agreed, adding that
Tomorrow would alter the sense of what had already been learned,
That the learning process is extended in this way, so that from this standpoint
None of us ever graduates from college,
For time is an emulsion, and probably thinking not to grow up
Is the brightest kind of maturity for us, right now at any rate.
And you see, both of us were right, though nothing
Has somehow come to nothing: the avatars
Of our conforming to the rules and living
Around the home have made—well, in a sense, “good citizens” of us,
Brushing the teeth and all that, and learning to accept
The charity of the hard moments as they are doled out,
For this is action, this not being sure, this careless
Preparing, sowing the seeds crooked in the furrow,
Making ready to forget, and always coming back
To the mooring of starting out, that day so long ago.

 The Paris Review, 1969


Poems for Sept. 21

Love poem with ecological concerns -- Bob Hicok
Briefly Accept Events as They Occur by Sharon Dolin
-- Epictetus

Pay No Attention to Things That Don’t Concern You by Sharon Dolin
-- Epictetus

Times the Whole World By Zero by Ben Purkert
sweeping psalm by Christopher Janke
Blink by Sid Miller


The poems this week take a peek at some of the contemporary poetry selected from Summer/Fall 2014 Poetry Northwest and one poem from the Boston Review.
In 1969, John Ashbury's "Soonest Mended" starts this way:
“Barely tolerated, living on the margin
In our technological society, we were always having to be rescued
On the brink of destruction, like heroines in Orlando Furioso
Before it was time to start all over again.”

45 years later, we read efforts such as Mathias Svalina: Dream Delivery Service: “I will write the dreams without consultation with the dreamer,& deliver them daily.”
What has changed in our poetry regarding our attitudes towards technology?
What makes us glad to read a poem as vehicle for ruminations and musings on the nature of being human?
Comments from Summer/Fall 2014 Poetry Northwest articles by Zach Savich and Wendy Willis:
“In social media, a work often seems inseparable from how we talk about it... Champions of social mediated poetics say, “we’ve all been flattened to virtual handles and data... so literature should be similarly flattened.”

“the poem as selfie is the aesthetic criterion of contemporary verse”. Geoffrey Hill

Does anyone have a memorized copy of Ashbery’s “Soonest Mended”?

The internet is the island of the lotus eaters, it is the house of mirrors, it is brothel and donut shop wrapped into one.

Poet as disruptor, world-creator and conjurer, guardian and spokesperson for the unconcious. As Wallace Stevens spells out in the Man with the Blue Guitar:

“The Man with the Blue Guitar” (excerpts.) by Wallace Stevens:
I

The man bent over his guitar,
A shearsman of sorts. The day was green.

They said, "You have a blue guitar,
You do not play things as they are."

The man replied, "Things as they are
Are changed upon the blue guitar."

And they said then, "But play, you must,
A tune beyond us, yet ourselves,

A tune upon the blue guitar
Of things exactly as they are."

**
commentary:
The Man with the Blue guitar...
and suddenly, we think Green Eggs and Ham... and Sam I am, and Picasso and the sounds – two syllables for the instrument, one for the plural 2nd person of the verb to be,
searching for the key “A tune beyond us, yet ourselves”.
Carmin shared a quote from Miles Davis: Sometimes it takes a long time for you to sound like yourself. David brought up the theatrical set up that asks “who is talking” – on the stage of a world where each player is filled with his/her inevitable subjectivity.
We noted the complaint of color, the insistence that the player get out of the way—and the insistence that there is one way the is real, and Martin offered the idea that reality really only exists in relationship. Perception, measurement, scientists imply are a probability...

Bob Hicok; I also read from the Summer issue of Poetry Northwest his other two poems:
Amen; Oops which capture life in a digital world. What intrigued me about the poem
Love poem with ecological concerns was what kind of expectations we have of a love poem – and how ecological concerns enter in. We read it twice, first sentence by sentence, then line by line, which allowed for a rich layering. ex.
along the course of time to an end
that is really an entering
of forgetting? While those
are three thousand pound questions
I can’t answer, I can change
my ring tone to the dying words ...

so, intimation of death, preceded by a sense of kinship...

And how do I take my skin off
to show the river I know we are family
and in this struggle to have form
together, have duration and wear a name

Emily felt he captured an E.E. Cummings spirit, exploring evanescence and miracle of being alive...even though of limited duration... the “you” at the end of the poem is mysterious – this “you” who would call... hear the ring tone of the dying river... reminded by it that this “you” whose inner water, like the speaker’s inner water, is not here to stay.

The next two poems reflected stoic philosophy – the second one in particular, don’t
pay attention to things that don’t concern you” left a disjointed feel –which Paul compared to reading the dictionary – rarely end up with the word you were looking for.
We also discussed the word “slurring” – whether slurring only to drop to the next line to land on pain, or to take a Stoic view of pain... dismissing it without acknowledging its qualities... which led into a discussion about pain.

The next two poems left us hanging – and we tried to piece together some sense, but abandoned them in hopes maybe someone next week might have an idea.
The final poem “blink” opened up many directions of perception—remembering the “staring game” where the one who blinks first loses; the psychology of blinking to throw someone off; the idiomatic use of things happening “in a blink”. Paul suggested that the speaker of the poem is using the metaphor for whatever small gesture (encompassed by a blink) on which love hinges. Whether we blink because we can’t take in anymore; or in order to take in more... everything has the ability to speed by in blinks whether you count them or not.

