CK Williams:
Not everyone can live in Rochester, NY, and have CK Williams come and read to the "gestational poets" of SUNY Brockport along with enthusiasts in the poetry community...
You can access his reading of the following at this site: http://bigthink.com/ckwilliams
Rats– click on “global warming”
He says this is isn’t one of his best poems, the comments
before the poem are interesting.
The Singing – click on “my favorite poems”
Check here: CK Williams’ response to Beethoven : Allegretto – symphony No. 7.
His poem is called : “Two Movements to an Allegretto” as part of National Poetry Month’s program Notes to Verse: II
http://www.poetryfoundation.org/journal/audioitem.html?id=1780
you hear the ENTIRE, (beautiful, but very slow) Beethoven 2nd movement of the 7th symphony, followed by comments.
The theme Williams was working on was “silence” , before he received the assignment, and coincidence, this music was written by Beethoven when he was completely deaf.
After the poem, there is some discussion.
**
I thoroughly enjoyed all the poems he read from "Wait" :
The Coffin Store (p. 90)
Apes (p. 85)
Lies (p. 79)
Back (p. 58) (a little sex poem, he said!)
Light (p. 47)
Wood (p. 41)
Prisoners (p. 30)
my favorite : The Gaffe (p. 3)
and many more such as "Dirt".
The Foundation.
A poem for myself for my birthday
(Happy Birthday to you -- but this is me, singing to me! -- which brings him to think of visualizing his death, or you singing happy birthday to me on my 200th birthday... when this already tottering planet may well be on its way out...)
This is new, as is "Whacked" --
when a master will tell you , guide you so that you are not wasting time..."
Pithy, deep, witty.
Summary of Camus' myth of Sisyphus: why you shouldn't kill yourself.
vs. Marvin Bell: last line: Imagine Sisyphus happy.
**
Poetry and music share repetition.
Thursday, November 25, 2010
From smile to mouse to smile: thinking bilingually
Hearing the Mouse in Smile – a few notes on Bilingual Thinking followed by a poem
Where we place a word, what we keep of the syntax which couches it in a phrase, is part of a poet’s work. I enjoy testing a poem by playing with line breaks, associations, with “best word in the best place” or order, as Coleridge and Dobyns would say.
Finding inspiration by thinking of homonyms and their translation can be quite beneficial, especially when the word is flexible to act as a noun and a verb.
In French, tu souris is “you smile”, from the verb sourire, which has a sous-entendu of “under a laugh”. Rather like Voltaire’s invitation to come to the Château Sans Souci (without worries), spelled this way:
ci
¬¬¬¬¬¬¬¬
sans
If you eliminate the subject tu, souris becomes a command, “smile!”.
However, la souris means mouse. So it could be that you have dropped the article (la) to the noun, in order to address the mouse, as in souris, souris! Mouse, mouse! And of course the context and intonation will help you tell the difference.
As linguist, my mind is constantly playing this way, and often provides a source of triggers which I find amusing. Maybe you will too. Here’s an example.
Sous la Souris – souris: Under the mouse – smile.
What lies under a laugh?
A small mouse
some days, tight-lipped,
without a hint of a tooth,
the scurrying kind of mouse,
content to stop, burrow
in the bocal safety
battened shut
And look
his slightly larger sibling
curving at the mouth corners
considering a shimmy
down into a chuckle
but is not sure it is the time or place.
Other days, something makes it spread
from ear to ear, as if to ignite a lamp
in each eye.
As for the sleeping mouse,
smile draped light as angel kite,
when he wakes up, he’ll turn its rope
asking every cell to jump to it.
And "Version II"
Slippery
What lies under a laugh?
A small French mouse some days
tight-lipped, without a hint of a tooth,
a scurrying kind of mouse,
content to stop, burrow
in bocal safety battened shut
And look
his slightly larger sibling,
curving at the mouth corners
considering a shimmy
down into a chuckle,
considering a full-grown rire.
