Escape from Elba

Books => Poetry => Topic started by: Admin on July 12, 2007, 08:38:04 AM



Title: Poetry
Post by: Admin on July 12, 2007, 08:38:04 AM
Discuss your favorite poems or post your own


Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: Eva on July 12, 2007, 12:05:15 PM
haiku?


Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: kitinkaboodle on July 12, 2007, 12:08:38 PM



Gesundheit!!


Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: nnyhav on July 12, 2007, 01:07:08 PM
hieku

life in the fast lane
in 25 words or less
life in the food chain


Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: chauncey.g on July 12, 2007, 03:35:12 PM
hi cuke

you are a fine food
crisp, cool, edible jewel
right for any mood


Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: Eva on July 12, 2007, 04:21:09 PM
luscious-yellow fruit
let us sweeten up the day
mango y mango


Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: madupont on July 12, 2007, 05:26:43 PM
Hic ego qui iaceo tenerorum lusor amorum
Ingenio perii, Naso poeta, meo.
At tibi qui transis, ne sit grave, quisquis amasti,
Dicere: Nasonis molliter ossa cubent.


                                                      consider this a found poem,

                                                      Found yesterday, by coincidence.




Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: Lhoffman on July 12, 2007, 06:18:31 PM
It's Ovid's Bones.....Tristia?


Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: Lhoffman on July 12, 2007, 06:26:36 PM
Here I lie,
who betrayed thy tend’rest love.
Here I lie,
Betrayed by mine own genius.
Walk past my grave
With quiet heart,
That the bones of Ovid
Rest easy.



Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: weezo on July 12, 2007, 06:46:31 PM
Ah, would some god the giftie gi'e us
To see ourselves as ithers see us
'Twould frae many a blunder free us
And foolish notion


and

I'm nobody, who are you?
Are you nobody too?
Don't tell
They'll banish us you know

How dreary to be someone
How public, like a frog
To croak your name the livelong day
To an admiring bog ....

http://www.educationalsynthesis.org/language/ImNobody.html

and turn on your sound.....


Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: madupont on July 12, 2007, 11:43:51 PM
Here I lie, who played with tender loves,
Naso the poet, killed by my own talent.
O passerby, if you've ever been in love,
let it not be too much for you
to say: May the bones of Naso lie gently.

                                                            Another version in translation




Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: Lhoffman on July 13, 2007, 12:02:07 AM
Your translation is a bit more exact than mine.  The problem I have with translating is which element to sacrifice...meaning or poetry.

I like the sense of "if you've ever been in love
let it not be too much for you
to say...."


Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: weezo on July 13, 2007, 01:11:15 AM
Thanks, NY Temps,

I made the change on the webpage, but cannot make the change in the flash of the poem. Flash makes very large files when they include sound, and I was using floppies back then (in 2005) and it wouldn't fit on a floppy, so when that hard drive crashed, I lost the flash version I could make changes in. I will have to remake the whole flash program to fix it, and that is more than what I have time to do at the present. So, I will have to settle for one place having the name correct, and the other having the misspelling. I hope dear Emily does not mind her name misspelled into posterity! Thank for point it out!



Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: madupont on July 13, 2007, 11:43:25 PM
YES,  But it is very vague at this remove.


Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: Beppo on July 20, 2007, 02:41:49 PM
anti-haiku

When they was seventeen
noses were taboo
so to spite their face
they sliced it off
with something thin and worthy

When seventeen geneologies kick in
at seventeen
big-time space
develops its
one moment
its the next moment
                          then the next
                                 the next


 


Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: nnyhav on July 20, 2007, 03:19:34 PM
NO TRESPASSING -- four
seventeenths of a haiku
-- Richard Brautigan


Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: Beppo on July 20, 2007, 03:24:33 PM
Puberty: Keep Out!

Shiny disco neuron mirrors

nursing a silvery wrath



Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: Lhoffman on July 20, 2007, 03:33:59 PM
anti-haiku

When they was seventeen
noses were taboo
so to spite their face
they sliced it off
with something thin and worthy

When seventeen geneologies kick in
at seventeen
big-time space
develops its
one moment
its the next moment
                          then the next
                                 the next


 

I like this Beppo....It is exactly how seventeen feels....problem is you don't understand this until you are at least thirty-five.


Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: madupont on July 20, 2007, 03:38:41 PM
NO TRESPASSING -- four
seventeenths of a haiku
-- Richard Brautigan

Obviously Brautigan (of, Trout Fishing in America) was telling us something important. I start with the fact that he was a favored writer of a close friend of mine who went to work for Mike Mansfield at the embassy in Tokyo as the officer in charge of opposition parties.


Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: Lhoffman on July 20, 2007, 03:45:11 PM
Seventeen…
Love and football
Gods with golden hair
Forever is now.


Seventeen...
Hey baby in the back of his daddy's car
consequences be damned.

Seventeen...
Reckless
Invincible
The hapless Aphrodite never understood
That Adonis came equipped
With a Teflon heart.


Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: Beppo on July 20, 2007, 04:19:16 PM
NO TRESPASSING -- four
seventeenths of a haiku
-- Richard Brautigan

Obviously Brautigan (of, Trout Fishing in America) was telling us something important. I start with the fact that he was a favored writer of a close friend of mine who went to work for Mike Mansfield at the embassy in Tokyo as the officer in charge of opposition parties.

Well, madupont, if the above applied to me that's definitely where I would begin. Seventeen syllables in a traditional western haiku - surely that's a guestimate?


Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: nnyhav on July 20, 2007, 05:15:45 PM
NO TRESPASSING -- four
seventeenths of a haiku
-- Richard Brautigan
Obviously Brautigan (of, Trout Fishing in America) was telling us something important. I start with the fact that he was a favored writer of a close friend of mine who went to work for Mike Mansfield at the embassy in Tokyo as the officer in charge of opposition parties.
Well, madupont, if the above applied to me that's definitely where I would begin. Seventeen syllables in a traditional western haiku - surely that's a guestimate?

I just wanted to point out that it doesn't become a haiku without the attribution.

But explaining the joke puts the humor out of its misery.


Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: Beppo on July 20, 2007, 05:23:59 PM
NO TRESPASSING -- four
seventeenths of a haiku
-- Richard Brautigan
Obviously Brautigan (of, Trout Fishing in America) was telling us something important. I start with the fact that he was a favored writer of a close friend of mine who went to work for Mike Mansfield at the embassy in Tokyo as the officer in charge of opposition parties.
Well, madupont, if the above applied to me that's definitely where I would begin. Seventeen syllables in a traditional western haiku - surely that's a guestimate?

I just wanted to point out that it doesn't become a haiku without the attribution.

But explaining the joke puts the humor out of its misery.


nnyhav - you swine!

ps (modified edition) nnyhav no offense meant it's just that when I spotted that I kicked myself (I'm eating my dinner) and well, no-one wants to do that.



Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: Beppo on July 20, 2007, 05:30:01 PM
lhoffman

A potential thought for a haiku:

The lessons of seventeen




Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: Beppo on July 20, 2007, 05:33:20 PM
The internet should be fun
A hard day's work then
happy, happy typing

The internet isn't fun
A hard day's work
and then sometimes
a hard night's work






Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: Lhoffman on July 20, 2007, 05:57:41 PM
Beppo....

Haiku's a challenge
I have so much to say and
syllables constrict.


Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: nnyhav on July 20, 2007, 07:12:04 PM
Beppo --

No offense taken,
nor any given, I trust --
all in good humor.


Title: Re: poetry
Post by: Beppo on July 22, 2007, 01:05:53 AM
              Seaside Golf

         
How straight it flew, how long it flew,
   It clear'd the rutty track
And soaring, disappeared from view
   Beyond the bunker's back—
A glorious, sailing, bounding drive
That made me glad I was alive.

And down the fairway, far along
   It glowed a lonely white;
I played an iron sure and strong
   And clipp'd it out of sight,
And spite of grassy banks between
I knew I'd find it on the green.

And so I did. It lay content
   Two paces from the pin;
A steady putt and then it went
   Oh, most securely in.
The very turf rejoiced to see
That quite unprecedented three.

Ah! seaweed smells from sandy caves
   And thyme and mist in whiffs,
In-coming tide, Atlantic waves
   Slapping the sunny cliffs,
Lark song and sea sounds in the air
And splendour, splendour everywhere.

                             John Betjeman


Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: madupont on July 22, 2007, 03:06:02 AM
That's him all right...


Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: martinbeck3 on July 23, 2007, 02:04:43 PM
...and I read it all thinking it was yours Beppo!!.. and thinking "now look how cool...the laird of the HI!-lands...who would have said so.???...and then it was Mr.Betjbem.

I wonder where Reo del Cigarrillo the Spanglish NY poet is.He was quite good.   


Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: Beppo on July 26, 2007, 06:01:05 PM
The first thing that might draw your attention in Seven Types of Ambiguity by William Empson is the trouble with ambiguity:

An ambiguity, in ordinary speech, means something very pronounced, and as a rule witty or deceitful. I propose to use the word in an extended sense, and shall think relevant to my subject any verbal nuance, however slight, which gives room for alternative reactions to the same piece of language.¹ Sometimes, especially in the first chapter, the word may be stretched absurdly far, but it is descriptive because it suggests the analytical mode of approach, and with that I am concerned.

¹In the first edition I made it 'adds some nuance to the direct statement of prose.' This, as was pointed out, begs a philosophical question and stretches the term 'ambiguity' so far that it becomes almost meaningless. The new phrase is not meant to be decisive but to avoid confusing the reader; naturally the question of what would be the best definition of ambiguity (whether the example in hand should be called ambiguous) crops up all through the book.



Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: Beppo on July 26, 2007, 06:23:51 PM
nnyhav

The villanelle had an effect but late: so I'm thinking post another for more effect:
   

Time will say nothing but I told you so,
Time only knows the price we have to pay;
If I could tell you I would let you know.

If we should weep when clowns put on their show,
If we should stumble when musicians play,
Time will say nothing but I told you so.

There are no fortunes to be told, although,
Because I love you more than I can say,
If I could tell you I would let you know.

The winds must come from somewhere when they blow,
There must be reasons why the leaves decay;
Time will say nothing but I told you so.

Perhaps the roses really want to grow,
The vision seriously intends to stay;
If I could tell you I would let you know.

Suppose the lions all get up and go,
And all the brooks and soldiers run away;
Will Time say nothing but I told you so?
If I could tell you I would let you know.


If I Could tell You
WH Auden                     


Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: nnyhav on July 26, 2007, 11:14:23 PM
I'm sorry to have taken it down, Beppo, am reposting below; first, tho, refs to other Empson available online -- the villanelles themselves seem overambitious somehow, the other just a bit of fun:

Missing Dates: http://www.cs.rice.edu/~ssiyer/minstrels/poems/202.html
Villanelle: http://www.cs.rice.edu/~ssiyer/minstrels/poems/706.html
Just a Smack at Auden: http://www.cs.rice.edu/~ssiyer/minstrels/poems/1311.html

Reflection from Anita Loos

No man is sure he does not need to climb.
It is not human to feel safely placed.
"A girl can’t go on laughing all the time."

Wrecked by their games and jeering at their prime
There are who can, but who can praise their taste?
No man is sure he does not need to climb.

Love rules the world but is it rude, or slime?
All nasty things are sure to be disgraced.
A girl can’t go on laughing all the time.

Christ stinks of torture who was caught in lime.
No star he aimed at is entirely waste.
No man is sure he does not need to climb.

It is too weak to speak of right and crime.
Gentlemen prefer bound feet and the wasp waist.
A girl can’t go on laughing all the time.

It gives a million gambits for a mime
On which a social system can be based:
No man is sure he does not need to climb,
A girl can’t go on laughing all the time.


REFLECTION FROM ANITA LOOS. There is a strong paragraph in Gentlemen Prefer Blondes about Louie's spats. Dorothy told him to take them off, because "Fun's fun, but a girl can't laugh all the time." When she saw his socks she told him to put his spats back on. Unconsciously generalising from the fine character of Dorothy, I seem to have taken a very feminist view here; actually no doubt women are about as ambitious as men. The lime is meant to be birdlime (also hanged criminals are buried in ordinary lime). I had better say some more about the line, as many readers may find it merely offensive. Anyway the religion of love produced appalling cruelties when made a government institution, but it seems arguable that the ideas of Jesus himself got fatally connected under the stress of persecution with the official and moneymaking cult of blood sacrifice, which he had tried to combat. That he drove out of the temple the doves that were being sold for sacrifice just before he became one is an awful irony in his story. The way earlier societies seem obviously absurd and cruel gives a kind of horror at the forces that must be at work in our own, but suggests that any society must have dramatically satisfying and dangerous conventions; and people can put up with almost any political conditions, either because they are lazy or because they are ambitious.


Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: kitinkaboodle on August 02, 2007, 08:36:51 AM
Summer's lease hath all to short a date.

                    --W. Shakespeare



August rushes by like desert rainfall
A flood of frenzied upheaval
Expected
But still catching one unprepared
Like a matchflame
Bursting on the scene
Heat and haze of crimson sunsets
Like a dream
Of moon and dark barely recalled
A moment
Shadows caught in a blink
Like a quick kiss
One wishes for more
But it suddenly turns to leave
Dragging summer away

                    --E. M. Taylor





Simply sharing...


Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: madupont on August 04, 2007, 07:23:42 PM
Kenneth Rexroth on the student movement, 1960

"The Students Take Over"

In talking about the Revolt of Youth we should never forget that we are dealing with a new concept. For thousands of years, nobody cared what youth were doing. They weren’t news. They weren’t minding.

They aren’t minding now. That isn’t news. They haven’t been minding since the days of.... F. Scott Fitzgerald. In those days, they were cutting loose. In the thirties, they were joining up.... During the McCarthy Epoch and the Korean War, they were turning their backs and walking away. Today they are striking back. That is news. Nobody else is striking back.

--Kenneth Rexroth, July 2, 1960 in the Nation magazine



Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: Chakotay on August 06, 2007, 06:05:22 PM
Just dropping by. Thought I'd share some haikus written as Microsoft error messages in Japan:

In Japan, they have replaced the impersonal and
unhelpful Microsoft error
messages with Haiku poetry messages. Haiku poetry
has strict construction
rules - each poem has only 17 syllables; 5 syllables
in the first, 7 in
the second, 5 in the third. They are used to
communicate a timeless
message, often achieving a wistful, yearning and
powerful insight through
extreme brevity. Here are 16 actual error messages
from Japan.

Your file was so big.
It might be very useful.
But now it is gone.


The Web site you seek
Cannot be located, but
Countless more exist.


Chaos reigns within.
Reflect, repent, and reboot.
Order shall return.


 
Program aborting
Close all that you have worked on.
You ask far too much.

Windows NT crashed.
I am the Blue Screen of Death.
No one hears your screams.

Yesterday it worked.
Today it is not working.
Windows is like that.

First snow, then silence.
This thousand dollar screen dies
So beautifully.

With searching comes loss
And the presence of absence
"My Novel" not found.

The Tao that is seen
Is not the true Tao-until
You bring fresh toner.

Stay the patient course.
Of little worth is your ire.
The network is down.

 
A crash reduces
Your expensive computer
To a simple stone.

Three things are certain
Death, taxes and lost data.
Guess which has occurred.

You step in the stream,
But the water has moved on.
This page is not here.

Out of memory.
We wish to hold the whole sky,
But we never will.

Having been erased,
The document you're seeking
Must now be retyped.

Serious error.
All shortcuts have disappeared.
Screen. Mind. Both are blank....



Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: madupont on August 07, 2007, 02:05:05 AM
Oh, those Japanese poets.

                                     Haiku Poets
 

 

Autumn evening —
A crow on a bare branch.

                                                               BASHÔ (1644-1694)

 

An old pond —
The sound
Of a diving frog.

                                                               BASHÔ

 

On this road
No one will follow me
In the Autumn evening.

                                                               BASHÔ

 

Summer grass
Where warriors dream.

                                                                BASHÔ

 

The tree from whose flower
This perfume comes
Is unknowable.

                                                                 BASHÔ




 

A blind child
Guided by his mother,
Admires the cherry blossoms.

                                                            KIKAKU (1660-1707)




Wild goose, wild goose,
At what age
Did you make your first journey?

                                                             ISSA (1763-1827)

 

In my life
As in the twilight,
A bell sounds.
I enjoy the freshness of evening.

                                                              ISSA


I can see the stones
On the bottom fluctuate
Through the clear water.

                                                              SHIKI (1867-1902)

 

Frozen in the ice
A maple leaf.

                                                               SHIKI

 

Shitting in the winter turnip field
The distant lights of the city.

                                                                SHIKI


Translations/Kenneth Rexroth


Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: Chakotay on August 07, 2007, 05:40:09 PM
Here's a funny little poem that a friend sent me some time ago. It was apparently written for Valentine's Day. I like the play on words.  Like so many, it was written by A. Nony Mous:

   If You Carrot All For Me

Cabbage always has a heart;
Green beans string along.
You're such a Tomato,
Will you Peas to me belong?

You've been the Apple of my eye,
You know how much I care;
So Lettuce get together,
We'd make a perfect Pear.

Now, something's sure to Turnip,
To prove you can't be Beet;
So, if you Carrot all for me
Let's let our Tulips meet.

Don't Squash my hopes and dreams now,
Bee my Honey, dear;
Or tears will fill Potato's eyes,
While Sweet Corn lends an ear.

I'll Cauliflower shop and say
Your dreams are Parsley mine.
I'll work and share my Celery,
So be my Valentine.


Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: kitinkaboodle on August 08, 2007, 09:22:22 AM
Chakotay--

Now that was corny... :)


Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: Chakotay on August 08, 2007, 10:41:04 AM
I like to write haikus, so here's one I wrote for Halloween:

Halloween

Chill air stirs dry leaves;
a snaggle-toothed pumpkin grins,
waiting for its prey.


Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: barton on August 08, 2007, 10:41:45 AM
Three things are certain
Death, taxes and lost data.
Guess which has occurred.


LOL

Haiku provokes thought:
maybe death IS lost data
Big magnet's grim swipe.