Tuesday, September 16, 2014

Poems for September 15

With the Fringe coming up, this week, we discussed a few Cummings poems, which you will be able hear set to to contemporary music -- a different way of "making things new".
There are many different types of poems that Cummings writes... which is a reminder that it is not fair to judge a poet by just a handful of poems. The larger question,
is how others can approach a poem, enjoy it, feel they have seen a piece of the poet, a piece of themselves in a larger part of art.
Flaubert: “Anything becomes interesting if you look at it long enough.”
Poetry isn’t about “getting it” for art is not something to “achieve” succeed in
or fail at, but rather invites us to have a conversation and relationship with it.
I look forward to our conversations!


Poems by Cummings
1. who are you,little i
2. may my heart always be open to little (New Poems, #19; 1938
3. supposing i dreamed this (is 5: 1926; IX from FOUR)
4. Song (but we've the may)
5. your little voice (Tulips, 1925, Amores, I)
6. imagine i'm/ from XAIPE (Greek word for “rejoice”)
(dedicated to Hildegarde Lasell Watson), 1950
7. in the rain- (Tulips, 1925, Amores II)


I find it interesting to compare the comments of the Thursday group with the Monday on the first poem -- "little" seems to be one of those key words for Cummings -- and in addition to looking at the parentheses, the peering of a smaller i, Martin noted that "five or six years old" could also refer to the passage of time--- not necessarily confined to a child, but a feeling which may have happened five or six years ago... Elaine noted the colon after "feeling:" which accentuates the importance of it. Marcie was reminded of the style of A.A. Milne who captured the magical tone of childhood... and Jan shared an anecdote of her 5 year old grandson, who didn't want his mother to grow old. Judith reminded us that English is the only language that capitalizes "I" in the nominative case.
We tried reading the poem aloud in different ways, as we did on Thursday -- a male voice, a female voice, a voice for what is inside and outside the parentheses... each voice finding a unique cadence as the poem unfolded in multiple understandings.
**
May my heart always be open to little / is a perfect poem to read line by line, pausing to allow each line to carry its own meaning, before attaching it to the next line. The slant rhymes are rich -- fail/smile; eye-rhymes of wrong/young; the juxtapositions of old/stroll; separating of hungry and thirsty with fearless and supple (echoes of "pull" in usefully, truly). Cummings weaves a rich texture with simultaneous sounds and possibilities. We discussed as well the missing "much", which would have ruined the rhythm and not allowed "love yourself so" to stand on its own next to "more than truly". I asked if people felt "pulling the sky over w/ a smile" was a little too sentimental, still thinking about the critique of Cummings as a minor poet, stuck in adolescence. What word other than smile would foil the "fail"?

Supposing i dream this... we noted how the wind does wrap -- words are pulled closer together separated by commas without spaces, and no one swells to noone'echoing the double "o" of fool...and latter "poor".
The 'f" wonderful/flower/laughing juxtaposes with dark jealousy -- and one senses a
complex view of a couple... We commented also on how Cummings, even when embracing a serious theme, still seems to have fun-- not to say that there is a playful tone here, but(one senses even with the darkness, the roaming, unhinged wind)he is enjoying the way he is crafting the feeling. 2nd Stanza, "since the best he can do/ is to peer through windows,unobserved -- the "he" seems to be self-observing...

Just as Thursday's group noted, everyone concurs how a Cummings' poem keeps growing in breadth and scope the more you decipher in it.


"But we’ve the may" as a first line, introduces syntax as an entity unto itself... what does "may" mean as subjunctive (will, possibility, uncertainty, desire, doubt) or as month, when one dances around the may pole? Must, when, now, until follow suit --
saying, doing, growing -- "without until". Marcie pinpointed how we use "until" --
da-da-da-da-da of life goes on until... and something ruins it, or changes it...

There was a typo -- 4th stanza -- it is "dim" not drim -- although we enjoyed the neologism.


Your little voice: Elaine noted the sense of witnessing whirling dervishes with the dizzy spacing and how the tone rises to an ecstatic otherness... We all enjoyed the sense of random capitalizations (and how they are NOT random! ex. up/Up which connects the alliterative "delicious dancing"(up) "Up" to the contradictory "pale important" //
how Humorous makes you think of medicinal humors and humerus bones
This is such a contrast from the first poem, where "little" is important to his emotional interior. Martin wondered about his poems as dreams where reality is a dreamscape where disparate things merge...)

imagine i'm ... we discussed at length the shape -- a breast with a nipple, pregnant lady, half a spinning top, a French soldier's helmet, a diamond cut in half… crosses of Calvary… drawn back bow or arrowhead. We tried reading it in different ways to capture the sense of interruptions...
i’m asking you dear to…
what else could a…
no but it doesn’t…
of course but you don’t seem to realize /i can’t make
it OR..
i can't make it clearer…
war just isn’t what we imagine …
but please for god’s…
O what the hell/ yes it’s true…
(it's true that was me)
That was me but that me isn’t me…
can’t you see now…
no not any — christ (swearing) but you
(but you) must understand
why
because
i am
dead

Yes, I made a typo with yell... which works pretty well, but it is what the hell.
What is the O... god's O... omega, fullness, and the only capitalized letter in the poem? Kathy summarized it as "inner thoughts about war" -- the turmoil of it...

We ended on in the rain --
and spent some time on "rarely-beloved" rare as unusual… what is coined in sunset...

Back to little i... and the wonder of day linked by sunset to night... and the morning starts again, thinking of one's lover... how rare and precious...

So much more to say. I have tried to point out possibilities that lie in our very rich, very marvellous discussion.