Somedays this under-laugh
spreads from ear to ear, as if to ignite
a lamp in each eye.
Other days, it sleeps,
smile draped light as angel kite,
but when he wakes up, he’ll turn its rope
asking every cell to jump to it.
Sad jumpropes to happy
English mouse to French souris
happy hopscotches to pensive
and a French command: smile
with plenty of sous-entendu
How do you translate mouse,
or what lies in a smile?
Where we place a word, what we keep of the syntax which couches it in a phrase, is part of a poet’s work. I enjoy testing a poem by playing with line breaks, associations, with “best word in the best place” or order, as Coleridge and Dobyns would say.
Finding inspiration by thinking of homonyms and their translation can be quite beneficial, especially when the word is flexible to act as a noun and a verb.
In French, tu souris is “you smile”, from the verb sourire, which has a sous-entendu of “under a laugh”. Rather like Voltaire’s invitation to come to the Château Sans Souci (without worries), spelled this way:
ci
¬¬¬¬¬¬¬¬
sans
If you eliminate the subject tu, souris becomes a command, “smile!”.
However, la souris means mouse. So it could be that you have dropped the article (la) to the noun, in order to address the mouse, as in souris, souris! Mouse, mouse! And of course the context and intonation will help you tell the difference.
As linguist, my mind is constantly playing this way, and often provides a source of triggers which I find amusing. Maybe you will too. Here’s an example.
Sous la Souris – souris: Under the mouse – smile.
What lies under a laugh?
A small mouse
some days, tight-lipped,
without a hint of a tooth,
the scurrying kind of mouse,
content to stop, burrow
in the bocal safety
battened shut
And look
his slightly larger sibling
curving at the mouth corners
considering a shimmy
down into a chuckle
but is not sure it is the time or place.
Other days, something makes it spread
from ear to ear, as if to ignite a lamp
in each eye.
As for the sleeping mouse,
smile draped light as angel kite,
when he wakes up, he’ll turn its rope
asking every cell to jump to it.
And "Version II"
Slippery
What lies under a laugh?
A small French mouse some days
tight-lipped, without a hint of a tooth,
a scurrying kind of mouse,
content to stop, burrow
in bocal safety battened shut
And look
his slightly larger sibling,
curving at the mouth corners
considering a shimmy
down into a chuckle,
considering a full-grown rire.
Somedays this under-laugh
spreads from ear to ear, as if to ignite
a lamp in each eye.
Other days, it sleeps,
smile draped light as angel kite,
but when he wakes up, he’ll turn its rope
asking every cell to jump to it.
Sad jumpropes to happy
English mouse to French souris
happy hopscotches to pensive
and a French command: smile
with plenty of sous-entendu
How do you translate mouse,
or what lies in a smile?
Thanksgiving day --
It seems fitting on Thanksgiving to post a comment on CK Williams "Wait" -- how he deftly expresses how time works on us, how we work on it, how finally the question
is not caught in the hurry of "wait", nor really the anticipation, but the
gratitude for yet another day as it is.
Note how he uses the repetition: chop / chopped/ chopping
Slash/slahed/slashing in 1, 2, and 4th stanza.
The sounds are onomatopoetic — harsh, then sibilant (slowly, slowly... Otherwise) the tremulous “f’s” in the 3rd stanza — fleeing from / for/ frightened, fray/
The violence of the cleaver, ax, clumsiest clod of a butcher – how time works on us and we in turn, chop, slash through time. The recognition of needing a better way to deal with time. But what would that be. Wait! I have an idea. Hang on! Let me explain…
and the poem ends on the delight of having yet one more day.
This strange sense of being, and there is time... and the relationship we have with it... That seems like the relationship w/ life. And we, the speech creatures are caught up perhaps in the anticipation of “I can’t wait” ... And then, we’re caught in the moment and don’t have any footing with time — wait, we cry out. Time starts with a T. Wait ends with it.
As we approach the holidays, it is a good time to think about what we are waiting for” – and what it is we are saying what we say to each other “wait”.