Title: Anyone into Rapping?
Post by: Kam on August 08, 2007, 10:42:34 AM
they call me the hiphopapotamus, flows that glow like phosphorous
poppin off the top of this esophagus, rockin this metropolis
i'm not a large water-dwelling mammal. Where did you get that preposterous hypothesis?

my rhymes are so potent, that in this small segment
i made ALL of the ladies in the forum pregnant
yes, sometimes my words seem sexist
but you lovely bitches and hos should know i'm tryin to correct this

others posters diss me ... say my rhymes are sissy

Why?  

Be more constructive in your feedback, please.

Why cuz i rap about reality?
Like me and my Grandma drinkin a cup o tea?

There aint to party like my nanna's tea party, hey ho!


Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: pugetopolis on August 13, 2007, 01:33:31 PM
I Want To Be

I want to be—
a Young Republican
so I can suck dick
and still be kosher.

I want to be—
Tammy Faye Bakker
so I can praise god
and make a million.

I want to be—
a Congressman
so I can make it
with all the Pages.

I want to be—
an Astronaut
Mars needs women
And so I.

I want to be—
a NYTimes reporter
so I can pimp
for Condoleeza.

I want to be—
the first gay Prez
so I can ban
Heterosexuality.

I want to be—
first gay poet laureate
so I can say
Walt Whitman rules!!!






Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: desdemona222b on August 13, 2007, 01:41:17 PM
Anyone up for a dirty limericks writing contest?


Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: Donotremove on August 13, 2007, 01:43:44 PM
Puge, I don't understnd the 4th one.


Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: pugetopolis on August 13, 2007, 02:47:08 PM
Dearest Desdemona—
Anything but "creative writing," girl…
I got so sick of all that Natatorium jazz.
I had to get outta there…
Those falling tiles etc.
Limericks fun tho…

Dearest Donny—
C’mon now lover boy…
You’re the ladies man dontchaknow.
You know what they say:
“Can’t live with them…
Can’t live without them”


Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: Donotremove on August 13, 2007, 03:03:33 PM
Okay, Puge.  I am the last person in the world to tout that I know zip about how poetry is contructed.  The last line in the 4th whachamacallit doesn't make sense (to me) . . . "And so I."  Be nice, now.  Tell me what that means.


Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: pugetopolis on August 13, 2007, 03:27:17 PM
I Want To Be

I want to be—
like Senator David Vitter…
on that DC Madam’s
sexy hit list.

I want to be—
a madam like Miz Julia…
I abhor injustice
dontchaknow…

I want to be—
like Bob Livingston…
another horny Southern
Congressman like Newt.

I want to be—
for family values,
marriage protection
and abstinence-only…

I want to be—
a nice baby boy…
not like that awful
Hustler man Flint…

I want to be—
back in New Orleans…
when Katrina karma
comes home to roost…

I want to be—
forgiven like Vitter…
please give AP
a call for me, baby…


Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: pugetopolis on August 13, 2007, 04:47:43 PM
Son of Blacula (2007)

“The Black Prince of Shadows Stalks the Earth Again!”

“u shouldn’t listen 2 your selfish heart”
—Tupac Shakur, “Why Must U Be Unfaithful,”
Totems to Hip-Hop, ed. Ishmael Reed

 
I have my own list for Son of Blacula:
Lawrence Fishburne as sophisticated
smooth educated Blacula right out of
Matrix; Samuel L. Jackson bustin’
chops out of Shaft or better yet—
saving his soul in Black Snake Moan;
maybe Wesley Snipes Blade killer;
I thought of ex-con, ex-boyfriend
Snoop Dogg as ultimate vampire’s
son like skanky hood star Baby Boy,
Just the right bad attitude, baby;
Busta Rhymes with his big seductive
lips and smile driving me insane;
same with handsome Tyrese Gibson,
but is he 2 Fast 2 Furious for me?
also Cuba Gooding Jr. with that cute
innocent vampire hurt look of his
with his girlfriend in Boyz n the Hood;
Singleton’s commentary in background,
like Murnau in Shadow of the Vampire
until finally I turn into a vampire too,
getting power, respect & juice, man,
like Tupac Shakur in Vegas Vampires...


Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: madupont on August 14, 2007, 04:53:36 PM
Continuing the floating world from #39

http://www.thehaikupoet.com/keiko.htm


Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: pugetopolis on August 15, 2007, 11:14:02 AM
Tyrone

tyrone be ghetto—
tyrone be gangsta lit.
tyrone be hip-hop—
tyrone be urban fiction.
tyrone be babymama saga—
tyrone be babydaddy pimp.

tyrone be street lit—
tyrone be iceberg slim.
tyrone be thug auteur—
tyrone be ghetto pulp.
tyrone be ink inc—
tyrone be intelligentsia.

tyrone be project chic—
tyrone be gangsta boyz.
tyrone be super fly man—
tyrone be son of blacula.
tyrone be a million little pieces—
tyrone be on the oprah show. 



Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: nnyhav on August 15, 2007, 01:33:44 PM
oughta be a law
that starbucks coffee orders
cannot be haiku

vente triple decaf nofoam lofat caramel capuccino


Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: pugetopolis on August 16, 2007, 07:27:46 AM
summer is ending—
a pile of unread books waits
on the roll top desk


Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: pugetopolis on August 18, 2007, 02:56:32 PM
Elba haiku

Furphy so frumpy—

Bosox homophobic pig

Same old same old shit.


Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: madupont on August 19, 2007, 05:27:18 PM

If one day it happens
you find yourself with someone you love
in a caf '¦ at one end
of the Pont Mirabeau, at the zinc bar
where white wine stands in upward opening glasses,

and if you commit then, as we did, the error
of thinking,
one day all this will only be memory,

learn,
as you stand
at this end of the bridge which arcs,
from love, you think, into enduring love,
learn to reach deeper
into the sorrows
to come ¨C to touch
the almost imaginary bones
under the face, to hear under the laughter
the wind crying across the black stones. Kiss
the mouth
which tells you, here,
here is the world. This mouth. This laughter. These temple bones.

The still undanced cadence of vanishing.


from Body Rags, Galway Kinnell (Boston: Houghton Mifflin, 1967).



Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: madupont on August 19, 2007, 05:37:50 PM
http://www.poemhunter.com/galway-kinnell/books/


Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: madupont on August 19, 2007, 08:08:01 PM
Daybreak
Galway Kinnell
On the tidal mud, just before sunset,
dozens of starfishes
were creeping. It was
as though the mud were a sky
and enormous, imperfect stars
moved across it as slowly
as the actual stars cross heaven.
All at once they stopped,
and, as if they had simply
increased their receptivity
to gravity, they sank down
into the mud, faded down
into it and lay still, and by the time
pink of sunset broke across them
they were as invisible
as the true stars at daybreak.


Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: madupont on August 19, 2007, 08:24:53 PM
Dzima's

Rubaiyat and Rumi
"A public radio program that I always enjoy listening to, Speaking of Faith, did a program on Rumi last month that inspired me to move up a prompt I wanted to use about Rumi .

If you are interested in how mystic and poet Rumi has shaped Muslims around the world and more about the mystical tradition of Sufism, the program is far more than about "religion" and the archive has programs on Einstein, the environment, politics and other issue with the thread of faith running through them. End of endorsement.

On the Poets Online main site, we looked at some Rumi poems that are grouped under the title (given to them by American translator Coleman Barks) of "Spring Giddiness."

I mentioned that I'm no qualified judge of the translation, but I suspect them to be in the spirit (rather than to the word) of the originals. I have heard Coleman Barks read and sing them at several Geraldine R. Dodge Poetry Festivals, so in some strange way I hear Rumi as having a Tennessee accent.
Some of those model poems are quatrains. In Persian it would be rubaiyat (meaning 'four' or "quatrains" in the Persian language the singular being ruba'i or rubai). In their true form the rhyme scheme would be AABA (lines lines 1, 2 and 4 rhyming) but Barks has not attempted to maintain the rhyme in those translations.

That is a verse form best known (to English speakers) for Edward FitzGerald's translation of the collection of Persian verses known as the Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam. Here's a sample quatrain:


VII
Come, fill the Cup, and in the fire of Spring
Your Winter-garment of Repentance fling:
The Bird of Time has but a little way
To flutter--and the Bird is on the Wing.

In longer poems built in that rubaiyat rhyme scheme, sometimes it is extended so that the unrhymed line of a stanza becomes the rhyme for the following stanza. Then we have AABA BBCB CCDC etc. This is called "interlocking rubaiyat". You might even create a full circle by by linking the unrhymed line of the final stanza back to the first stanza.

If this all sounds very foreign to you, look at the interlocking rubaiyat in "Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening" by Robert Frost.

Our writing prompt this month starts with the uncommon theme of seasonal change and adds the rubaiyat form. Select any change of season, use the rhyming quatrains of the rubaiyat (any number of quatrains you choose).

It would good if your poem could capture some of the joy that Rumi's poetry sings too.

There are many editions of this best-selling poet available. My suggestion for a starting place is either The Essential Rumi or The Illuminated Rumi both translated by Barks.

If you want to read more of Rumi online, a search will provide many other websites of his poetry - here's one to get started with 4 new translations by Coleman Barks."

This is the on-line editor of Poets On-line and not me, Dzimas; but  thought I would throw this in because Galway Kinnell went to India and Iran(about which he wrote a novel) shortly after getting out of the Navy, following  his getting his degrees and then began a teaching career while continuing his writing. He is now 80, and publishing less often after being Poet Laureate and serving in various other capacities to the poetry community. He is by far the best poet that I know among the living anyway.


Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: madupont on August 22, 2007, 01:00:21 AM
The Olive Wood Fire
When Fergus woke crying at night.
I would carry him from his crib
to the rocking chair and sit holding him
before the fire of thousand-year-old olive wood.
Sometimes, for reasons I never knew
and he has forgotten, even after his bottle the big tears
would keep on rolling down his big cheeks
- the left cheek always more brilliant than the right -
and we would sit, some nights for hours, rocking
in the light eking itself out of the ancient wood,
and hold each other against the darkness,
his close behind and far away in the future,
mine I imagined all around.
One such time, fallen half-asleep myself,
I thought I heard a scream
- a flier crying out in horror
as he dropped fire on he didn't know what or whom,
or else a child thus set aflame -
and sat up alert. The olive wood fire
had burned low. In my arms lay Fergus,
fast asleep, left cheek glowing, God.


-- Galway Kinnell
 


Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: pugetopolis on August 22, 2007, 07:21:37 AM
Snakeology 101
 
“glenda just didn’t walk.
watching her was to feel
the pleasant roll of a
luxury liner”—ed wood jr.
killer in drag


i knew this straight guy
in college—he was just awful.
he hated queers really bad—and
me especially. he was from
houma—he simply despised homos.
i knew it—everybody else knew
it too. the awful truth was—he be
anaconda. he knew i wanted it—
but he wouldn’t let me have it.
he knew i wanted it bad. he even
had the audacity once—of calling
me “miss snake.” just because i
was always slithering around in
the dorm. he had the sheer nerve—
of calling me a sneaky “snake
woman.” just because i was always
taking a shower— waiting for him.
he had the unmitigated gall—of
calling me a tacky “cobra queen.”
just because i had a forked tongue—
and knew how to use it. he even
called me—a cheap two-bit “maria
montez” whore once. i was shocked—
simply shocked. but i was determined
to get that big snake—after all i was
majoring in snakeology. i wanted his
anaconda bad—and he knew it. i
loved his nice venus-torso—plus his
voluptuous viper bad attitude. i
wanted to milk it—all that precious
poison out of him. all that nasty
virile venom. i needed to choke
his snake to death—i wanted to
slowly murder his piece of meat.
i wanted to fillet and fricassee it—
every uncut slithering inch of it.
then one dark stormy night—i got
my chance. it was saturday night—
he was drunk in his car. he was
in the parking lot—passed out
in the backseat. we both pretend
it never happened—he still hates
my guts. but we both found out
that night—that yes indeed i was
a pretty good snakeology major.
 
Author's Notes:
I even went on to get a Ph.D. in Snakeology
at Harvard; my long-awaited latest book
"Pulp Fiction and Anaconda Love in the Sixties
or Going Down in the Deep South" is getting
rave reviews, my dears.


Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: madupont on August 22, 2007, 05:23:03 PM
The Perch


There is a fork in a branch
of an ancient, enormous maple,
one of a grove of such trees,
where I climb sometimes and sit and look out
over miles of valleys and low hills.
Today on skis I took a friend
to show her the trees. We set out
down the road, turned in at
the lane which a few weeks ago,
when the trees were almost empty
and the November snows had not yet come,
lay thickly covered in bright red
and yellow leaves, crossed the swamp,
passed the cellar hole holding
the remains of the 1850s farmhouse
that had slid down into it by stages
in the thirties and forties, followed
the overgrown logging road
and came to the trees. I climbed up
to the perch, and this time looked
not into the distance but at
the tree itself, its trunk
contorted by the terrible struggle
of that time when it had its hard time.
After the trauma it grows less solid.
It may be some such time now comes upon me.
It would have to do with the unaccomplished,
and with the attempted marriage
of solitude and happiness. Then a rifle
sounded, several times, quite loud,
from across the valley, percussions
of the custom of male mastery
over the earth ¡ª the most graceful,
most alert of the animals
being chosen to die. I looked
to see if my friend had heard,
but she was stepping about on her skis,
studying the trees, smiling to herself,
her lips still filled, for all
we had drained them, with hundreds
and thousands of kisses. Just then
she looked up ¡ª the way, from low
to high, the god blesses ¡ª and the blue
of her eyes shone out of the black
and white of bark and snow, as lovers
who are walking on a freezing day
touch icy cheek to icy cheek,
kiss, then shudder to discover
the heat waiting inside their mouths.


Galway Kinnell


Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: pugetopolis on August 23, 2007, 01:40:41 AM
(http://images.tribe.net/tribe/upload/photo/ea3/057/ea3057a6-f0f6-4b8d-931d-4e658c685951)


southern pulp fiction

jimmy dean and jimmy dean
were twins—i couldn’t tell them
apart. they were both from biloxi—
they lived with a girl named norma
jean. we all lived in a rundown
dumpy old mansion on nicholson
drive north of campus—the boys
and me were going to lsu. the
ghetto landlord was going to tear
the place down soon—so we were
the last ones to live there. the rent
was dirt cheap—i lived upstairs by
myself. i had an outside staircase
to my ratty hovel—i could see huey
p. long’s tall skyscraper state
capitol building from my window.
i could smell the levee at night—
the mississippi leaning in on me
thru my window so nice. that
whole neighborhood is pretty
much gone now—full of apartments
and parking lots. norma jean liked
me for some reason—she’d come
knocking on my door at night.
she was lonely—the boys weren’t
that much company. jimmy dean
and jimmy dean lived in their own
world—they pretty much kept to
themselves. norma jean and i
would stay up late at night—talking
about the boys. that’s how i
learned all about the twins—and
how she was in love with both of
them. they were both cute but
dumb—like southern boys can be
dontchaknow. cute as shit—but
dumber than nails. i loved it the
way they talked—the way they
talked so slow and sweet. all
the words so slow—slow and
thick as molasses. they’d been
there in that old dump longer
than me—two cute boys who
hated school but had to keep
going. their father back in
mississippi threatened to
disinherit them—if they didn’t
graduate and make something
out of their lives. norma jean
told me how to tell the difference
between jimmy dean and
jimmy dean—one had 3 inches
more than the other. i laughed
and she laughed—how in the
world was that supposed to
help me? Have them pull down
their pants in the morning and
at the end of the day—just to
say hello and good night to the
right one? she’d fix these
scrumptious gumbos and fine
apple pies—and invite me down.
we’d play pinochle late into the
night—and listen to jazz. we
got to be friends—i got to
know them all pretty well.
their ménage a trois had been
going on since high school—
the boys came to baton rouge
to get away from their rich
delta bourbon big daddy. i saw
him once in a big black cadillac—
he was right out of cat on a hot
tin roof. he even looked and
acted like burl ives—if he only
knew how we partied in that
dumpy old mansion on lost
weekends. if only he knew i got
my lips on both those boys—and
got to know the family jewels
real well. i got pretty good at
telling jimmy dean and jimmy
dean apart—even in the deepest
dark night. especially during
those dark humid southern
nights—when the spanish moss
hung down heavy as sin from
the gnarled old magnolia trees—
when it was too hot to sleep—
and there was nothing else to
do—those extra 3 inches made
all the difference in the world…
 
http://www.gaypoetry.com/design/poetry_dis.asp?dataID=34257


Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: pugetopolis on August 23, 2007, 02:06:47 AM
notes on southern fiction

interesting the difference
between "sudden fiction"
prose and "sudden fiction"
poetry. the difference font
makes -- between verdana,
arial black, georgia and
times new roman. i study
these things -- rereading
what i've written and
comparing how they look
& sound. interesting what's
said and said again is always
different...and yet the same.
i like the way paragraphs turn
into stanzas...the way it
doesn't make any difference
read out loud...these long hot
southern pulp fiction days &
nights...moiling about in my
mind like dead magnolias
gone forever...those days
& nights on nicholson drive...

http://www.gaypoetry.com/design/poetry_dis.asp?dataID=34258



Title: Some more GAY poetry
Post by: Detective_Winslow on August 23, 2007, 02:18:46 AM
Gay or straight...
You still masturbate....
It's part of your fate.....
Sometimes it's great......


I have a hard time understanding the queer
Maybe I could after a 30-pack of beer
And turning into a deer
Nah, I could never be.....


