**
A good day to reflect on thanksgiving: see facebook page with pictures.
"The world is not to be put in order. The world is order. It is for us to put ourselves in unison with this order." -- Henry Miller
Tira beagle is off to the far left, in the tall grasses.
"The lure of the distant and the difficult is deceptive. The great opportunity is where you are." -- John Burroughs
Walking our dog in Mendon Ponds park, Nick and Tif stop to enjoy scuffling in the leaves.
If you want others to be happy, practice compassion. If you want to be happy, practice compassion." -- Dalai Lama
"You cannot understand life and its mysteries as long as you try to grasp it. Indeed, you cannot grasp it, just as you cannot walk off with a river in a bucket.
... to have "running" water, you must let go of it and let it "run". " Alan Watts
The small leaf to the mid-right is ready to join a bush not in the picture, which had 5 little red-orange butterfly-like leaves calling to it.
"Listen or thy tongue will keep thee deaf" -- Native American Indian proverb
The idea of Tira being the camera-dog was abandoned in favor of a quiet moment, grateful for each other.
is not caught in the hurry of "wait", nor really the anticipation, but the
gratitude for yet another day as it is.
Note how he uses the repetition: chop / chopped/ chopping
Slash/slahed/slashing in 1, 2, and 4th stanza.
The sounds are onomatopoetic — harsh, then sibilant (slowly, slowly... Otherwise) the tremulous “f’s” in the 3rd stanza — fleeing from / for/ frightened, fray/
The violence of the cleaver, ax, clumsiest clod of a butcher – how time works on us and we in turn, chop, slash through time. The recognition of needing a better way to deal with time. But what would that be. Wait! I have an idea. Hang on! Let me explain…
and the poem ends on the delight of having yet one more day.
This strange sense of being, and there is time... and the relationship we have with it... That seems like the relationship w/ life. And we, the speech creatures are caught up perhaps in the anticipation of “I can’t wait” ... And then, we’re caught in the moment and don’t have any footing with time — wait, we cry out. Time starts with a T. Wait ends with it.
As we approach the holidays, it is a good time to think about what we are waiting for” – and what it is we are saying what we say to each other “wait”.
**
A good day to reflect on thanksgiving: see facebook page with pictures.
"The world is not to be put in order. The world is order. It is for us to put ourselves in unison with this order." -- Henry Miller
Tira beagle is off to the far left, in the tall grasses.
"The lure of the distant and the difficult is deceptive. The great opportunity is where you are." -- John Burroughs
Walking our dog in Mendon Ponds park, Nick and Tif stop to enjoy scuffling in the leaves.
If you want others to be happy, practice compassion. If you want to be happy, practice compassion." -- Dalai Lama
"You cannot understand life and its mysteries as long as you try to grasp it. Indeed, you cannot grasp it, just as you cannot walk off with a river in a bucket.
... to have "running" water, you must let go of it and let it "run". " Alan Watts
The small leaf to the mid-right is ready to join a bush not in the picture, which had 5 little red-orange butterfly-like leaves calling to it.
"Listen or thy tongue will keep thee deaf" -- Native American Indian proverb
The idea of Tira being the camera-dog was abandoned in favor of a quiet moment, grateful for each other.
Friday, October 22, 2010
O Pen -- October 4 -- 3 brains...
Poems for October 4
Trying to finish up the September batch!
My favorite : 4 poems from from Turkish Pears In August, by Robert Bly (published in 2007)
THE WATCHER OF VOWELS [Ramage #9]
Sound, music leads us to an energy that goes to what Bly refers to "the third, new brain".
Not the reptilian brain, (survival) and beyond the mammal brain (emotion). In Charles Fair's book "The Dying Self", he sugests that what Freud meant by the "Id" was the reptile and mammal brain, and what the ancient Indian philosophers meant by the "self" was the new brain.
What feeds this new brain is wild, spiritual ideas. Often the Reptilian and Mammalian brains don't understand it... but it is here, that mystery is perceived. Interesting that Bly said you cannot leap from the reptilian brain to the "new brain". Experience beyond an "I".