(http://i.imdb.com/Photos/Mptv/1063/3456-0034.jpg)

queer


Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: pugetopolis on August 23, 2007, 04:16:09 AM
(http://images.tribe.net/tribe/upload/photo/415/984/41598488-ccf5-4d0e-b148-1fa8e1a9cc39)

young kinbote

—for vladimir nabokov

oleg the svelte—
charles the beautiful.
it’s goodbye zembla—
hello newwye.edu

big black cadillac—
plays enchanting music.
zemblan motorcycle hoodlums—
escort us down highway 666.

my mind sleek & bright—
my sky has a stucco moon.
he’s pale as palest fire—
shiny as my opal ring.

shiny liquid mirror—
oleg takes me for a drive.
he’s got zemblan eyes—
plus big zeppelin lips.

tchelitchev my set designer—
does a new mise-en-scene.
prince youssoupoff designs—
a sleek cigarette case.

oleg dances with me—
his perpetual slavic pout.
thick persian carpets writhe—
nude teen nijinsky.

old zemblan boyfriends—
make it hard to leave.
oleg duke of rahl shrugs—
sullen lips convince me.

i’m in new wye now—
my throne & ping-pong table.
i wait & watch & wonder—
when will oleg come?

my brain is shrinking—
soon i’ll be a pin-head.
everybody feels sorry for me—
there’s nothing they can do.

intricate fractal palms—
crawl across window-panes.
i hear the grandfather clock—
sobbing in the other room.

publish or perish—
here in my campus cottage.
professor shade next door—
famous appalachian poet.

i’m writing the prolog—
the commentary & index.
i’m even writing his poem—
chic zemblan lyrics.

academe in the sticks—
lovely enchanted barns.
“but what a dump, honey!”
for a queen like me.

zembla boyz blues—
they haunt me nightly.
tired of playing solitaire—
on my laptop baby.

http://www.gaypoetry.com/design/poetry_dis.asp?dataid=33325


Title: For Dectective_Winslow......Love and Kisses
Post by: pugetopolis on August 23, 2007, 04:42:12 AM
(http://images.tribe.net/tribe/upload/photo/d5a/a4f/d5aa4fbe-0e6b-4047-ba73-596eb57b95b5)


Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: Detective_Winslow on August 23, 2007, 01:12:01 PM
Shakespeare probably smoked the cock....
While writing Merchant of Venice, he was hard as a rock...
Particularly when he decided to cut....
A pound of flesh from Antonio's butt....





(http://www.foodsubs.com/Photos/porkshoulderroast.jpg)


Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: nnyhav on August 23, 2007, 01:15:14 PM
This may be germane -- that was no dark lady, that was my wife!
http://books.guardian.co.uk/review/story/0,,2150839,00.html


Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: madupont on August 23, 2007, 01:23:30 PM
http://www.woodstockjournal.com/corso7-10.html#poet


Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: madupont on August 23, 2007, 03:44:20 PM
Janine Pommy Vega
Gregory
Cleanshaven, cleared away, like a baby
tucked in bed with your wisdom eyes
a cold drink from a deep well
to see you
first a friend in early teenage years
in New York City, then
Paris, San Francisco, London
friend snatched back from the bony doorway

jewel at the heart of a room full
of people, rose on the pillow
I come home to read your poems again
your twisty pronouncements, singing lines
words that float like birds on the water
how much you've changed the language
& the premise of speech

How without hesitation, all these years
you've jumped in, not
to test the waters
but to see
if the waters were ready for you.

NYC August, 17, 2000.

–Poet Janine Pommy Vega lives in Woodstock and is a long-time friend of Gregory Corso



Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: pugetopolis on August 23, 2007, 04:51:14 PM
(http://content.answers.com/main/content/wp/en/thumb/8/89/300px-Oscar_Wilde_frock_coat.jpg)

Troll Lit

I think Detective_Winslow is in love with me.
We had a couple of love-spats and cat-fights over
in the Gay forum. He was kicking gays both dead &
alive for aids. Then he pops up in Meander—kicking
the poor defenseless pet-lovers. I put him in Ignore—
and the next thing I know he’s stalking me in the
Poetry forum. He’s done the same thing in the Kinks
forum—calling people bad sexist racist names.

I don’t know—I seem to attract ugly Trolls.
Trolvig back in the Book Lounge—then there's that
ever-present Troll from Campbelltown PA. There was
even a gang of tacky homophobic haikuists from
Scotland—mincing around in their kilts. Mad because
I posted a couple of gay haiku. After all, it was the
New York Times “Urban Haiku” forum—and NYC
is the gay capitol of the world. How ironic to be
trashed by a bunch of gay-bashers in kilts from jolly
old England. But then look what they did to Oscar Wilde…

Troll lit is alive and well—a constant subtext
even on the Internet. Trolls like Detective_Winslow
are dime a dozen—the proverbial skunk at the picnic.
And does he stink!!! He stinks so bad that...




Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: madupont on August 23, 2007, 05:06:27 PM
Steven Taylor
For Gregory
It's hard not to sound presumptious when speaking of (and in the virtual presence of) a magnitude 1 star. Then again, Gregory put the whammy on me twenty-four years ago--as was his habit upon meeting young poets--he absolutely demanded that we declare ourselves. I met Gregory in Allen Ginsberg's living room office at 437 East 12st., must have been the summer of 1976, the time of my first gigs with Allen. Later Gregory joined AG, Peter Orlovsky, and myself in Amsterdam where we read with Andrei Voznesensky at the Kosmos. We then joined with Judith Malina and Julian Beck, their young daughter, and Hanon Reznikoff for a string of gigs in France and Italy, where we were joined by the great, long-time translator of American literature Fernanda Pivano. What a company! I have many treasured memories of that tour. It was a magical time. I remember sitting with Gregory and looking at the moon over the hills near Bergamo and him saying it looked like a sail and myself wondering why the simple simile rang so. It's no mystery. In "I Held a Shelley Manuscript" he declares his company. Saluto Maestro.

–poet Steven Taylor is also a composer of note, a teacher, member of the Fugs, and for many years played guitar and sang with Allen Ginsberg in hundreds of performances.


Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: pugetopolis on August 23, 2007, 05:17:58 PM
"I remember sitting with Gregory and looking at the moon over the hills near Bergamo and him saying it looked like a sail and myself wondering why the simple simile rang so. It's no mystery. In "I Held a Shelley Manuscript" he declares his company."

Charming.


Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: madupont on August 23, 2007, 06:22:41 PM
Bob Rosenthal
Gregory's Sox
In 1972, I was part of a group of Chicago poets who presented poetry readings weekly at the Body Politic Theater. Rochelle Kraut and I were house-sitting Ted Berrigan and Alice Notley's large flat on Waveland Avenue (one and half blocks from Wrigley's Bleachers). Ted's only house rule was: "Don't let Gregory Corso stay here."
We already had invited Gregory and he was coming. We made hotel reservations at the North Park Hotel at the foot of Lincoln Park. Ginsberg and Burroughs had stayed there before. Gregory was traveling with a friend, Peggy Bederman. Peter Kostakis, Richard Friedman and myself piled in my car to pick them up at O'Hare. As we drove into the city, Gregory drunkenly and aggressively quizzed us. Someone made a comment like, "There goes my career." Gregory jumped on him and mightily exclaimed that Poetry is not a Career. The word soul was mentioned and Peter K. said, "There is no soul!" Gregory turned to Peggy and said, "See, he knows!" I was glad that I was driving and not likely to be quizzed. We had reserved a room with separate beds for Gregory and Peggy. In the lobby, Gregory loudly declared that he did not fuck Peggy. The Management decided to withdraw the room. And so I broke Ted's rule.
Gregory shared some grass which turned out to be very "trippy.' A lot of Chicago poets were hanging out in our living room and sparing with Gregory. Lots of booze flowed. Gregory was wearing bell bottoms and blue suede shoes that Marty Balin had given to him. I sat in the circle and jiggled my knee in caffeine abstraction. All at once Gregory turned to me and pointed to my leg and demanded, "Why do you shake your knee?" I was dumbstruck. Before I could think, he whirled to Peggy, "But it works!" That was it. I had passed the test.
We took Peggy and Gregory to the restaurant near the theatre. While we were there. Ralph Mills, a poetry professor of mine at University of Illinois, came over, hand extended and introduced himself to Gregory by saying, "Hello, I am a good friend of your friend, Allen Ginsberg." Gregory looked at him and politely asked, "Would you mind if I don't shake your hand." Prof. Mills gave me a glance of sympathy and walked off.
The Body Politic was packed that night. It was the first reading that we had charged admission. The crowd expected something special. Gregory was completely drunk. Chicagoans are predisposed to dislike New Yorkers and Gregory made it sublimely easy. He staggered over the stage repeating that he would only read "The Hits". Just "The Hits." He would read one line from the middle of a poem and then mumble. The audience starting calling out quickly, "You suck." "You're Stupid!" Gregory shot back, "I know everything! Ask me anything!" Everyone started yelling. Gregory kept talking and challenging till he couldn't stand. Afterwards he said, "Man I loved that. Those people really talked back! That was so great."
The next day, the angelic Gregory woke up in our home. He needed a clean pair of dress socks and traded his Christian Dior knee-highs for one of my more pedestrian pair. Gregory was scheduled to read at the University of Illinois. There was a small midday audience in a sterile lecture hall and Gregory sweetly, without a fuss, read his poetry for an hour and was stunningly good.
Gregory and Peggy were with us for a few more days. I remember Gregory listening to an extended Lenny Bruce performance. He talked to Lenny the whole time agreeing and having further thoughts. I thought I was in heaven. Gregory talked to me and encouraged me to move to New York for Poetry but not for a career. He was supportive and friendly. He didn't rip off any of Ted's paintings yet I did move Gregory and Peggy out onto the stoop after a few days. The last I saw of them, they were seated on the stoop waiting for a new friend to come by and pick them up. I never knew when or how they got back to New York. I kept those socks and wore them to my wedding. I still have them. Thank you, Gregory, for all the permissions.

–poet Bob Rosenthal was for many years Allen Ginsberg's secretary



Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: pugetopolis on August 25, 2007, 03:15:30 AM
Exile Haiku

“The advantages of being a literal exile in a culture
obsessed by a myth of it are numerous. The most obvious
one was that I was able to gain admittance to a community
of my peers with the promise of story that was, as least in
the beginning, only a series of gestures and inarticulate groans.
I was able to obtain credit at the bank of the future on the
strength of my generic mythical assets.”—Andrei Codrescu,
The Muse Is Always Half-Dressed in New Orleans


Je est un autre—
A little too much je est
Not enough autre




Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: Detective_Winslow on August 25, 2007, 04:31:59 AM
pugetopolis
is a hermaphrodite whore
just making ends meet


Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: madupont on August 25, 2007, 12:42:18 PM
http://www.rooknet.com/beatpage/gallery/img_gen_group_04.jpg



Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: pugetopolis on August 27, 2007, 04:16:49 PM
Miss Ashbery

(http://graphics8.nytimes.com/images/2007/08/27/arts/27laur.jpg)

Read the article in today's NYTimes about mtvU choosing Ashbery as their "poet laureate." All very nice and so on, but absolutely no mention that Miss Ashbery is queer. The closest they get is a reference to her start 1950s "bohemia."

Well, my dears, aren't those folks at mtvU and the NYTimes ever so circumspect? One has to wonder how complicit Miss Ashbery was in this little -- what? -- lavender wash? I have no clue who the target audience is for mtvU, though I assume its largely the same or wants to be the same as MTV generally. So, I think it's irresponsible, if not immoral, for Miss Ashbery to let this bit of closetry occur.
 
Of course, the article also troops out Ashbery's now rather famous quip about not wanting to be named the national poet laureate. Of course, we all know that there is only one requirement for U.S. poet laureate: no gays.

As recent recipients have apply demonstrated, talent and achievement have nothing to do with that honor. That's why Ashbery's quip is sadly fatuitous: it fails to state why he will never be offered the position in the first place.
 
Ah well, Auden is still right: poetry changes nothing—especially when it doesn't even try.

http://www.nytimes.com/2007/08/27/books/27laur.html?_r=1&oref=slogin
 



Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: madupont on August 27, 2007, 05:44:47 PM
http://www.rooknet.com/beatpage/gallery/img_rexroth_01.jpg

http://www.rooknet.com/beatpage/gallery/img_rexroth_02.jpg

For instance, here is an example of a non-gay Poet. He may not have been Poet Laureate, but that had nothing to do with which sex he was nor was it because he maintained a friendship  with W.H. Auden as they both had something to talk about re: Poetry.  And both of them wrote works beyond your ken,  if you pardon the pun, but it brings to mind that you would have to take that in every sense both as understanding what they wrote and having the capacity to write something of the kind.


Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: pugetopolis on August 27, 2007, 06:20:18 PM
(http://images.tribe.net/tribe/upload/photo/a5b/880/a5b880eb-5227-4edb-b4f4-335fe455ae6f)

miss ashbery

—for john ashbery

schmoozing with miss ashbery
the future poet laureate—
of the sinking empire of neo…
just ask the nytimes about it,
they know everything about
everybody anyway don’t they?
just ask mr. david kermani—
miss ashbery’s business manager
about the future of beltway
glory and muse deification.
arranged  by chance of course—
by pulitzer prize committee
plus harpercollins inc.
we’re meeting this morning
the nobel prize queens say—
the announcement is imminent.
it’s written in the stars above,
you can run but you can’t hide.
the macarthur foundation
certainly agrees: you and i are
suddenly giddy with possibility—
that what walt whitman was
trying to tell us is true:
merely being here now, dears,
means something; that soon
we may touch, love each other,
even get married for gawd’s sake.
no more don’t ask don’t tell—
no more jerry fartwell shit and
such buffoonery surrounded by.
a poetry already filled with style,
a style thru which emerges—
art deco weimar renaissance;
pandora’s box opening up once
again in a new puzzling light.
just ask fritz kortner or
louise brooks, my dear…




Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: madupont on August 27, 2007, 07:47:05 PM
http://onegoodmove.org/1gm/1gmarchive/2007/04/sean_penn_tops.html


Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: madupont on August 28, 2007, 01:36:56 AM
Old news but reminiscient.

Published on Thursday, February 6, 2003 by the Associated Press 
U.S. Poet Laureate Opposes War with Iraq 
by Hillel Italie
 
NEW YORK - The threatened war with Iraq has politicized the nation's poets, starting at the very top.

In comments rarely heard from a sitting U.S. poet laureate, Billy Collins has publicly declared his opposition to war and says he finds it increasingly difficult to keep politics out of his official job as literary advocate.

While at least three of Collins' predecessors also have stated their opposition to war, an incumbent laureate usually sticks to art for art's sake. Poets laureate are not political appointees; the selection is made by the Librarian of Congress, a post currently held by James H. Billington. Collins, who receives an annual stipend of $35,000, is serving his second one-year term.

A spokeswoman for the Library of Congress said Tuesday that "Mr. Collins is free to express his own opinions on any subject."

Collins, whose books include "Questions About Angels" and "Nine Horses," is a mostly introspective poet who doesn't have a history of political activism. But he defended anti-war poets who last week caused the White House to postpone a symposium sponsored by first lady Laura Bush.

"If political protest is urgent, I don't think it needs to wait for an appropriate scene and setting and should be as disruptive as it wants to be," Collins said in a recent e-mail to The Associated Press .

"I have tried to keep the West Wing and the East Wing of the White House as separate as possible because I support what Mrs. Bush has done for the causes of literacy and reading. But as this country is being pushed into a violent confrontation, I find it increasingly difficult to maintain that separation."

Collins, Nobel laureate Derek Walcott, former U.S. poet laureate Richard Wilbur and about 40 other writers and artists signed an anti-war petition last month.

In England, meanwhile, poet laureate Andrew Motion has written an anti-war poem that cites "elections, money, empire, oil" as the motivation for war.

Concern about a possible war has also changed what had been a relatively positive relationship between Mrs. Bush and the literary community. A former librarian who has made teaching and early childhood development her signature issues, she has held a series of symposiums to salute America's authors.

She planned a Feb. 12 forum on "Poetry and the American Voice," featuring the works of Emily Dickinson, Langston Hughes and Walt Whitman. Through her spokeswoman, Noelia Rodriguez, Mrs. Bush said last Wednesday that it would be "inappropriate to turn a literary event into a political forum" and postponed the forum. It has not been rescheduled.

Former poets laureate Stanley Kunitz and Rita Dove were among those who refused to attend and Sam Hamill, a poet and editor of the highly regarded Copper Canyon Press, organized a protest to send anti-war poems and statements to the White House. So far, he has received more than 3,600, to be posted on a Web site. Contributors include Pulitzer Prize winners W.S. Merwin and Galway Kinnell and at least two state poet laureates: Connecticut's Marilyn Nelson and South Dakota's David Allen Evans.

"I'm not speaking as a representative of the state, I'm speaking as ... a poet and private individual," Evans said. "I know it's an ambivalent situation and I hesitated to contribute to the project, but I felt that I needed to say I wanted peace instead of war."

New Jersey poet laureate Amiri Baraka said he will send a statement to Hamill and is also working on a poem about impeaching President Bush.

"Of course, I see it as part of my job. The main task right now is stopping the war," said Baraka, whose poem implying Israel had advance knowledge of the Sept. 11 attacks led critics to call for his resignation.

http://www.commondreams.org/headlines03/0206-07.htm

Copyright © 2003 The Associated Press

###
 
 


Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: pugetopolis on August 28, 2007, 09:20:11 PM

She babbled on...


Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: madupont on August 29, 2007, 01:27:57 PM
http://www.litkicks.com/Texts/Bomb.html


Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: nnyhav on August 29, 2007, 02:43:15 PM
http://www.litkicks.com/Texts/Bomb.html
Allen Ginsberg tried to explain what Corso was trying to express, and ended up calling the students a bunch of assholes.

*That* explains it then.

"I learned to stop worrying. Ask me how!"


Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: madupont on August 29, 2007, 05:31:30 PM
Marriage                                             Gregory Corso

Should I get married? Should I be Good?
Astound the girl next door with my velvet suit and faustaus hood?
Don't take her to movies but to cemeteries
tell all about werewolf bathtubs and forked clarinets
then desire her and kiss her and all the preliminaries
and she going just so far and I understanding why
not getting angry saying You must feel! It's beautiful to feel!
Instead take her in my arms lean against an old crooked tombstone
and woo her the entire night the constellations in the sky--

When she introduces me to her parents
back straightened, hair finally combed, strangled by a tie,
should I sit knees together on their 3rd degree sofa
and not ask Where's the bathroom?
How else to feel other than I am,
often thinking Flash Gordon soap--
O how terrible it must be for a young man
seated before a family and the family thinking
We never saw him before! He wants our Mary Lou!
After tea and homemade cookies they ask What do you do for a living?
Should I tell them? Would they like me then?
Say All right get married, we're losing a daughter
but we're gaining a son--
And should I then ask Where's the bathroom?

O God, and the wedding! All her family and her friends
and only a handful of mine all scroungy and bearded
just waiting to get at the drinks and food--
And the priest! He looking at me if I masturbated
asking me Do you take this woman for your lawful wedded wife?
And I trembling what to say say Pie Glue!
I kiss the bride all those corny men slapping me on the back
She's all yours, boy! Ha-ha-ha!
And in their eyes you could see some obscene honeymoon going on--

then all that absurd rice and clanky cans and shoes
Niagara Falls! Hordes of us! Husbands! Wives! Flowers! Chocolates!
All streaming into cozy hotels
All going to do the same thing tonight
The indifferent clerk he knowing what was going to happen
The lobby zombies they knowing what
The whistling elevator man he knowing
The winking bellboy knowing
Everybody knowing! I'd be almost inclined not to do anything!
Stay up all night! Stare that hotel clerk in the eye!
Screaming: I deny honeymoon! I deny honeymoon!
running rampant into those almost climatic suites
yelling Radio belly! Cat shovel!
O I'd live in Niagara forever! in a dark cave beneath the Falls
I'd sit there the Mad Honeymooner devising ways to break marriages, a scourge of bigamy a saint of divorce--

But I should get married I should be good
How nice it'd be to come home to her
and sit by the fireplace and she in the kitchen
aproned young and lovely wanting by baby
and so happy about me she burns the roast beef
and comes crying to me and I get up from my big papa chair
saying Christmas teeth! Radiant brains! Apple deaf!
God what a husband I'd make! Yes, I should get married!
So much to do! like sneaking into Mr Jones' house late at night
and cover his golf clubs with 1920 Norwegian books
Like hanging a picture of Rimbaud on the lawnmower
like pasting Tannu Tuva postage stamps all over the picket fence
like when Mrs Kindhead comes to collect for the Community Chest
grab her and tell her There are unfavorable omens in the sky!
And when the mayor comes to get my vote tell him
When are you going to stop people killing whales!
And when the milkman comes leave him a note in the bottle
Penguin dust, bring me penguin dust, I want penguin dust--

Yet if I should get married and it's Connecticut and snow
and she gives birth to a child and I am sleepless, worn,
up for nights, head bowed against a quiet window, the past behind me,
finding myself in the most common of situations a trembling man
knowledged with responsibility not twig-smear not Roman coin soup--
O what would that be like!
Surely I'd give it for a nipple a rubber Tacitus
For a rattle bag of broken Bach records
Tack Della Francesca all over its crib
Sew the Greek alphabet on its bib
And build for its playpen a roofless Parthenon

No, I doubt I'd be that kind of father
not rural not snow no quiet window
but hot smelly New York City
seven flights up, roaches and rats in the walls
a fat Reichian wife screeching over potatoes Get a job!
And five nose running brats in love with Batman
And the neighbors all toothless and dry haired
like those hag masses of the 18th century
all wanting to come in and watch TV
The landlord wants his rent
Grocery store Blue Cross Gas & Electric Knights of Columbus
Impossible to lie back and dream Telephone snow, ghost parking--
No! I should not get married and I should never get married!
But--imagine if I were to marry a beautiful sophisticated woman
tall and pale wearing an elegant black dress and long black gloves
holding a cigarette holder in one hand and highball in the other
and we lived high up a penthouse with a huge window
from which we could see all of New York and even farther on clearer days
No I can't imagine myself married to that pleasant prison dream--

O but what about love? I forget love
not that I am incapable of love
it's just that I see love as odd as wearing shoes--
I never wanted to marry a girl who was like my mother
And Ingrid Bergman was always impossible
And there maybe a girl now but she's already married
And I don't like men and--
but there's got to be somebody!
Because what if I'm 60 years old and not married,
all alone in furnished room with pee stains on my underwear
and everybody else is married! All in the universe married but me!

Ah, yet well I know that were a woman possible as I am possible
then marriage would be possible--
Like SHE in her lonely alien gaud waiting her Egyptian lover
so I wait--bereft of 2,000 years and the bath of life


Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: madupont on August 29, 2007, 08:28:59 PM
The Whole Mess ... Almost

I ran up six flights of stairs
to my small furnished room
opened the window
and began throwing out
those things most important in life

First to go, Truth, squealing like a fink:
"Don't! I'll tell awful things about you!"
"Oh yeah? Well, I've nothing to hide ... OUT!"
Then went God, glowering & whimpering in amazement:
"It's not my fault! I'm not the cause of it all!" "OUT!"
Then Love, cooing bribes: "You'll never know impotency!
All the girls on Vogue covers, all yours!"
I pushed her fat ass out and screamed:
"You always end up a bummer!"
I picked up Faith Hope Charity
all three clinging together:
"Without us you'll surely die!"
"With you I'm going nuts! Goodbye!"

Then Beauty ... ah, Beauty --
As I led her to the window
I told her: "You I loved best in life
... but you're a killer; Beauty kills!"
Not really meaning to drop her
I immediately ran downstairs
getting there just in time to catch her
"You saved me!" she cried
I put her down and told her: "Move on."

Went back up those six flights
went to the money
there was no money to throw out.
The only thing left in the room was Death
hiding beneath the kitchen sink:
"I'm not real!" It cried
"I'm just a rumor spread by life ..."
Laughing I threw it out, kitchen sink and all
and suddenly realized Humor
was all that was left --
All I could do with Humor was to say:
"Out the window with the window!"


Gregory Corso


Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: pugetopolis on August 29, 2007, 09:35:33 PM

"Went back up those six flights
went to the money
there was no money to throw out."
Gregory Corso

Corso was always hitting up Ginsberg for money. What a mooch.

Getting drunk and making an ass of himself.

Like that time at the London airport...

So many beats like Corso and Kerouac...drunks and losers.

All of them dead now...




Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: madupont on August 29, 2007, 11:04:12 PM

Jack Powers talks to Doug Holder/ Lucid Moon interview

JP: I had Corso read for Stone Soup Poetry in the mid-70's in Boston. There was a great deal of interest in the BEATS then, and the audience was packed. It was two decades since the "pot started to boil," and some of the hip people were anxious to see him as well as the older poets from that era. I loved the natural music he had when reading his poetry.

DH: In Corso's poem, ELEGIAC FEELINGS AMERICA, he writes of his deceased friend Jack Kerouac,...O and when it's asked of you,/ What happened to America/has happened to him/ the two were inseparable/like the wind to the sky/is the voice to the word./ How do you think Corso linked Kerouac's fate with America, and the notions connected with it?

JP: Corso was writing that Kerouac was coming from the working class, with a "Joe six-pack mentality." Like many Blue Collars, he was essentially patriotic. He was buying into the life that America offered. The American dream of reinvention, limitless possibilities, hitting the road and starting all over again, died along with Kerouac. Kerouac died in his mother's house, a broken man. You can't marry your mother. What he believed America was, proved to be an illusion. Kerouac sought the geographical cure instead of the vertical one. Ginsberg told me if Kerouac learned to sit and meditate he would of still been alive. Kerouac bought into the material culture. He wore the badge of Eastern religion, but it didn't mean anything. In this poem Corso saw Kerouac tragically barking up the wrong tree.

DH: In 1954 , Corso lived in Cambridge,Ma. At the Harvard Library he poured over all the great works of poetry. In fact, his first published poems appeared in the Harvard Advocate. He even wrote a play that was produced by Harvard students, " In This Hung Up Age" Did your paths cross at this time? Was Cambridge and Boston a nurturing place for the struggling artist, in the 50's?

JP: It was not. That's why I started STONE SOUP, in reaction to this reality. I remember going into the Grolier Bookstore in Cambridge, and being treated like I literally stunk. The 50's were nuturing to the Yale Younger Poets, the academics, certainly not the struggling artist. I did not know that Corso was living in Cambridge at the time. This was a pre-HOWL, and not many folks heard of him and the others.



 


Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: madupont on August 30, 2007, 03:43:25 PM
 Reply #96

There's one thing you are not getting here. Kerouac left some stash to minimal offspring as I'm reminded by Dzimas, which is how the topic came up in the first place. I left Dzimas some photos and coverage on the territory of their involvement, in the appropriate places like Meander,etc.

You've made indiscreetly obvious that with your background as it was that you know next to nothing about the literature of that period nor how it is seen and read in the rest of the world.

"Ginzie" had no offspring but he did have survivors to collect his stash.

Corso on the other hand has several offspring as the result of multiple marriages and along the way acquired some very wealthy friends who took care of his last wishes.  I wouldn't be surprised that if you keep it up,you find yourself in some kind of a suit, maybe not concrete or anything, if you don't get pounded first by some relative who takes it personally.

I'm not altogether surprised because if you can't get people to believe your false insinuations with blatant false charges on one of your issues, then you transform to another aspect of pretentiousness of somehow being the better writer by far than any who were your betters quite a time ago that you somehow missed out on.

The second reason that it is not surprising, I mentioned in the second paragraph. With your Southern Agrarian background you have the whole schoolyard genteel facetiousness that never accepted any really urbane or cosmopolitan lit-crit until you hit the streets of the bigger cities in which every one of these poets was accustommed to be and very likely about the same time that you made the scene. Now that you've got a chip on your shoulder, it occurs to me this latest rampage of tantrum throwing may have occurred in feeling that you were personally slighted or taken for granted or insulted by their presence and demeanor and following and skill.  Get over it. Post haste.


Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: pugetopolis on August 30, 2007, 04:32:43 PM
(http://content.answers.com/main/content/wp/en/thumb/8/89/300px-Oscar_Wilde_frock_coat.jpg)

What a mouth, my dear Mad.

Tell me, don't you ever sleep?


Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: pugetopolis on August 30, 2007, 06:23:31 PM
Protest.    Just because  some people are in denial about not being able to give up their favorite stimulus doesn't mean we should give any credence to their habit by even dignifying their drug of choice.

Oh, you mean like Kerouac (drunk), Ginsberg (Hep C - liver cancer), Neil Cassidy (OD Mexico), Corso, etc. etc. etc.

The list is long...all the Beats dead and gone now, my dear Madame Mad.

And yet you still go on and on...glorifying them like gods...

Read them and weep, Madame Mad...

Weep your crocodile tears, my dear...




Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: madupont on August 30, 2007, 06:47:11 PM
http://www.poets.org/poet.php/prmPID/41


Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: madupont on August 30, 2007, 06:58:37 PM
 
In the following essay, Robert Creeley honors his beloved friend and fellow poet Denise Levertov, who died at the age of 74 on December 23, 1997.

Hard to believe we met about fifty years ago in New York, when she and Mitch had first married and she had returned from Europe with him in the classic manner to start her own life over again. Certainly as a poet she had to. The distance between her first book, The Double Image, and the second, Here and Now, published by City Lights in its Pocket Poets series ten years later, is a veritable quantum leap. Kenneth Rexroth, editing The New British Poets for New Directions, thought her most able and, when he saw her, declared her Dante's Beatrice incarnate. W. C. Williams, writing of "Mrs. Cobweb" in Here and Now, said that one can't really tell if she's utterly virginal or if she has been on the town for years and years. Everyone was intrigued!

Was it Denise's long training as a dancer, when she was a child, that gave her such particularity of movement--her phrase and line shifting with the fact of her emotion, the rhythms locating each word? In a sense she was a wide-awake dreamer; a practical visionary with an indomitable will; a passionate, whimsical heart committed to an adamantly determined mind. It wasn't simply that Denise was right. It was that her steadfast commitments could accommodate no error.

I remember, when we were neighbors in France, riding our bicycles in Aix from the villages we lived in just to the north. There was a week-long celebration of Mozart. Denise's bike lost its brakes at the top of the three-mile hill into the city and down she came, full tilt, careening through early evening traffic, to come to rest finally at the far side near the railroad station. Was she terrified? I recall our going to the concert--so seemingly she soon recovered. Balance, quick purchase, passional measure rather than didactic, mind an antenna, not a quanitifier merely. Her voice was lovely. Her laughter, particularly her helpless, loud giggles, were what finally must define "humanness." Her whole body took over. We used to sit out at the edge of the orchard near her house in Puyricard, rehearsing endlessly what it was Williams was doing with the line. We were fascinated by how the pace was managed, how the insistent breaking into of the grammatically ordered line made a tension and a means more deft than any we had known. That bond of recognition, shared between us, never lessened.

Back in the States, then to Mexico, as I also shifted about to Black Mountain--then to New Mexico, Guatemala, and Canada--Mitch's and Denise's son Nick grew and grew, as our own children did. Thanks to Donald Allen's The New American Poetry (with Denise ostensibly the one woman of Black Mountain's company, despite the fact that she never went there, even to look), we began to have a public condition, as they say. The Vancouver Poetry Festival of 1963 and the Berkeley Poetry Conference of 1965 were the greatest collective demonstrations.

Necessarily the Vietnam War and its politics bitterly changed our world. Insofar as that determinant in Denise's life is a solid fact of the period's history, there's no need now to rehearse it. I was closest to the poems of The Jacob's Ladder and O Taste and See. Repeatedly she found voices for our common lives.

Years passed, of course. We saw one another all too rarely and yet her presence, her stalwart integrity, were always a given. Work to offset the world's real ills became an increasing occupation, forcing a more generalized community, on one hand, and also an increased singularity as her son moved into his own life and she and his father separated. She has written poignantly, healingly, of this time.

Now and then we would intersect on our show biz travels, once in Cincinnati, then a few days later in New York. Finally we were together at a Poetry Society of America awards dinner--we'd been judges--after she had moved to Seattle. Nick was with her; they were both solid and happy. There was always much I wanted to talk to her about--[Robert] Duncan, for example; my own confusions; the life I now lived with my family; the increased rigors of teaching. But we no longer seemed to find time or occasion to write. Last fall at Stanford, I got the news from friends that her cancer treatment seemed to have gone well. She had visited just a short time before and appeared much better.

Then bleakly, irrevocably, she was dead. No more chance to talk except in the way one finally always had--in what she wrote, what one had hoped to say, what one remembered.



--Robert Creeley The Jacob's Ladder

The stairway is not
a thing of gleaming strands
a radiant evanescence
for angels' feet that only glance in their tread, and need not
touch the stone.

It is of stone.
A rosy stone that takes
a glowing tone of softness
only because behind it the sky is a doubtful, a doubting
night gray.

A stairway of sharp
angles, solidly built.
One sees that the angels must spring
down from one step to the next, giving a little
lift of the wings:

and a man climbing
must scrape his knees, and bring
the grip of his hands into play. The cut stone
consoles his groping feet. Wings brush past him.
The poem ascends.

--Denise Levertov

 


In 1979, Denise Levertov addressed a group of students at Washington Irving High School in Manhattan. The speech was published in her 1981 prose collection, Light Up the Cave.

I was asked to talk about the life of a poet. Some of you will not find poetry at the very center of your lives though no doubt it will go on being a profound resource--both writing it and reading it. Others will find that it is indeed a dominant force in their lives--it has been for me. I started very young. The primary impulse for me was always to make a structure out of words, words that sounded right. And I think that's a rather basic foundation of the poet's world. Of course, one also is motivated by the desire or need to "express one's feelings"--and it is essential that the poet has something he or she passionately wants to say--or rather, to sing, since poetry is closer in its essential nature to music than to expository prose. But without the impulse to make a thing out of words, as a sculptor makes a freestanding thing out of clay or wood or stone, a poem will remain only self-expression. Poetry is an art, not a form of therapy, and if a person with a love of poetry, a love of language, recognizes this early, it helps. Because then that person's natural gifts will be put at the service of the art, instead of the art being put into bondage and utilized as a "vehicle" for opinions or emotions. The arts are not vehicles, they are not like bicycles or bomber planes!

I was lucky--as you are--in starting early, because when you begin to write early you avoid some of the self-consciousness that people who only begin later in life tend to suffer from. You just plunge in, not knowing what you're doing, and find that you've done something, made something. It's exciting and encouraging to take oneself by surprise like that. But even a strong talent needs nourishment: don't ever feel that if you read other people's poetry you'll lose your originality. You have to trust it--your talent. If it could be so easily destroyed it wouldn't be worth much anyway. It's useful to be influenced--after a while an influence will be absorbed into your own style. Read widely and deeply. But also use your eyes and ears. Try to avoid vague general statements about your feelings, and instead practice accurate description of things you see. You will find that because you are seeing them through your emotions, as if through tinted glass--blue or rose!--the way you evoke a picture of your street or your friend or the sky will convey more about your feelings than any statement can. And thus another person reading it will feel what you feel instead of just being informed about how you feel. When one discovers that one has a gift for writing poetry it's a solemn and also a deliriously exciting moment. Maybe many moments--because sometimes you don't believe it and then you discover it over again. One feels chosen--and if one has an adequate recognition of poetry being something larger than oneself, one feels a sense of dedication to the calling of poet. It's a secret feeling and you don't have it all the time, but it's there. And because of this dedication a poet learns to revise, to work at his or her poem until it is as perfect as it can be. Not in order to show off, to compete with others, to demonstrate personal cleverness, but for the sake of poetry itself. You can't make a poem happen, but once it begins to happen you can help it become complete. It's a little bit as if the poet were a sort of photograph developing medium, which makes the mysterious hidden image appear from the negative and become clearer and clearer. (You've probably watched a Polaroid photo appearing as if by magic while you look.) This task of working at and with the poem is what really grabs one. I think the people who go on writing all their lives are those for whom that process is itself utterly fascinating. For the poet, not having written a poem, but the experience of writing it, is what matters. And somehow, if your gift goes on growing and making its demand on you, you will try to find the ways of living that will be most suitable for you as individuals to go on doing your work in poetry--you will find your talent giving shape to your lives


Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: Lhoffman on August 30, 2007, 07:13:01 PM
It would be helpful, if when using extended quotes, to put them in italics.    Or at least use "quotation marks."  This would make your posts more understandable to other readers, and we would know which experiences of your own you are sharing, and which experiences of others. 



Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: madupont on August 30, 2007, 07:48:29 PM
http://www.rooknet.com/beatpage/writers/levertov.html


Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: madupont on August 30, 2007, 08:15:46 PM
It would be helpful, if when using extended quotes, to put them in italics.    Or at least use "quotation marks."  This would make your posts more understandable to other readers, and we would know which experiences of your own you are sharing, and which experiences of others. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Oh, I was glad I found my links. The self evident opening line makes clear that Creeley is writing an essay of remembrances about his friend Denise Levertov.

Of course, he too drinks so  maybe we should just eradicate all Beat Poets as was suggested prior to my posting  Levertov material at all.  She gives very good advice in the end piece of the Bob Creeley memoriam which he thought to include where she talks to the high-school kids about self-consciousness.

I include her because she is the second poet but first poet who being a woman gave that advice in about mid to end 1960s, when I asked how she dealt with that as a woman when she began to write poems? Of course, I did not know at the time that she began writing poetry as a child(probably from the same source that  Ginsburg had which inspired both of them at different ages)whereas I only read and shared Eliot,and Donne,and Shakespeare at that childhood age.

As she probably would have said, screw the quotation marks,please print my picture of when I lived in Cambridge and was happy. (if only I could figure that out and do it as neatly as Pugetopolis bothered to do in spamming four or more different forums with the same picture of Ashberry to make his point,dropping tid bits of insult and tedium as he went; somehow, I felt that one full-blown sober Creeley on Levertov was about the right space to match Pugetopolis' tedious repetitions).madupont   xxx


Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: pugetopolis on August 30, 2007, 08:41:55 PM
(http://content.answers.com/main/content/wp/en/thumb/8/89/300px-Oscar_Wilde_frock_coat.jpg)

Pugetopolis' tedious repetitions)

Tedious repetitions?

Honey, please wake up and smell the coffee, baby...


Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: madupont on August 30, 2007, 09:18:27 PM
You know, I rather liked Oscar Wilde (and Thornton Wilder, and Orson W. as well) before you  started laying it on, now I've begun to develop a mental block about remembering Wilde although I did like the hang-up Albert Finney had about him. Well played. More than can be said about your gamesmanship,old sport.


Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: pugetopolis on August 30, 2007, 10:22:36 PM
(http://content.answers.com/main/content/wp/en/thumb/8/89/300px-Oscar_Wilde_frock_coat.jpg)

Really, my dear?

I seem to be developing the same thing...

A mental block...about you.

It's called Ignore.


Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: madupont on August 30, 2007, 11:30:49 PM
In California During the Gulf War
   
 
  Among the blight-killed eucalypts, among
trees and bushes rusted by Christmas frosts,
the yards and hillsides exhausted by five years of drought,

certain airy white blossoms punctually
reappeared, and dense clusters of pale pink, dark pink--
a delicate abundance. They seemed

like guests arriving joyfully on the accustomed
festival day, unaware of the year's events, not perceiving
the sackcloth others were wearing.

To some of us, the dejected landscape consorted well
with our shame and bitterness. Skies ever-blue,
daily sunshine, disgusted us like smile-buttons.

Yet the blossoms, clinging to thin branches
more lightly than birds alert for flight,
lifted the sunken heart

even against its will.
But not
as symbols of hope: they were flimsy
as our resistance to the crimes committed

--again, again--in our name; and yes, they return,
year after year, and yes, they briefly shone with serene joy
over against the dark glare

of evil days. They are, and their presence
is quietness ineffable--and the bombings are, were,
no doubt will be; that quiet, that huge cacophany

simultaneous. No promise was being accorded, the blossoms
were not doves, there was no rainbow. And when it was claimed
the war had ended, it had not ended.

Denise Levertov
 
 


Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: madupont on August 30, 2007, 11:34:52 PM
Denise Levertov's --

Variation on a Theme by Rilke
           

A certain day became a presence to me;

there it was, confronting me--a sky, air, light:

a being. And before it started to descend

from the height of noon, it leaned over

and struck my shoulder as if with

the flat of a sword, granting me

honor and a task. The day's blow

rang out, metallic--or it was I, a bell awakened,

and what I heard was my whole self

saying and singing what it knew: I can


                                                           [chriscorrigan web-site]


Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: madupont on August 31, 2007, 12:42:35 AM
Portrait of Denise Levertov taken by Elsa Dorfman on Flagg St, Cambridge, MA

[Elsa made herself sort of the Beat Generation Poetry photographer. Which I had not realized before now. I am also beginning to wonder how this started. Sheer coincidence? Was it because Gregory Corso came to school and then the momentum just continued into somebody else's apartment when Ginzie,Orlovsky, and Gregory came for a visit. It always seems to be in a kitchen save one shot of Peter Orlovsky semi-jumping on the living room couch; was that at Elsa's? The kitchen was always where everything was happening; at least where men were involved.

I now have to look up her continuing portraits of the women poets that we all knew and read, Nikki Giovanni, and somebody else besides Denise, who was it, the name escapes me?


http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Image:Denise-levertov.jpg

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Image:Creeley.jpg


Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: pugetopolis on August 31, 2007, 08:02:09 AM
berlin diary

--for leni

well my dear, i was dining
with leni riefenstahl in the
chancery bunker toward the
awful gotterdamerung end—
and we agreed that weimar
weltschmerz was alive
& well… fritz exuding
script and playing the
part of the head of the
art deco underground…
Leni (1945)—a strange
little wartime agitprop
b-movie—fritz kortner
co-writing the story—
we were visiting the
set before the strange
death of adolph hitler—
the chancery bunker
stunk toward the end…
I got to play the
adolph & naturally
Leni played Leni—
we had to hurry
since the hordes
were already at
the tiergarten…

 


Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: madupont on September 04, 2007, 01:51:11 AM
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Image:Germany_T%C3%BCbingen_H%C3%B6lderlinturm.jpg

Friedrich Hölderlin
Da ich ein Knabe war . . .
Da ich ein Knabe war,
Rettet' ein Gott mich oft
Vom Geschrei und der Rute der Menschen,
Da spielt ich sicher und gut
Mit den Blumen des Hains,
Und die Lüftchen des Himmels
Spielten mit mir.

Und wie du das Herz
Der Pflanzen erfreust,
Wenn sie entgegen dir
Die zarten Arme strecken,

So hast du mein Herz erfreut,
Vater Helios ! und, wie Endymion,
War ich dein Liebling,
Heilige Luna !

Oh all ihr treuen
Freundlichen Götter !
Daß ihr wüßtet,
Wie euch meine Seele geliebt !

Zwar damals rief ich noch nicht
Euch mit Namen, auch ihr
Nanntet mich nie, wie die Menschen sich nennen
Als kennten sie sich.

Doch kannt ich euch besser,
Als ich je die Menschen gekannt,
Ich verstand die Stille des Aethers,
Der Menschen Worte verstand ich nie.

Mich erzog der Wohllaut
Des säuselnden Hains
Und lieben lernt ich
Unter den Blumen.

Im Arme der Götter wuchs ich groß.


Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: madupont on September 04, 2007, 01:53:41 AM
'When I was a boy'

When I was a boy
A god often rescued me
From the shouts and the rods of men
And I played among trees and flowers
Secure in their kindness
And the breezes of heaven
Were playing there too.

And as you delight
The hearts of plants
When they stretch towards you
With little strength

So you delighted the heart in me
Father Helios, and like Endymion
I was your favourite,
Moon. 0 all

You friendly
And faithful gods
I wish you could know
How my soul has loved you.

Even though when I called to you then
It was not yet with names, and you
Never named me as people do
As though they knew one another

I knew you better
Than I have ever known them.
I understood the stillness above the sky
But never the words of men.

Trees were my teachers
Melodious trees
And I learned to love
Among flowers.

I grew up in the arms of the gods.


[Constantine translation of Holderlin]


Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: madupont on September 04, 2007, 01:57:25 AM
When I was a boy...

 

When I was a boy
   a god would often rescue me
      from the shouting and violence of humans.
         Then, safe and well, I would play
             with the meadow flowers,
                  and heaven's breezes
                       would play with me.
 
 

And as you delight the heart
of plants, stretching their tender
arms toward you,
Father Helios,
so you delighted my heart,
and I was your beloved,
holy Luna, just like Endymion!

 
All you faithful
friendly gods!
I wish you knew
how my soul loved you!

 
Naturally I couldn't call you
by name then, nor did you use
mine, as humans do, as if
they really knew each other.

 
But I was better acquainted with you
than I ever was with humans.
I knew the stillness of the Aether:
I never understood the words of men.

 
The euphony of the rustling
meadow was my education;
among flowers I learned to love.

 
I grew up
in the arms of the gods.

 [James Mitchell translation of Holderlin]


Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: madupont on September 04, 2007, 02:03:18 AM
When I was a boy...

 

When I was a boy
   a god would often rescue me
      from the shouting and violence of humans.
         Then, safe and well, I would play
             with the meadow flowers,
                  and heaven's breezes
                       would play with me.
 
 

And as you delight the heart
of plants, stretching their tender
arms toward you,
Father Helios,
so you delighted my heart,
and I was your beloved,
holy Luna, just like Endymion!

 
All you faithful
friendly gods!
I wish you knew
how my soul loved you!

 
Naturally I couldn't call you
by name then, nor did you use
mine, as humans do, as if
they really knew each other.

 
But I was better acquainted with you
than I ever was with humans.
I knew the stillness of the Aether:
I never understood the words of men.

 
The euphony of the rustling
meadow was my education;
among flowers I learned to love.


I grew up
in the arms of the gods.

http://www.lettere.de/poetas/hoelderlin/


Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: madupont on September 04, 2007, 02:05:54 AM
  http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Image:Tuebingen_Neckarfront.j

The last home of the Swabian poet, locked in his tower at the end of the row, just as we began.


Title: Re: Soccer Poets
Post by: pugetopolis on September 04, 2007, 07:53:29 PM
(http://images.tribe.net/tribe/upload/photo/fd5/9e0/fd59e0bc-bad9-4327-a0bc-3f64fe0d1e17)

Soccer poets
—for Martin

some poets write with their fingers—
some poets write with their toes—
some poets write with their u-know what—
I should know…


Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: martinbeck3 on September 05, 2007, 01:42:52 PM
GRANDE MESSI, he deserves all the poems. Did you see that gol I posted over in Meander?


Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: madupont on September 05, 2007, 11:05:30 PM
Ode to Joy                                 
                Friedrich Schiller

Freude, schöner Götterfunken,
Tochter aus Elysium!
Wir betreten feuertrunken,
Himmlische, Dein Heiligtum.
Deine Zauber binden wieder,
Was die Mode streng geteilt,
Alle Menschen werden Brüder,
Wo Dein sanfter Flügel weilt.
Chor.
Seid umschlungen, Millionen!
Diesen Kuß der ganzen Welt!
Brüder, überm Sternenzelt
Muß ein lieber Vater wohnen!

Joy, beautiful spark of the gods
Daughter of Elysium
We enter fire-imbibed
Heavenly, thy sanctuary
Thy magic reunites those
whom stern custom has parted
All men will become brothers
Under thy gentle wing
Chorus
Be embraced, you millions!
This kiss for the entire world!
Brothers, above the starry canopy
Must a loving Father reside.


Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: pugetopolis on September 05, 2007, 11:21:12 PM
GRANDE MESSI, he deserves all the poems. Did you see that gol I posted over in Meander?

Yes, it was beautiful. Almost like ballet, the way he dances with the ball. Pure poetry.

Very much like the recent PBS Rudolf Nureyev Special...pure male beauty in action!!!


Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: madupont on September 05, 2007, 11:56:29 PM
Wem der große Wurf gelungen,
Eines Freundes Freund zu sein,
Wer ein holdes Weib errungen,
Mische seinen Jubel ein!
Ja, wer auch nur eine Seele
Sein nennt auf dem Erdenrund!
Und wer's nie gekonnt, der stehle
Weinend sich aus diesem Bund!
Chor.
Was den großen Ring bewohnet,
Huldige der Sympathie!
Zu den Sternen leitet sie,
Wo der Unbekannte thronet.



Whoever has the great fortune,
To be a friend’s friend,
Whoever wins the love of a lovely woman,
Add his jubilation to ours!
Yes, anyone also who has a soul
To call his own on this earth!
And anyone never able to must steal,
Sobbing, himself from this group!
Chorus
Those who occupy the great circle,
Pay homage to sympathy!
It leads to the stars
Where the unknown is enthroned



Friedrich Schiller


Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: madupont on September 06, 2007, 05:46:59 PM
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zEWRpR8SGzU

'Mondnacht' By Eichendorff 1788 - 1857, German / English

(I am taking a break between stanzas of the EU anthem;Schiller's, Ode to Joy, from Beethoven. So, you might hear a short reading,somewhat too sibilant, of a poem by Joseph Freiherr von Eichendorff, after his name has come up, in the text of -- Peeling the Onion, by Gunther Grass, as an influence upon his writing and perhaps that of his uncle Arthur Knoff, a poet who died in WW1 whom Grass decided to remember by assuming his uncle's name as a pseudonym at some point in the 1960s for practice in other literary forms than the novels published in his name.)


Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: nnyhav on September 09, 2007, 06:34:48 PM
blogorama:
http://www.poetryfoundation.org/journal/feature.html?id=180032


Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: pugetopolis on September 10, 2007, 06:43:08 AM
(http://images.tribe.net/tribe/upload/photo/097/11b/09711b13-7d01-4589-81f4-882016d772b5)

Our Lady of Puerto Montt

“rose-covered lawns studded with
brilliant-red-flowered rota trees…”


your exquisite eminence—
our lady of puerto montt…

may your divine presence indeed
grace the spectacular hauteur beauty
of your divinely cool southern
hemispheric chilean night.

may your divinity enhance
puerto montt a thousand times
over and again—whenever your
excellency revisits the lovely los
castanos. ah the enchanting
summer evenings overlooking
moonlit gulf of reloncavi—
spent on the balcony there
beneath the southern cross.

naturally, your eminence, i have
a minor confession to make in the
presence of your divine forgiveness—
it’s that i’m hopelessly quite green
with jealousy. imagining you in my
mind’s eye—my throbbing vatican
ogling orb that surveys all of known
lampedusia and taormina—
as you nostalgically enjoy your
fine dinner of mouth-watering
tortilla de huevos de condor con
queso with a demiliter of excellent
vino rojo undrraga…without me.

this morning—as sullen pluto
goes direct—i hurriedly consult
with my vatican astrologers. they
consult the stars—they consult
the entrails of owls, advising me of
the coming eclipse, dear—i’m
suffocating here in modest castel
gandolfo with all these telescopes,
cardinals and servants. i confess
even the sullen prince bores
me now—moody risorgimento.

i’ve decided to leave the vatican
for a cruise—monte video first then
puerto montt. i find myself getting
rather bored with the same
mediterranean cuisine. can one
tire of too many caravaggio days—
too many michelangelo nights?
can one tire of too many roman
springs of mademoiselle stone?

--for nnyhav, martin, boca




Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: pugetopolis on September 10, 2007, 07:21:54 AM
(http://images.tribe.net/tribe/upload/photo/d99/d8a/d99d8a47-70d9-47b3-8282-55ddc491aedb)

Los Castanos

“i am alex, and i am
going to him as usual.”


how many times in rome—
feeling it curling & snaking
up bernini’s twisted columns
beneath the dome of light? how
many pearls & emeralds does it
take—to  soothe the baroque
fingers of a young troubled
lampedusian prince?

we fly in—suddenly i feel
young latino power & old
indian idolatries. haughty
high-cheekbones alex escalente
santa maria—stunning ancient
beauty gonzalo caetano
urruzuno. my young bodyguard
hustlers constantly at my side.
heurtebise black mercedes
chauffeur—orpheus on the
radio. los castanos—the
cocteau mirrors.

the contessa of monte carlo
accompanies me—along with
headstrong emelda, eva and
evita from buenos aries. they
wish to see the snow-capped
volcan hornopiren & cerro
yate. to take strolls at night—
pausing for prayer at the
intersection of seminary
& o’higgins for padre
benedicto piccardo oliva.
how many times the
beautiful plateau night—
cathedral far down below?

on a summery january sunday,
padre benedicto piccardo oliva
(age 78) keeps his routine of
mid-day dinner and classical
music with friends. by 7 pm, he
returns to his apartment in the
los castanos luxury high-rise
near intersection of seminary
and o’higgins streets on the
plateau above the cathedral.
his apartment, surrounded by
rose-covered lawns studded
with brilliant-red-flowered
rota trees, a view sweeping to
the gulf of reloncavi with the
snow-capped volcan hornopiren
and cerro yate 30 miles in the
distance visible thru breaks
in the high cold clouds.

about 7 pm, a former janitor
in the los castanos building,
alex escalente santa maria
(age 25) arrives with a
bouquet of flowers &
uruguayan, gonzalo
caetano urruzuno (age 20).
alex tells the doorman:
“i am alex, and i am
going to him as usual.”

—for barris





Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: pugetopolis on September 10, 2007, 08:55:49 AM
(http://images.tribe.net/tribe/upload/photo/ed4/fb1/ed4fb1aa-b2d1-4255-be1d-6539ace96556)

Pinochet Noir

“i can’t find my passport.”
 —adrienne rich, “usonian journals,”
    the school among the ruins 


i once saw general pinochet
in his dracula cape—aboard
the esmeralda when they
tortured us. they stripped
us naked—hosed us down
with saltwater on deck. the
sailors and marines were
young, faceless, grinning.
they were just following
orders—don’t they always?
then they drugged me—
dumped me off a helicopter.
as i fell down into the
pacific ocean—i thought
of hart crane. the white
upturned eyes—greedy
sharks waiting with bated
breath. american pirate
movie—except i didn’t
get to walk the plank. i
was just a baby-boomer
poet—way back then in
1973. i lived with my lover—
in downtown santiago. then
i found myself  in al-gharib—
with awful electrodes again.
the same young soldiers
shamelessly leering at me—
getting off on my pain.
somebody told me i was
lucky—just to be alive.
even though i ended up
dumb & speechless—
in a wheelchair for life.
i can’t find my passport—
where am i anyway?
planet pinochet? night
of the living dead?
gulag archipelago?   


Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: pugetopolis on September 10, 2007, 11:39:16 AM
(http://images.tribe.net/tribe/upload/photo/388/6d0/3886d0c4-5d17-4180-bb37-7fe1723edb91)

Ike Snopes

ike wasn’t completely stupid—
after all he was a snopes.
he may have been a hair-lip
gimp with yellow snot———
hanging down from his nose
but he wasn’t that stupid. he
may have been the town’s
child-idiot living inside mrs.
littlejohn’s big red barn all
the time—but he wasn’t totally
stupid. he knew what he liked—
and went ahead bang bang.
ike snopes had an animal
intelligence like all the snopes—
intuitive cheesy about how
the world really works…


Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: pugetopolis on September 10, 2007, 01:24:22 PM
(http://images.tribe.net/tribe/upload/photo/d6d/1a7/d6d1a77d-507d-4642-97d6-27814a470c1a)

Interview with Quentin Compson

“kings have done it! Even dukes!”
              —William Faulkner, Absalom, Absalom!


How did you travel back into time?

How did you reenter the Mississippi moment?

How did you become Henry Sutpen?

How did you relive those forbidden moments at Ole Miss?

How did you get him back—Charles Bon in your arms?

How did you get Bon back—your beautiful octoroon half-brother?

How did you bring them all back again—the Sutpen Dynasty?

How did you deal with intertextual horrors like brotherly incest?

How did you enghost yourself—like Rosa Coldfield did?

How did you and Shreve play with the subversive text?

How did you feel about fainting in Dalton Ames’ arms?

How did you reenter the interstices—between the Absalom lines?

How did you reopen the Antebellum zeitgeist?

How did you reenter Time masked by omissions—concealed by guilt & shame?

How did you reenter the Yoknapatawpha County moment?

How did you get Henry Sutpen to speak for himself?

How did you feel about what you found in the attic?

How did Shreve help you channel the past?

How did you transform Harvard—into apocryphal now?

How did you navigate Thomas Sutpen’s fascist psychosexuality?

How did you deal with Sutpen’s male psychic imperialism?

How did you disenthrall yourself—once you got back?

How did you exit—Absalom, Absalom?

Is Absalom a time machine?


Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: madupont on September 11, 2007, 06:57:36 PM
I kind of like Ike
Snopes

But this, Reply #127
Does not make you
Renaldo Arenas

You who never had false hopes
Or, heard Ernesto Lecuona's
Malaguena.
La Nina de los Peines


Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: pugetopolis on September 11, 2007, 07:43:09 PM
(http://scriptor.typepad.com/photos/uncategorized/graham_greene.jpg)

The Ministry of Fear

“But Rowe was a murderer—
as other men are poets.
—Graham Greene, The Ministry of Fear


I was in a dour dystopian mood—
I let the escalator drag my miserable
body up to the Ministry of Fear—
the huge Fiction Section of the
massive yuppie B & N Book Temple
there in the U-District.

Mrs. Bellairs called me—she wanted
to chat. She asked how my reading was
coming along—any stunning insights
lately? Did I like Ministry of Fear
had I read it all yet? What about
the microfilm in the cake?

No I demur—soft-peddling things
as usual. I don’t feel like talking
with her—my excruciating third
reading of Graham Greene's novel
had almost done me in.

I made up some excuse—
I was too busy or I had a hangover.
And it’s true—I had an awful hangover.
One of the worst Dystopian Hangovers—
I’ve ever had in my so-called life.

“Are you perhaps available tonight?”
Mrs. Bellairs asked. I yawned—looking
up at the ceiling and down at the floor.

“We're having a séance tonight,”
she said as this Tower of Babel came
tumbling out of her twisted mouth—
burying me alive in a ton of mystery
pulp fiction paperback bullshit. Could
I possibly survive the avalanche of
such a skanky oeuvre?


Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: pugetopolis on September 13, 2007, 06:29:02 AM
(http://www.dailyinfo.co.uk/images/cinema/eraserhead.jpg)

Eraserhead (1977)

“Oh, I don’t know much of anything.”
—Henry Spencer in Eraserhead


eraserhead is black & white magic realism—
without the magic.

the realism is almost too unreal—
making it magical i suppose…it’s like
everything has been erased a little bit—
the people, the crummy cityscape, the rooms.
everything seems to bleed into nothingness—
all the technicolor has faded from the celluloid.
no mauves or tints survive—it’s just garish
black & white night of the living dead…

eraserhead is like fading into a graphics novel—
fading into some kind of cheap ’50s pulp fiction
paperback nothingness. which is okay with me—
i’m used to it. in the balcony of the neptune—
watching night of the living dead (1968).
that’s when magic realism—snuck up behind
me in the middle of the night. hello george
romero—goodbye bride of frankenstein (1935).
hello ramones—goodbye miss james whale.

the next time magic realism said hello—
was when eraserhead knocked on my door.
i looked out the peep-hole—i said “nobody’s
home!!! but it didn’t make any difference—
lynch had a skeleton key into my brain.
he zeroed in on my left brain—there went
aristotelian aesthetics out the window.
things like plot—beginning, middle, end.
things like character development—
see ya later alligator. things like cause
& effect are good for playing pool—
but pool isn’t the only game in town.

night of the living dead (1968) and
eraserhead (1977)—these two neo-noir
classic nightmares are journeys down
into the land of the dead. they’re meditations
in an emergency—the emergency of a whole
generation. it’s not intergenerational love
i’m worried about—it’s intergenerational war.
each generation kicks and takes it out on
the next generation. it’s all mapped out
in the history books—each war is
another lost generation.

eraserhead is the land of the dead—
henry spencer is orpheus but he doesn’t
know it. imagine this—orpheus traveling
down into hades. to retrieve his dead wife—
so they can be happy again. heurtebise takes
him thru the liquid mirror—down into hell
they go. heurtebise his infernal chauffeur—
plus a sleek motorcycle escort.

what is it about a couple of tough young
frenchmen in black leather riding motorcycles—
that turns on miss cocteau so exquisitely?
down into dis they go—henry spencer goes
straight to hell too. only to find out
that his wife is totally whacko—
just as whacko as her family.
the journey down into dis—
always so disappointing…

still not everything is completely dead—
there are some strange life-forms left
hanging around spencer’s nightmare
apartment. besides who needs a limo
and motorcycle escort to go straight to
hell—when you’ve got a nice hellish
apartment like spencer does?

there’s this dark sexy sinister mystery
woman—across the dingy hallway.
then there’s this strange tripping
ex-hippie man in the planet. there’s
this “glenda the good witch” lady
in the radiator—plus the pencil machine
operator. the person digging in the alley—
the man with the cigar. mr. roundheels—
the kid carrying the head. see what i mean—
where there’s life there’s hope. sort of…

spencer’s so clueless about himself—
and his fellow bizarre underworld denizens.
do any of them know they’re already in hell?
henry spencer—he just shrugs and keeps
innocently moving right along. always
looking over his shoulder tho—just in case.
maybe he simply thinks he’s one of them—
maybe he doesn’t know he’s orpheus.
maybe he’s you and me—so self-absorbed
he doesn’t notice or care…


Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: Chakotay on September 13, 2007, 05:40:52 PM
One of my favorite sonnets, for those who like traditional poem forms:

   Man Is Forever Lonely
          By Anderson M. Scruggs

Man is forever lonely; there can be
No time or circumstance in all his days
To lead him out of loneliness. His ways
Are those of clouds and tides. Not even he
Who seeks the crowded solace of the street
Can find a single comrade there, nor yet
In secret bonds of love can men forget
Their heart’s own solitude. Though lips may meet
And hand touch hand in intimate embrace,
A stranger still abides within the mind
No words can reach, no vision ever find.
A lonely God, enthroned in lonely space,
Fashioned us out of silence as we are:
As single as a tree, as separate as a star.


I like the imagery of the poem: In spite of how close we may feel to other people, we are still alone inside our heads.


Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: pugetopolis on September 15, 2007, 05:07:04 PM
(http://images.tribe.net/tribe/upload/photo/d09/abd/d09abd61-0cee-4ec3-844b-6253edd7b74a)

Haiku Kid

once upon a time—

i fell in love with this guy

his smile hurt me bad…


Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: pugetopolis on September 23, 2007, 08:43:38 AM
(http://news.bbc.co.uk/olmedia/1170000/images/_1173911_wideap300.jpg)

http://www.museumoftalkingboards.com/hasko.jpg

Channeling Imelda

“Admittedly I err by undertaking
this in its present form. The baldest prose
reportage was called for, that would reach
the widest public in the shortest time…”
—James Merrill, The Changing Light at Sandover


it takes one—to know one, my dear—
queen bees like imelda, evita, eva braun—
imperial heavenly divas…

as imelda once said to me: “filipinos don't
wallow in what is miserable and ugly—they recycle
the good, bad and ugly into things of beauty.”

i think back on all the grimm, jung, verdi divas
inventing narratives hobbled with mannerism—
full of neocon bombast, sound and fury…

the same old conventional stock players
living futile commedia dell’ arte lives with
their peek-a-boo drag acts flaming down from

the angelic secretariat troposphere…
inciting poor impressionable young freshman
like yours truly to make futile stabs at literary fame—

endless needless epistles of tacky poetry…
such projects ending up always limp louche
fragmented downfalls worse than dank berlin

bunkers assaulted by hordes of savages from—
the russian steppes prompting me to flee with
all the other riff-raff to buenos aires later unfurling

peron for the inevitable empire striking back…
dearest imelda, no wonder i’m such a nervous wreck—
the bourgeois pigs going thru my closets looking for

skeletons but thank god, all they found were shoes,
beautiful shoes…shoes with such world-famous names
as ferragamo, givenchy, chanel and christian dior—

all size ten-and-a-half perfectly fitting my suave
sophisticated dainty little aristocratic footsies…
time goes by—fond memories of my 200,000 slaves

slaving away there in the marikina district—
on sandal and slipper streets diligently producing
millions of more stylish high heels just for me…

but rude exile dashed dictators crept up on me—
“surely,” my sugar-daddy father said “six years
is surely enough for our lazy no-good beloved

son to get his lousy baccalaureate—he’ll just
have to get off his little high-horse uppity ass—
and get a job sooner or later—because i’m not

funding his imelda marcos evita peron eva
braun lifestyle any longer”—turning my
subject matter rather rudely—from royalty

to more grim possibilities like destitute
picaresque existence reeking of orphaned exile…
hungry starving great expectations

my blue china licked clean by the dogs of war
with the sudden withdrawal of money each
semester for my private concoctions—

so that i turned away from what had
once suckled me and comforted me up until
then—the glory that was windermere’s fan

and the importance of being somewhat
earnest about nothing in particular except—
entertaining cajun chicken jail bait…

castel gandolfo black mafia knocking
at my back door there on highland drive—
my lovely little tiger town apartment

stylish luxurious living room décor—
its witty sleek art deco furniture & ready-mixed
matte “flame” walls shades watermelon pink

admired by my various & sundry guests and
cute college boyfriends—expensive rare wallace
stevens greek vase from memphis tennessee—

transforming the ghetto-landlord slum around me
into something even madam cocteau would praise—
jean marais taking dictation when bored

from a big black dumpy cadillac radio—
once used by maria ouspenskaya and various
other swamp women mediums channeling

the orphé dead in the ratty parking lot
behind the varsity theater—dials twitching
away making my poor little nervous-nelly

planchette jealous with such risqué
motel moderne technological devices—
insisting instead that i consult the spirits

with my rather beat-up bent and frayed
magic marvel cardboard ouija board from
the 1940s—which could be used for things

like chess, checkers, solitaire and writing
poems by simply flipping the board over with
its old hag from walt disney’s snow white

in the lower left corner—but of course my
favorite talking witchboard was a rare special
beautiful highly sought after haskette mystic

talking board—with its lavish egyptian-
illustrated centerpiece out of some hollywood
movie set—isis in the upper left hand corner—

osiris in the upper right—anubis in the lower
right—anne baxter in the lower left—yvonne
de carlo posing in front of a cecil b. demille

egyptian palace dive—flanked on either
side by two tall handsome nude mandingo
guards baring huge scimitars across

butch chests—yvonne adorningly kept
cool by pouty slave girl debra paget with her
lovely delicate peacock fan—

all of which kept my mauve walls rippling
like a warehouse for the ancient dead—
hypnotic wave after wave—

lullabies of lost african-american movie
stars—tall calm collected moody darby jones
from jacques tourneau’s classic moody

film noir thriller “i walked with a zombie” (1943)
haunting me with his dark caribbean eyes—
sullen hunky lost city (1935) sam baker

lost teenage zombie boyz—connected with
bijou occult thru passwords and gay panache—
my pretty little paraphrasing planchette—

full of nervous young male energy from
the other side—channeling rather shocking
like sticking my tongue in a light socket—

no wonder i was over-sensitive—
so very neurasthenic back then in college
the dearly beloved chicken dead—

there in my midnight escritoire—
unusually elegant communications with
imelda, evita and eva coming thru…


Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: madupont on September 23, 2007, 12:11:10 PM

Necessity


Work?
I don't have to work.
I don't have to do nothing
but eat,drink,stay black, and die.
This little old funished room's
so small I can't whip a cat
without getting fur in my mouth
and my landlady's so old
her features is all run together
and God knows she sure can overcharge--
Which is why I reckon I does
have to work after all.

Langston Hughes, from his MONTAGE OF A DREAM


Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: pugetopolis on September 30, 2007, 07:46:17 AM
(http://images.tribe.net/tribe/upload/photo/c37/585/c37585c6-0c93-49c7-93d1-c4ace43b8ef8)

Marilyn Monroe

A funny thing happened—
to Marilyn the other day…

Ad lib-ing her way going down—
Down to Niagara Falls that is…

Impromptu plays a tragic game—
Her honeymoon has plans for her…

Pull back those sheets and—
Her lover nude cold blue dead…

There at the undertaker’s—
Naturally she faints…

Not the kind of rigor mortis—
Poor Marilyn was used to…

Joseph Cotton stalks her—
Traps her in the Tower…

Quiet as a mausoleum—
Such a nice couple…

Then more adventure—
Doing the Falls in a yacht!!!


Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: pugetopolis on September 30, 2007, 08:29:18 AM
(http://images.tribe.net/tribe/upload/photo/0f5/05f/0f505fa9-8571-4b65-b2f1-8fda5be1fe68)

James Dean

Midwest stoic stud—
Elizabeth Taylor fell
For him like Rock did…


Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: madupont on October 01, 2007, 01:29:03 AM
Spirit
is Life
It flows thru
the death of me
endlessly
like a river
unafraid
of becoming
the sea

Corso fell under the protection of powerful Mafia inmates, and became something of a mascot because he was the youngest inmate in the prison. Ironically Corso was jailed in the very cell just months before vacated by Charles “Lucky” Luciano, the “father of modern organized crime” who was allowed to run his mob enterprises from his cell, in return for aiding the U.S. Military with intelligence about fascist Italy, where Luciano had extensive interests. While imprisoned, Luciano had donated an extensive library to the prison. Though there was no prison cell, Corso was encouraged by a Mafia mentor to study. Corso read after lights-out thanks, to a light specially positioned for Luciano to work late.
Corso began writing poetry in prison. He studied the Greek and Roman classics, and with a photographic memory, consumed encyclopedias and dictionaries.


Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: pugetopolis on October 01, 2007, 04:34:41 AM
(http://images.tribe.net/tribe/upload/photo/059/82b/05982b9f-5fa3-4d2e-a16a-b7af488f3b8b)

Japantownboy

San Francisco cute—

Took him to my apartment

In Pacific Heights...


Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: pugetopolis on October 03, 2007, 01:18:03 AM
(http://images.tribe.net/tribe/upload/photo/408/ae9/408ae9d0-582d-4fc4-b4f4-b57f7a6be4dc)

Jack and the Giant Beanstalk

Jack was so shy—
So very shy and self-conscious
And I knew why…

I was his sister—
We both lived together in
The Little Old Lady’s Shoe…

Jack my kid brother—
Pale white skin and jet-black
Hair—such a cute little doll…

I was his older sister—
Completely infatuated by
His young goodlooks…

I felt like the Wolf—
I felt like the Wicked Witch.
Robbing the cradle blind…

I knew Jack’s big secret—
The thing from another world
Down between his legs…

Jack’s big secret—
A huge thick Beanstalk
Growing from his Groin…

Nobody knew about it—
Nobody would want to know
Except me yours truly…

Things got rather Kafkaesque—
It was worse than waking up
Like Gregor Samsa…

It was slow and easy—
The way the Giant Beanstalk
Grew out of Jack’s groin…

It didn’t hurt any—
But as time went by it
Got in the way sometimes…

The more it grew—
The less of Jack there was
As it consumed him slowly…

Like Gregor Samsa—
Jack soon was confined
To his bed all the time…

I felt so sorry for Jack—
My cute little brother turning
Into a huge Root-Thing…

By then it was huge—
A gnarled veiny Tree-Thing
Giant Beanstalk penis…

The only relief Jack got—
Was oral sex which I gave
Him as much as I could…

I gave Jack massages—
To relax his man-eating monster
As it slowly devoured him…

The sap from his huge Thing—
Was so copious I couldn’t
Swallow it all fast enough…

It was truly awful tasting—
It was the Tree of Eternal Youth
But the elixir made me puke…

It was so skanky tasting
So awfully rude and runny
Filling me with Repugnance…

Such nasty slimy cum—
Jack’s wads almost gagged
Me to death as it slithered…

Slithered and slid slowly—
All the way down my shy petite
Slimy greedy-for-love throat…

All that young male energy—
Twisting obscenely inside his
Anaconda-like Root…

It tasted so primitive—
Almost prehistorically tart
Piquantly testicular…

It tainted my lips—
Making me crave it desperately
Jack’s boyish young Root…

Suddenly I realized it—
Beyond a shadow of doubt
I was addicted to Jack’s dick…

Poor Jack fought it bravely—
But the more his beanstalk grew—
The more dick he became…

The more Jack said no—
The more his exquisite beanstalk
Monster penis said yes…

The more Jack’s beanstalk grew—
The more self-conscious he became
And the more sluttish I got…

It wiggled a long time—
After being secreted in Oil
Of Olay jars for later on…

Jack was so shy—
About going spastic all the way
Shamefully losing it…

Jack was ashamed of it—
Ejaculating his brains out
Thru his swollen Family Tree…

Call me Gloria Holden—
Call me Dracula’s Daughter
Call me Countess Marya Zaleska…

Either way I sucked it—
Jack’s albino-white pale skin
His runny snotty slug-thing…

Jack suffered silently—
His vocal cords had long ago
Been absorbed into Heaven…

I could hear it grow—
Slowly at night like bamboo
It was eerie-sounding…

Jack had 12 inches—
Then he had 24 inches and
Soon Jack was all Stalk…

Jack was so blue—
What’s worse than morphing
Into an enormous uncut Penis?