Brought in a new book called “A spicing of Birds” which has Audubon drawings of birds matched with Dickinson’s poems.
Here is one, In light of our discussion of Bly’s “Ramages”.
The Bird her punctual music brings
And lays it in its place –
Its place is in the Human Heart
And in the Heanvenly Grace –
What respite from her thrilling toil
Did Beauty ever take –
But Work might be electric Rest
To those that Magic make.
-- Emily Dickinson
And a few Seamus Heaney lines from his book, Human Chains.
p. 42
If you know a bit/
About the universe
It’s because you’ve taken it in
Like that,
Looked as hard
As you look into yourself,
Into the rat hole,
Through the vetch and dock
That mantled it.
p. 58:
Or doubting the solid ground
Of the riverbank field, twilit and a-hover
With midge drifts, as if we had commingled
Among shades and shadows stirring on the brink
And stood there waiting, watching,
Needy and ever needier for translation.
**
**
Trying to finish up the September batch!
My favorite : 4 poems from from Turkish Pears In August, by Robert Bly (published in 2007)
THE WATCHER OF VOWELS [Ramage #9]
Sound, music leads us to an energy that goes to what Bly refers to "the third, new brain".
Not the reptilian brain, (survival) and beyond the mammal brain (emotion). In Charles Fair's book "The Dying Self", he sugests that what Freud meant by the "Id" was the reptile and mammal brain, and what the ancient Indian philosophers meant by the "self" was the new brain.
What feeds this new brain is wild, spiritual ideas. Often the Reptilian and Mammalian brains don't understand it... but it is here, that mystery is perceived. Interesting that Bly said you cannot leap from the reptilian brain to the "new brain". Experience beyond an "I".
Brought in a new book called “A spicing of Birds” which has Audubon drawings of birds matched with Dickinson’s poems.
Here is one, In light of our discussion of Bly’s “Ramages”.
The Bird her punctual music brings
And lays it in its place –
Its place is in the Human Heart
And in the Heanvenly Grace –
What respite from her thrilling toil
Did Beauty ever take –
But Work might be electric Rest
To those that Magic make.
-- Emily Dickinson
And a few Seamus Heaney lines from his book, Human Chains.
p. 42
If you know a bit/
About the universe
It’s because you’ve taken it in
Like that,
Looked as hard
As you look into yourself,
Into the rat hole,
Through the vetch and dock
That mantled it.
p. 58:
Or doubting the solid ground
Of the riverbank field, twilit and a-hover
With midge drifts, as if we had commingled
Among shades and shadows stirring on the brink
And stood there waiting, watching,
Needy and ever needier for translation.
**
**
various... a few reflections on poetry in mid-October
What's poetry about?
Kim Addonizio's poem about Book Burning... which shifts into the first person POV, leaving me (one reader) behind. How different from Dorianne's poem about the Beatles...why they broke up, using titles of their songs... Or the Kooser selection about the Woman putting her crying baby to sleep. How the baby does the crying, and she doesn't yet with so much to cry about.
And so I wrote a poem about "putting America to sleep".
What is it we "tuck in" our days, our dreams, our lives?
And then there's the bop poem...
and the object poem :
Objects: Those things in the backgrounds of our pictures, cluttering our bookshelves and stuffed in drawers. We’re collecting their stories here—to celebrate and remember the strange intimacies of life with ordinary objects. Tell us a good story and we’ll make sure everyone else enjoys it too.
Read the guidelines and email submissions to lifewithobjects@gmail.com.
And the brilliant first chapter of "Little Bee": Chris Cleave
Most days I wish I was a British pound coin instead of an African girl.
everyone pleased to see me coming
if spent, not longed for.
can go wherever it thinks afest
disguise as power/property’
has tricks
and a sound poem...
Wind
Oh the wold, the wold,
Oh the wold, the wold!