Pretty soon Jack even looked like—
Prince Radian the Human Torso
Poor Jack one huge tube steak…

I sang lullabies to Jack—
And read Fairy Tales to him
And helped him get off…

Pop!!! Goes the Weasel—
Jack’s eyes, face, hands all
Covered with Foreskin…

Queers from Bean Town—
Started knocking at the door
Buying pints of elixir…

Soon we got rich—
Moved into a much nicer
Swanky Big Old Shoe condo…

The more I milked Jack—
The more wealthy we became
A nice little cottage industry

Sometimes Jack really lost it—
Spraining his neck awfully bad
Those were the best times…

I got to know Jack real good—
Jacking him off the way I did
Doing him with lots of K-Y…

Pop, splat, wiggle, drool—
Jack’s juicy Family Jewels—
Filling me with Penis Envy...


Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: Lhoffman on October 03, 2007, 03:12:37 AM
Funny how the innocent tales of childhood look from the other side....I've been thinking of Alice:


AliceOphelia
fell into the mirror
escape is easy---
on paper.

Alice's questions
run off with her head
too big too small
the world's gone mad
and time is all
that matters.
Alice regrets her intrusion SEARCHES
frenetically for an exit FINDS
she's lost the key to the ladies' room
while the rabbit rushes on...

Sweet Ophelia goes gently,
the silken surface of the pond
mistaken for glass,
wades in
and the whisper of watergrass
lulls her softly to sleep.



Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: pugetopolis on October 03, 2007, 03:46:19 AM

Funny how the innocent tales of childhood look from the other side....


Sort of like the "Fractured Fairy Tale" spin...

Isn't that what fairy tales do though?

The strange become familiar...and the familiar strange...

It's kind of like the Double we studied...

There's this cognitive dissonance between...

The Before... and the After...

Like del Toro says about choirboyhood...

When it goes...it all goes out the window...

Your "Alice" poem gets close to it...

There's another version isn't there?  :)




Title: Urban Haiku
Post by: Detective_Winslow on October 03, 2007, 04:07:07 AM
pugetopolis
wants to spank the little girl
from Pan's Labyrinth


Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: pugetopolis on October 03, 2007, 07:11:44 AM
(http://www.dougmacaulay.com/kingspud/photos/mospnskb.jpg)

Maria Ouspenskaya
(1886-1949)

Diaspora time—
It seems like I’ve always been
On the run from Death…

Gliding down Market—
Meandering thru Castro
Déjà vu mon amour…

Then & Now are One—
At least that’s what she says
Madam Ouspenskaya…

She takes her time now—
Doing Palmistry part-time
Since she’s retired now…

She shakes her head—
“Such a chameleon life, dear,
You poor palimpsest thing.”

It’s true so very true—
Cute Wolf Boy one day
Old Werewolf queen next…

Madame Zimba too—
Swamp Witch in my fav flick
Son of Dracula (1943)…

Love that scene where—
Lon Chaney Jr. glides slowly
Thru swamp-gas darkness…

Living-dead Louise Allbritton—
Waiting on the embankment
For his suave Euro-Fangs…

Poor Evelyn Ankers—
Distraught Louisiana queen
Mildewing in the wrong places…

Off she goes to see—
Adeline DeWalt Reynolds
For some tea-leaf advice…

Clairvoyant fag-hags—
What would we do without them
To guide us thru Darkness…

When Men-problems—
Plague us during the night
There on the lonely verandah…

When the bougainvillea—
Groans in the pale moonlight
And we crave something…

When the magnolias get mean—
When the honeysuckle sucks
And nothing seems right…

Madame Zimba knows all—
And so does Ouspenskaya…
Ladies of the Eternal Night…

They can see into Future—
They can see deep into Past
Palest delicate Pluperfect too…

The trick being imperceptible—
Sliding into Now without even
Noticing the Flashback deluxe…

Gaze into the Moment—
All tenses are Illusionary, dear
Present participles in drag…





Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: pugetopolis on October 10, 2007, 09:24:27 PM
Samoan Kid

—for William Faulkner

there’s this cute kid—
i meet him in seward park—
he’s black-samoan—
he’s jet-black all over—
except when i slip down
his jockey shorts—huge
pale polynesian _____.

—Cute Kid, Seattle:
Pugetopolis Press, 2007





Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: madupont on October 22, 2007, 01:31:24 PM
GREEK AND ROMAN STATUARY
By Billy Collins
The tip of the nose seemed the first to be lost,
then the arms and legs,
and later the stone penis if such a thing were featured.

And often an entire head followed the nose
as it might have done when bread
was baking in the side streets of ancient Rome.

No hope for the flute once attached
to the lips of that satyr with the puffed-out cheeks,
nor for the staff the shepherd boy once leaned on,

the sword no longer gripped by the warrior,
the poor lost ears of the sleeping boy,
and whatever it was Aphrodite once held in her severed hand.

But the torso is another story—
middle man, the last to go, bluntly surviving,
propped up on a pedestal with a length of pipe,

and the mighty stone ass endures,
so smooth and fundamental, no one
hesitates to leave the group and walk behind to stare.

And that is the way it goes here
in the diffused light from the translucent roof,
one missing extremity after another—

digits that got too close to the slicer of time,
hands snapped off by the clock,
whole limbs caught in the mortal thresher.

But outside on the city streets,
it is raining, and the pavement shines
with the crisscross traffic of living bodies—

hundreds of noses still intact,
arms swinging and hands grasping,
the skin still warm and foreheads glistening.

It's anyone's guess when the day will come
when there is nothing left of us
but the bare, solid plinth we once stood upon

now exposed to the open air,
just the wind in the trees and the shadows
of clouds sweeping over its hard marble surface


Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: pugetopolis on October 25, 2007, 10:40:08 AM
One Living Word

No more willful silences.
No more verbal contact,
he who loved to listen to so many
will never again hear his own voice among them.

He will sit with his friends over talk
from now on under constraint.
The talk. The thoughts. The friends.
And as he listens through
the secret door
he will turn his inner ear
to the dark murmur: Son of man,
all this
and all this
never was
and never will be
as good as
one living word.

—Abba Kovner


Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: MrUtley3 on October 26, 2007, 08:01:08 PM
Anger towards Mommy!
She abandoned him.


Winslow sits alone attacking cyberpeople in the dark.

Stop the voices.

Stop the voices.

Stop the voices.


Where's my meds?


Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: FlyingVProd on October 28, 2007, 09:36:20 PM
Here is some of my poetry, a few of these have been published in various anthologies, and you can probably find some of my stuff in your local public library.

All the Other Birds
by T.L. Verley

So true it is that people can be like thornbirds
pushing themselves forward into something
even if it causes them a painful death
and the enjoyment nonexistant
putting their hands into the fire
becoming addicted to the heat
so unrationally torturing themselves and each other
It must be a pitiful sight from the heavens
or as I can't judge nor imagine the sight of God
I shall say that the thornbirds
may drive themselves into a painful death
copying us
or perhaps the misery they derive from us
drives them to it
Maybe instead of backing off
progressive entrapment or justification of effort
pushes them forward despite the pain
Passion may play a role
Perhaps thornal suicide fully engulfs all their senses
Maybe it is all they are good at
Maybe they don't know what else to do

Perhaps in a world where people kill themselves
and each other, and pump poison into themselves,
and the Earth, and with all of the disease, death,
hunger, pain, sorrow, and misery,
it is fitting that a bird should flutter into a spike,
and perhaps people are not like thornbirds,
but instead thornbirds are like people,
who fly so close to flowers
only to embrace the thorns

Maybe if a thornbird could talk
it may speak of a great rush
or of chivalry, or ideologies
or maybe it would say that that is simply how it has always been
or "Hey, all the other birds are doing it."
____

Passion
by T.L. Verley

In a fit of delusion,
I grasped the illusion.
I embraced the smell, color, softness, and beauty.
I hung on not noticing the thorns,
As the blood ran down my hands,
And onto the ground,
Until the roots sucked it up,
And it was no longer feeding off of some unknown source,
But instead it was feeding on me.
______

Sweet but Sour Wine
by T.L. Verley

A toast to no one to:

A rose
that opened and closed
without
anyone noticing
A sunrise
that painted the sky
on Sunday
while everyone slept
A horse without a rider
A car without a driver
A grand solo performance
with no audience
A drop of rain on concrete
which fed not one blade of grass
A tree
with shade for no one
An ocean
with no fish
A puppy
never petted
A chair on which no one sits

Such is life at times it seems
but the show it never quits
_____

Fly With Me
by T.L. Verley

Life is wonderful, and great times are ahead,
Precious is the time between our birth and when we are dead,
Some don't get it, some don't understand,
Some live their entire lives with their heads in the sand.

But not you and I,
We choose to fly,
We'll live life to the fullest before we die.

Some are hopeless, living life in despair,
Some have no faith in themselves, in others, or faith that God cares,
Some see only bad, and they see life as getting worse,
Instead of as a blessing, they see life as a curse.

But not you and I,
We choose to fly,
We'll live life to the fullest before we die.

Anything is possible, dreams can become real,
Though sometimes in life we are wounded, the wounds heal,
Hand and hand together we shall walk up the hill,
And see the beauty all around us and feel the love that we feel.

Because you and I,
We choose to fly,
We'll live life to the fullest before we die.
______

Never so Right
by T.L. Verley

You are one in a billion
So sweet, beautiful, and kind
You are one little villain
Stole me heart, body, and mind

More valuable than a diamond
Your love it can't be bought
The love that I am finding
Engulfs my every thought

Sweet baby, sweet beauty, you make me fly
My woman, my cutey, it was never so right

Your lips, your eyes, your cute little nose
I love you, I need you, you are the only one
Why you love me only heaven knows
I am the luckiest man under the sun

More perfect than a sunset
Created by the lord above
I will never have a regret
Just as long as I have your love

Sweet baby, sweet beauty, you make me fly
My woman, my cutey, it was never so right


My My Space site:


http://www.myspace.com/tonyVerley



Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: pugetopolis on October 29, 2007, 08:06:49 PM
hunter's moon --
the tension at the end
of the dog's leash

--Paul David Mena
http://tinywords.com/haiku/2007/10/29


Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: madupont on November 01, 2007, 04:19:54 PM
The Mysteries of Caesar


Known to the boys in his Latin class as "Sir,"
Balding, cologned, mild-mannered Mr. Sypher
Defied his sentence as a highschool lifer
With a fresh, carefully chosen boutonniere


As daily he heard the Helvetians plead their cause
In chains while captives were brought face to face
With the impositions of the ablative case,
The torts and tortures of grammatic laws.


Gracelessly stalled by vast impediments
Of words and baggage as by a conqueror's shackles,
O'Rourke, his face a celestial sphere of freckles
(One Gaul brought down by the pluperfect tense)


Submitted to all the galls and agonies
Of pained sight-readings from the Gallic Wars.
They all bore dark, dishonorable scars
From what their textbook called an "exercise"


At least as draining as the quarter-mile.
But Mr. Sypher listened with superb
Imperial hauteur, with imperturb-
able patience, and a somewhat cryptic smile.

"Thompson," he'd murmur, "please instruct our class."
And Thompson would venture, timidly, much rattled,
"Caesar did withhold his men from battle,
And he did have enough in presentness


To prohibit the enemy from further wastings,
From foragings and rapines." And through a long
Winter campaign of floundering, grief, and wrong,
That little army force-marched without resting.


"Please aid us, Jones," Mr. Sypher would beseech;
And Jones would tremulously undertake
To decipher the old Caesarian mystique
In the mixed medium of cracked parts of speech.


"Which things being known, when surest things accede,
He did deem enough of cause . . . ," Jones volunteered.
Invariably it came out sounding weird,
The garbled utterance of some lesser breed


Without the law of common intercourse.
Long weeks of rain, followed by early frost
Had not improved morale, and yet the worst
Is not when there can always still be worse.


They rather liked Mr. Sypher, who was kind,
An easy grader. Was he a widower?
It was thought he had lost a child some years before.
Often they wondered what passed through his mind


As he calmly attended to their halt and crude
Efforts, not guessing one or another boy
Served as Antinous to that inward eye
Which is the pitiless bliss of solitude.


----Anthony Hecht, from - Flight Among the Tombs


Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: desdemona222b on November 01, 2007, 04:41:20 PM
Liar
You rile me
Softly spoken
Yet poisoned by
Tales told
Too vile, you,
Liar


Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: pugetopolis on November 01, 2007, 05:59:03 PM
low clouds
her Halloween bag
drags on the ground

--Marie Summers
http://tinywords.com/haiku/2007/11/01


Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: Beppo on November 01, 2007, 06:12:55 PM
wind
circling
into
leaves

Janice M. Bostok


Title: Beppo!
Post by: Urethra_Franklin on November 02, 2007, 04:03:46 AM
wind
circling
into
leaves

Janice M. Bostok




Holy fucking shit!
That was the best damn poem
of my curtailed life


Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: Urethra_Franklin on November 02, 2007, 04:05:10 AM
Liar
You rile me
Softly spoken
Yet poisoned by
Tales told
Too vile, you,
Liar


Is this a reference to your dog?


Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: MrUtley3 on November 02, 2007, 03:59:36 PM
DEATH

comes in many

        F O R M S.

what's in YOUR wallet?


Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: Eva on November 04, 2007, 10:08:57 PM
autumn leaves

my husband

swearing


Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: pugetopolis on November 06, 2007, 03:09:41 PM
(http://seattlepi.nwsource.com/dayart/20071105/450transport_bus_6.JPG)

Seattle Haiku

Each day the long ride—
Downtown like everybody
Lucky to have jobs…


Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: madupont on November 12, 2007, 05:09:00 PM
Black Cat

A ghost, though invisible, still is like a place
your sight can knock on, echoing; but here
within this thick black pelt, your strongest gaze
will be absorbed and utterly disappear:

just as a raving madman, when nothing else
can ease him, charges into his dark night
howling, pounds on the padded wall, and feels
the rage being taken in and pacified.

She seems to hide all looks that have ever fallen
into her, so that, like an audience,
she can look them over, menacing and sullen,
and curl to sleep with them. But all at once

as if awakened, she turns her face to yours;
and with a shock, you see yourself, tiny,
inside the golden amber of her eyeballs
suspended, like a prehistoric fly.




Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: pugetopolis on November 14, 2007, 01:45:52 PM
(http://www.sfpalm.org/events/individual%20events/dracula.jpg)

Dracula

i showed my lord—
my little black book of tricks
with its list of various names
and exquisite boyfriends…

he picked out the best—
he had a balkan intuition for
the cream of the SF crop
especially the cute ones…

when my parents flew—
off to europe for the summer
the mansion was all mine
the house of dracula…




Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: madupont on November 14, 2007, 10:07:39 PM
The angels

They all have weary tongues
 and bright, seamless souls.
 And a yearning (as for sin)                                                   
sometimes goes through their dream.

They all seem so alike;
in God's garden silent they remain,
like many, many intervals
in his power and melody.

Only when their wings spread out,
are they the awakeners of a wind:
as if God with his broad hands
of a sculptor went through the pages
of the beginning's dark book.


Die Engel   

Sie  haben alle müde Münde
und helle Seelen ohne Saum.
Und eine Sehnsucht (wie nach Sünde)
geht ihnen manchmal durch den Traum.

Fast gleichen sie einander alle;
in Gottes Gärten schweigen sie,
wie viele, viele Intervalle
in seiner Macht und Melodie

Nur wenn sie ihre Flügel breiten,
sind sie die Wecker eines Winds:
als ginge Gott mit seinen weiten
Bildhauerhänden durch die Seiten
im dunklen Buch des Anbeginns.

 R.M. Rilke 


Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: pugetopolis on November 15, 2007, 01:21:24 PM
(http://images.tribe.net/tribe/upload/photo/c37/585/c37585c6-0c93-49c7-93d1-c4ace43b8ef8)

Her  filmography

Most of the time—
She’s just a moviegoer
Looking at movies…

She loves movies—
She even dreams movies
Inside her head…

Waking up in dreams—
She finds herself sitting
In Bijou theaters…

Bijou movie palaces—
Along with a bunch of
Other dreamgoers…

But these Bijous—
Are only dreams too
Dreams within dreams…

These dreams within dreams—
Nothing can be more real
Yet unreal at the same time…

How far does it go—
These dreams within dreams
Her dream filmography?


Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: Lhoffman on November 15, 2007, 01:36:08 PM
"Her Filmography"....Nice!  Inspired by the Maddin interview?


Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: madupont on November 15, 2007, 01:46:10 PM
The Puppet
If for a moment God would forget that I am a rag doll and give me a scrap of life, possibly I would not say everything that I think, but I would definitely think everything that I say.

I would value things not for how much they are worth but rather for what they mean.

I would sleep little, dream more. I know that for each minute that we close our eyes we lose sixty seconds of light.

I would walk when the others loiter; I would awaken when the others sleep.

I would listen when the others speak, and how I would enjoy a good chocolate ice cream.

If God would bestow on me a scrap of life, I would dress simply, I would throw myself flat under the sun, exposing not only my body but also my soul.

My God, if I had a heart, I would write my hatred on ice and wait for the sun to come out. With a dream of Van Gogh I would paint on the stars a poem by Benedetti, and a song by Serrat would be my serenade to the moon.

With my tears I would water the roses, to feel the pain of their thorns and the incarnated kiss of their petals...My God, if I only had a scrap of life...