Oh the winter stark,
Oh the level dark,
On the wold, the wold, the wold!
Oh the wold, the wold,
Oh the wold, the wold!
Oh the mystery
Of the blasted tree
On the wold, the wold, the wold!
Oh the wold, the wold,
Oh the wold, the wold!
Oh the owlet's croon
To the haggard moon,
To the waning moon,
On the wold, the wold, the wold!
Oh the wold, the wold,
Oh the wold, the wold!
Oh the fleshless stare,
Oh the windy hair,
On the wold, the wold, the wold!
Oh the wold, the wold,
Oh the wold, the wold!
Oh the cold sigh,
Oh the hollow cry,
The lean and hollow cry,
On the wold, the wold, the wold!
Oh the wold, the wold,
Oh the wold, the wold!
Oh the white sight,
Oh the shuddering night,
The shivering shuddering night,
On the wold, the wold, the wold
**
All good triggers for poems...
Kim Addonizio's poem about Book Burning... which shifts into the first person POV, leaving me (one reader) behind. How different from Dorianne's poem about the Beatles...why they broke up, using titles of their songs... Or the Kooser selection about the Woman putting her crying baby to sleep. How the baby does the crying, and she doesn't yet with so much to cry about.
And so I wrote a poem about "putting America to sleep".
What is it we "tuck in" our days, our dreams, our lives?
And then there's the bop poem...
and the object poem :
Objects: Those things in the backgrounds of our pictures, cluttering our bookshelves and stuffed in drawers. We’re collecting their stories here—to celebrate and remember the strange intimacies of life with ordinary objects. Tell us a good story and we’ll make sure everyone else enjoys it too.
Read the guidelines and email submissions to lifewithobjects@gmail.com.
And the brilliant first chapter of "Little Bee": Chris Cleave
Most days I wish I was a British pound coin instead of an African girl.
everyone pleased to see me coming
if spent, not longed for.
can go wherever it thinks afest
disguise as power/property’
has tricks
and a sound poem...
Wind
Oh the wold, the wold,
Oh the wold, the wold!
Oh the winter stark,
Oh the level dark,
On the wold, the wold, the wold!
Oh the wold, the wold,
Oh the wold, the wold!
Oh the mystery
Of the blasted tree
On the wold, the wold, the wold!
Oh the wold, the wold,
Oh the wold, the wold!
Oh the owlet's croon
To the haggard moon,
To the waning moon,
On the wold, the wold, the wold!
Oh the wold, the wold,
Oh the wold, the wold!
Oh the fleshless stare,
Oh the windy hair,
On the wold, the wold, the wold!
Oh the wold, the wold,
Oh the wold, the wold!
Oh the cold sigh,
Oh the hollow cry,
The lean and hollow cry,
On the wold, the wold, the wold!
Oh the wold, the wold,
Oh the wold, the wold!
Oh the white sight,
Oh the shuddering night,
The shivering shuddering night,
On the wold, the wold, the wold
**
All good triggers for poems...
O pen -- October 18
Prose vs. Poetry:
What is the difference between a prose poem, a narrative poem, and a story which uses good language? What if writing were only collections of words that sting?
What hooks us in?
Here is the link (apologies -- fuzzy here) of Alan Ginsberg at RIT reading from “Howl”
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Gm3QodfkUKw&feature=related
Are there works like “hydrogen jukebox” in the poems and sentences below?
Merlin Enthralled by Richard Wilbur
OCTOBER 4, 2010
Hell, by Zbigniew Herbert
(discussed with Christopher Kennedy 10/9 at his workshop. Two paragraphs; an ordering of Hell. One wonders about the nature of life as joke.)
Antonina’s Education (runner-up for Cranston prize awarded by Calyx.
http://www.calyxpress.org/Cranstonprize.htmlprize -- for winning poems and other runners’ up.
(stanzas: part 1 of 6 lines; part 2: 3 lines; (initiation -- as girl, changing language/country) part 3: couplets. The juxtaposition of the German guard who shares his sandwich. Her surprise when she expresses sympathy to him on the loss of his son.)
Lines from Prose : (from Gary Lutz' talk 10/9)
Sam Lipsyte: Novelist – sentences that read like a string of epiphanies, glued with assonance, patterned repetitions, blends.
“Viola tones rose from a carved alcove.”
“So maybe I wanted all these memories, the sorrows and the hollows.”
“the blade bordered on sword.)
Christine Schutt:
“Mother had used overcooked bacon for a bookmark,
or a hair pin, stick of gum, sucker stick, twig –
whatever was at hand.
**
Two poems by Christopher Kennedy from "Encouragement for a Man Falling to his Death"
poems with a touch a strange, beautifully structured prose poems.
Speech Identification Procedure : beautiful crafting in 3 stanzas -- relationship -- of father to child, light, dark, absence, disappearance. How italicized "father" migrates to italicized last word, "bird".
The 3rd stanza:
A person can stand still for a long time moving about in the world.
My days are like this, a scarecrow in a field, trying to imagine "birds"
King Cobra Does the Mambo
Like Ashbery -- a view of chaos, with serpent power and clin d'oeil to Villon, Stevens' monocle.
Juxtaposition. Italics: "I love you,/but you never phone." non-italics: For this, our species waited centuries./ That's as far as I go today;
and the poem continues. Ends with a dream -- "I intuit the laughter/of trees. That, or a runaway train headed your way."
**
There's an irresistable humor, more pleasing than Herbert's "Hell";
Prose cannot be a simple kyrielle (string of Kyrie) of epiphanies. Nor poetry for that matter.
Well-constructed snapshots that capture more than the black and white.
What is the difference between a prose poem, a narrative poem, and a story which uses good language? What if writing were only collections of words that sting?
What hooks us in?
Here is the link (apologies -- fuzzy here) of Alan Ginsberg at RIT reading from “Howl”
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Gm3QodfkUKw&feature=related
Are there works like “hydrogen jukebox” in the poems and sentences below?
Merlin Enthralled by Richard Wilbur
OCTOBER 4, 2010
Hell, by Zbigniew Herbert
(discussed with Christopher Kennedy 10/9 at his workshop. Two paragraphs; an ordering of Hell. One wonders about the nature of life as joke.)
Antonina’s Education (runner-up for Cranston prize awarded by Calyx.
http://www.calyxpress.org/Cranstonprize.htmlprize -- for winning poems and other runners’ up.
(stanzas: part 1 of 6 lines; part 2: 3 lines; (initiation -- as girl, changing language/country) part 3: couplets. The juxtaposition of the German guard who shares his sandwich. Her surprise when she expresses sympathy to him on the loss of his son.)
Lines from Prose : (from Gary Lutz' talk 10/9)
Sam Lipsyte: Novelist – sentences that read like a string of epiphanies, glued with assonance, patterned repetitions, blends.
“Viola tones rose from a carved alcove.”
“So maybe I wanted all these memories, the sorrows and the hollows.”
“the blade bordered on sword.)
Christine Schutt:
“Mother had used overcooked bacon for a bookmark,
or a hair pin, stick of gum, sucker stick, twig –
whatever was at hand.
**
Two poems by Christopher Kennedy from "Encouragement for a Man Falling to his Death"
poems with a touch a strange, beautifully structured prose poems.
Speech Identification Procedure : beautiful crafting in 3 stanzas -- relationship -- of father to child, light, dark, absence, disappearance. How italicized "father" migrates to italicized last word, "bird".
The 3rd stanza:
A person can stand still for a long time moving about in the world.
My days are like this, a scarecrow in a field, trying to imagine "birds"
King Cobra Does the Mambo
Like Ashbery -- a view of chaos, with serpent power and clin d'oeil to Villon, Stevens' monocle.
Juxtaposition. Italics: "I love you,/but you never phone." non-italics: For this, our species waited centuries./ That's as far as I go today;
and the poem continues. Ends with a dream -- "I intuit the laughter/of trees. That, or a runaway train headed your way."
**
There's an irresistable humor, more pleasing than Herbert's "Hell";
Prose cannot be a simple kyrielle (string of Kyrie) of epiphanies. Nor poetry for that matter.
Well-constructed snapshots that capture more than the black and white.
O Pen -- October 11 -- on the heels of Black Mountain Symposium
October 11 :
I love October. Perhaps a bit like Molly Peacock's opening statement in "Why I am not a Buddhist". I love the "state of want and thought // of how to get.
There is something "tattered" about the leaves falling, in all their crimson, golden, royal glory.
A reminder that nothing is permanent.
& is such a sign. Ampersand. Put a line between two backward "C's" )( -- and a Greek letter schoots (scoots and shhhhh's?) across the page. et per se. etc.
Man and his symbols and constantly changing language -- and how love moves through it -- whether in ee cummings, "love is a place..." or Molly's poem.
Yes is a world
& in this world of
yes live
(skillfully curled)
all worlds.
Ashbery : p 11 "A Worldly Country" --
Like a Photograph.
"It will be all over in a minute you said. We both
believe that, and the clock's ticking: Flame on, flame on.
McLuhan on photography: you lose the experience. What we are left with depends not on the clicked instant, but the attention we bring to each moment. And then Emily started to sing
"Our little house is a very fine house,
all made out of ticky-tacky..."
I shared the Patrick Graybill's "mime" of Richard Cory
and a poem by Robert Creeley (from Bly's little book "Leaping Poetry".
Kore: one of those Greek sculptures of a clothed woman, feet together...
and a double flute makes her move
"O love / where are you // leading // me now ?
This intriguing click in a poem which stays in one part of the psyche -- a poetry of "steady light" vs. leaping flashes. As if the poem is tethering down the mind to stop any chaos.
Ashbery's "A Worldly Country" is the opposite --
from insane clocks; scent, and end-rhymed lines which contain everything in real time, novel time -- "In short all hell broke loose that wide afternoon".
But at night? Peace. How sleep offsets the great ungluing.
And just as waves are anchored to the bottom of the sea
we must reach the shallows before God cuts us free.
I love October. Perhaps a bit like Molly Peacock's opening statement in "Why I am not a Buddhist". I love the "state of want and thought // of how to get.
There is something "tattered" about the leaves falling, in all their crimson, golden, royal glory.
A reminder that nothing is permanent.
& is such a sign. Ampersand. Put a line between two backward "C's" )( -- and a Greek letter schoots (scoots and shhhhh's?) across the page. et per se. etc.
Man and his symbols and constantly changing language -- and how love moves through it -- whether in ee cummings, "love is a place..." or Molly's poem.
Yes is a world
& in this world of
yes live
(skillfully curled)
all worlds.
Ashbery : p 11 "A Worldly Country" --
Like a Photograph.
"It will be all over in a minute you said. We both
believe that, and the clock's ticking: Flame on, flame on.
McLuhan on photography: you lose the experience. What we are left with depends not on the clicked instant, but the attention we bring to each moment. And then Emily started to sing
"Our little house is a very fine house,
all made out of ticky-tacky..."
I shared the Patrick Graybill's "mime" of Richard Cory
and a poem by Robert Creeley (from Bly's little book "Leaping Poetry".
Kore: one of those Greek sculptures of a clothed woman, feet together...
and a double flute makes her move
"O love / where are you // leading // me now ?
This intriguing click in a poem which stays in one part of the psyche -- a poetry of "steady light" vs. leaping flashes. As if the poem is tethering down the mind to stop any chaos.
Ashbery's "A Worldly Country" is the opposite --
from insane clocks; scent, and end-rhymed lines which contain everything in real time, novel time -- "In short all hell broke loose that wide afternoon".
But at night? Peace. How sleep offsets the great ungluing.
And just as waves are anchored to the bottom of the sea
we must reach the shallows before God cuts us free.
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