I wouldn't let a single day go by without saying to people I love, that I love them.

I would convince each woman or man that they are my favourites and I would live in love with love.

I would prove to the men how mistaken they are in thinking that they no longer fall in love when they grow old--not knowing that they grow old when they stop falling in love. To a child I would give wings, but I would let him learn how to fly by himself. To the old I would teach that death comes not with old age but with forgetting. I have learned so much from you men....

I have learned that everybody wants to live at the top of the mountain without realizing that true happiness lies in the way we climb the slope.

I have learned that when a newborn first squeezes his father's finger in his tiny fist, he has caught him forever.

I have learned that a man only has the right to look down on another man when it is to help him to stand up. I have learned so many things from you, but in the end most of it will be no use because when they put me inside that suitcase, unfortunately I will be dying.


[The non-G.G.M poem by Johnny Welch,translated by Matthew and Rosa Arelis Taylor]


Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: pugetopolis on November 15, 2007, 02:46:53 PM
"Her Filmography"....Nice!  Inspired by the Maddin interview?

Yes, listening to his voice and what he said...

... about movies and ballet... It made me want

to do the same thing with Niagara...and Marilyn

...like he did with Dracula...






Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: pugetopolis on November 15, 2007, 02:50:09 PM
(http://images.tribe.net/tribe/upload/photo/91c/ea6/91cea68a-06a4-49e9-84b0-916b4f64c28b)

Niagara Falls

She’s always falling—
Even when she’s walking
Down the street…

She doesn’t really fall—
She sort of slides along
Streamlined slinky…

Showing lots of class—
Ogling eyeballs staring
At her nice anatomy…

Phoning her lover—
Making a date with death
A honeymoon murder…

Only to end up—
Fainting in the morgue
It wasn’t Joseph Cotton!!!

Trapped in the Tower—
Trying to get out of town
But it was too late…

Better that way—
Than over the Falls
In a dumpy yacht…



Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: Urethra_Franklin on November 15, 2007, 02:59:38 PM
(http://www.sfpalm.org/events/individual%20events/dracula.jpg)

Dracula

i showed my lord—
my little black book of tricks
with its list of various names
and exquisite boyfriends…

he picked out the best—
he had a balkan intuition for
the cream of the SF crop
especially the cute ones…

when my parents flew—
off to europe for the summer
the mansion was all mine
the house of dracula…




OK, I get it.


Your dad dressed up like Dracula and hired cute boys from all around SF to join the suckfest (of blood, that is)?


I'm usually pretty good at interpreting poetry.






Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: pugetopolis on November 15, 2007, 03:10:16 PM
(http://axion.physics.ubc.ca/thirdman/036cotton-rightear.gif)

Joseph Cotton

Joseph Cotton’s even worse—
First Alida Valli ditches him there
At the end of The Third Man…

And then Teresa Wright—
Dumps him off the train in
Shadow of a Doubt…

And now Marilyn Monroe—
Bored to death with him
Arranges for his murder…

It’s just awful what a guy—
Has to go thru to fall in love
The sacrifices he’s gotta make…

Like falling over the Falls—
In a beat-up ratty old boat
Tittering on the edge briefly…

Then over the edge—
Ending up just like Marilyn
Planned all along…

Niagara Falls—
For young couples in love &
Double-murder honeymoons…




Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: pugetopolis on November 15, 2007, 11:13:35 PM
(http://images.tribe.net/tribe/upload/photo/e7c/560/e7c56078-8317-4aec-bc46-0741528d4c13)

Patrick

Richard Allan plays loverboy—
Marilyn Monroe’s handsome partner
In nefarious Niagara Falls crime…

They talk on the phone—
Plotting the murder of her husband
Poor put-upon Joseph Cotton…

A year earlier Allan played—
The Spanish dancer in Hemingway’s
The Snows of Kilimanjaro…

Later in The Egyptian—
A student in the School of Life
Lurid Hollywood extravaganza…

Later Le danseur in France—
Casino de Paris and other
European film romances…

It’s hard to imagine him—
So young and full of life
Lying stiff nude on a table…

The look on Marilyn’s face—
When the undertaker pulls
Back the sheet for her to see…




Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: pugetopolis on November 15, 2007, 11:29:50 PM
(http://images.tribe.net/tribe/upload/photo/470/f5f/470f5f26-8a04-45b8-be86-2231cd963aa6)

The Tower

The Tower of Death—
So silent and empty afterwards
Marilyn’s body on the floor…

Sprawled out like a rag-doll—
Her purse spilling out its contents
Lipstick, mirror, comb…

The bells up above—
Hanging down completely still
Noir shadows everywhere…

Alida Valli got away alive—
Holly Martins brokenhearted
There in the cemetery…

Having lost Harry Lime—
His best friend back home
And his nemesis in Vienna…

Finding himself now—
Locked inside a huge Tower
His wife strangled to death…

The really eerie thing—
Death comes so quietly there
In that deathly quiet Tower…


Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: pugetopolis on November 16, 2007, 04:01:24 AM
(http://images.tribe.net/tribe/upload/photo/41c/2ab/41c2abf9-e80b-4e03-9be1-67cf81d515e8)

Niagara Neo-Noir

To me the saddest movie—
Has got to be Henry Hathaway’s
Technicolor Niagara (1953)…

The move to Technicolor—
The move from silents to sound
Something gets lost…

It was the end of noir films—
Like Kiss of Death (1947) and
The House on 92nd Street (1945)…

The Dark Corner (1946)—
13 Rue Madeleine (1947) and
Call Northside 777 (1948)…

Neo-noir gets born—
Film historians can probably
Nail it down better than me...

But for me it’s Niagara—
Noir expands beyond itself
The Tower and the Falls…




Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: pugetopolis on November 16, 2007, 02:39:35 PM
(http://www.crimelibrary.com/graphics/photos/gangsters_outlaws/cops_others/clifford_irving/(AP)%20Jean%20Peters,%20actress.jpg)

Jean Peters

She’s got Niagara Falls—
Roaring inside her head
Clinging to the rock…

The constant roaring—
The roaring of the Falls
Blood roaring in her ears…

Everything wet & shiny—
Coming fast near the edge
Wet rocks in the morning…

The sound of the Falls—
Muffled far down below
Breathtaking beauty & death…

Honeymoon noir—
Murder in the Cave of Winds
Slick raincoats and sex…

Dangerous voluptuous—
Making love under the Falls
Steam rising up around them…

Marilyn and Patrick—
Doomed young honeymooners
Is this what love’s all about?

The Carillon calls out—
The Tower of Death calls out
But nobody hears it…




Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: madupont on November 16, 2007, 05:04:00 PM
Dear Poetry Lovers,

If you're in New York City on Thursday, November 28th, 2007, don't miss a special 80th birthday tribute and reading featuring Philip Levine with Kate Daniels, E.L. Doctorow, Edward Hirsch, Galway Kinnell, Yusuf Komunyakaa, Malena Mörling, Sharon Olds, Tom Sleigh, Gerald Stern, Jean Valentine and Charles Wright.

Philip Levine was born in Detroit and is the author of 16 collections of poetry, most recently Breath. His other books include The Simple Truth, which won the Pulitzer Prize; What Work Is, which won the National Book Award; The Names of the Lost; Ashes: Poems New and Old and 7 Years From Somewhere, both of which won the National Book Critics Circle Award. He is the distinguished Poet-in-Residence in the Creative Writing Program at NYU.

Co-sponsored with the 92nd Street Y Unterberg Poetry Center, the Academy of American Poets, Cave Canem Foundation, Cooper Union, Knopf, Poets House, Society of America and Poets & Writers.

Hope to see you there!

Philip Levine 80th Birthday Tribute
Thursday, November 29th, 7:00pm
Great Hall, Cooper Union, East 7th Street
Free and Open to the Public
http://www.randomhouse.com/knopf/poetry/levine_tribute/



Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: pugetopolis on November 17, 2007, 06:05:45 AM
(http://images.tribe.net/tribe/upload/photo/fa3/76c/fa376c71-368e-4dc2-93d9-0b8e0ed05c74)

The Falls

“Why should the Falls drag me down
her at 5:00 in the morning? To show me
how big they are and how small I am?
To remind me they can get along
without any help? All right, so they’ve
proved it. By why not? They’ve had
10,000 years to get independent.
What’s so wonderful about that?
I suppose I could, too, only it might
Take a little more time.”—Joseph Cotton

The Falls in the morning—
A faint tiny rainbow of mist
Opening up to him…

Joseph Cotton—
Far from Vienna and its
Ancient old city nuances…

Far from film noir—
All that Euro-darkness
And ruined sophistication…

Far from Harry Lime—
Down there in the sewers
His best friend betraying him…

Joseph Cotton always—
The Holly Martin dupe in all
The films he plays in…

He makes his way—
Through wet shiny boulders
Into the rush of energy…



Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: pugetopolis on November 17, 2007, 06:34:00 AM
(http://images.tribe.net/tribe/upload/photo/d6f/3b3/d6f3b33d-f914-4dd0-8c1f-01bc32ea95b4)

The Honeymooners

Disconsolate Joseph Cotton—
Meandering back to the motel
Along twisted wet sidewalks…

Back to Marilyn Monroe—
Lying in bed smoking a cigarette
Thinking about sexy Patrick…

Her shiny red lipstick lips—
So lovely, glossy and iridescent
They almost glow in the dark…

Both Joseph and Marilyn—
Old honeymooners renewing vows
Like Jean Peters and Max Showalter…

The only new honeymooners—
Marilyn and handsome Richard Allan
Making out under the Falls…




Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: pugetopolis on November 17, 2007, 06:52:46 AM
(http://images.tribe.net/tribe/upload/photo/a9d/b7a/a9db7a10-1789-4235-9ae2-cd8944c7e8d3)

The Rainbow Cabins

Modern housekeeping cabins—
If only those cute little cabins could
Talk what stories they’d tell…

The Tower always bonging—
And the Falls always roaring thru
The walls and cabin windows…

How many No Tell Motel moments—
The kind of Whitmanesque intimacy
He wanted to get in between…

Actually meeting Peter Doyle—
One last time there at Niagara Falls
Renewing their affair as well…

Where did they stay overnight—
The Cave of the Winds Motel or
Perhaps even the Rainbow Cabins?

Enquiring minds don’t want to know—
These are the kinds of things only
Voyeurs & poets are interested in…




Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: pugetopolis on November 17, 2007, 07:08:18 AM
(http://images.tribe.net/tribe/upload/photo/b2c/4c8/b2c4c82f-b65b-4891-9df4-60e70b23622b)

Marilyn Monroe

Bored with Joseph Cotton—
His Korean War post-traumatic
Stress syndrome getting old…

Exacerbated by Marilyn’s beauty—
Insane fits of jealousy overcoming
Him like it would any man…

How did they meet anyway—
What did she see in him in the
First place when they got married?

One can only speculate—
Like moody Joseph Cotton
Contemplating his cuckold fate…

Meanwhile Marilyn plots—
Setting up Cotton for the Falls
Suicide-victim and all that…

Maid of the Mist—
That’s hungry Marilyn Monroe
Knowing exactly what she wants…




Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: pugetopolis on November 17, 2007, 07:27:26 AM
(http://images.tribe.net/tribe/upload/photo/1b9/53e/1b953e31-06a2-406e-b589-d5870b338ba6)

Young Lovers

The two young lovers—
Leaning up against the wall
Under Horseshoe Falls…

The Falls roaring loudly—
Shaking the bulkhead with
The power of Love…

Niagara Falls vibes—
Anybody can feel the strength
And energy surging thru it…

The Cotton-Monroe marriage—
A December-April sort of thing
That’s why she’s bored…

But with Richard Allan—
It’s more April-April probably
The way it should have been…

When you’re in love—
One really feels the Falls and
The Tower playing your tune…




Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: pugetopolis on November 17, 2007, 08:01:48 AM
(http://images.tribe.net/tribe/upload/photo/b52/1e1/b521e1d6-2624-40cd-aeba-31d8a1d74f4b)

Kiss Me

Lyrics by Haven Gillespie
Music by Lionel Newman

“Hey! Get out the fire-hose.”—Max Showalter

“Parading around, showing herself off
in that dress, cut down so low in front
you can see her kneecaps.”—Joseph Cotton

“She’s a tramp!!!”—Joseph Cotton

Marilyn slinks out of her motel room—
Joins the party of teenage dancers
Puts on her sultry record “Kiss”…

Joseph Cotton goes crazy—
“Kiss me with heavenly affection…”
Those lines drive him nuts…

“This is the moment of thrill—
Thrill me, thrill me, hmmmm
Take me, take me in your arms…”

Marilyn is setting him up—
She hums the song and waits
For Joseph Cotton to explode…

“Take me, darling—
Don’t forsake me, kiss me
Hold me tight, love me tonight…”





Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: pugetopolis on November 17, 2007, 08:52:10 AM
(http://images.tribe.net/tribe/upload/photo/6af/9ec/6af9ecb3-72d8-4c62-b898-4eb6912341bb)

The Snows of Kilimanjaro (1952)

Director: Henry King
Writers: Ernest Hemingway (story)
              Casey Robinson

Richard Allan does flamenco—
As the Spanish dancer in Hemingway’s
The Snows of Kilimanjaro…

A minor diversion—
But then the whole film is just a minor
Diversion into a dying man’s mind…

Feverishly reminiscing—
About a writer’s failed life & loves
With lots of “deathbed” flashbacks…

Ava Gardner his Parisian love—
Susan Hayward his wealthy wife
Helping him deal with all his baggage…

Too much stock-footage though—
Used much more effectively during
Niagara Falls with its scenic backdrop…

But here is Richard Allan—
One year earlier dancing in a nightclub
The Lost Generation and all that…




Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: pugetopolis on November 17, 2007, 09:45:42 AM
(http://images.tribe.net/tribe/upload/photo/1e6/3f2/1e63f2ff-ced6-4126-8ef1-4a1f783e16f2)

Deconstructing Niagara

“Passing references to films in Barthes’s writings form a significant part of their overall color and texture. Describing the mythical properties of the new Citroën in 1955, he saw it “originating from the heaven of Metropolis.”—Jonathan Rosenbaum, Placing Movies—The Practice of Film Criticism, Berkeley: University of California Press, 1995, page 51

1. Deconstructing movies is like driving a Citroën…

2. I look at moviegoing and discussing movies as a performative act—similar to the performance of the movie itself with all its collaborative action amongst the players, the crew, the director, the writers and everything else that goes on during the filming and later on the viewing of the movie as well as the critiquing of it.

3. Guy Maddin’s idea of doing a ballet-movie Dracula: Pages from a Virgin’s Diary (2002) is interesting—something like bending various performance genres into new ways of moviegoing and movieviewing and movietalking…

4. Viewing Niagara in a different narrative way—along the lines of quick haiku-esque stanzas accompanied by capture-shots of the film itself—is something I’ve played with in this neo-narrative sequence of images and words.

5. Turning a ballet into a movie isn’t the only way to bend genres—a poet can do the same thing if he or she wants to.

6. In “Barthes & Film,” Rosenbaum discusses Barthes’s book S/Z in terms of his phrase by phrase textual analysis of Balzac’s novella Sarrazine.  Barthes breaks down “the realist text” into levels of connotation or codes. Deconstructing Niagara does the same thing—in effect decoding the imaginary of an epoch, the neo-noir cinema of the Fifties…

7. Once the movie has been seen—one can deconstruct it with scenes captured from the movie.

8. Keeping the commentary crisp and clean is the trick…




Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: pugetopolis on November 17, 2007, 11:31:24 AM
(http://images.tribe.net/tribe/upload/photo/ca8/7b0/ca87b015-47d8-4a3c-828d-0b02763ddcdc)

Soylent Green (1973)

“One of the more practical of Jean-Luc Godard’s gnomic
utterances would be “trusting to chance is listening to voices.”
—Jonathan Rosenbaum, Placing Movies—The Practice of Film
Criticism, Berkeley: University of California Press, 1995, page 13

Trusting to chance—
Listening what other movies
Are saying about Cotton.

Joseph Cotton—
A more futuristic loser
This time around…

Playing an official—
From the Soylent Corporation
Feeding all of New York City…

The year is 2022—
NYC has 40 million people
Strawberries are $150 a glass…

The rich live in luxury condos—
The poor sleep in the streets
Soylent comes in red, yellow, green…

There’s a glitch—
But Cotton doesn’t resist
When the hired killer shows up…

Resigned as usual—
To his crummy fate each movie
You’d think it would get old…




Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: pugetopolis on November 18, 2007, 10:49:36 PM
(http://images.tribe.net/tribe/upload/photo/50c/c61/50cc614d-23d5-457a-b715-8f60b0454cae)

His filmography

Calloway: “Death’s at the bottom of everything,
                  Martins. Leave death to the professionals.”

Martins: “Mind if I use that line in my next Western?”

Death glides slowly—
Thru his long filmography
Like a stealthy shadow…

Joseph Cotton loses it—
All that boyhood innocence
With Harry Lime his best friend…

Postwar ruined Vienna—
No place for a pulp fiction
Writer of paperback Westerns…

After Citizen Kane—
RKO cuts the budget and movie
For Magnificent Ambersons…

After that Welles and Cotton—
Don’t speak for 7 years with
An hour of the film on the floor…

Then as gigolo murderer—
Shadow of a Doubt casting it’s
Long shadow over his career…

With Charles Boyer stalking—
Ingrid Bergman in spooky Gaslight
Like nefarious “Uncle Charlie”…

Jennifer Jones as pretty ghost—
So infatuating in Portrait of Jennie
Depression Era New York City…

Then Death haunts Jean Peters—
In A Blueprint for Murder…
A year after Niagara homicides…

Then Cotton plays the “coroner”—
In Welles’ Touch of Evil with
Marlene Dietrich as Mexican madam…

Moody Southern gothic death—
Hush, Hush Sweet Charlotte with
Bette Davis and Olivia de Havilland…

Then more campy horror movies—
With Vincent Price out to get even
In The Abominable Dr. Phibes…

Then hamming it up Italianesque—
Playing a so-so Baron Frankenstein
In Daughter of Frankenstein…

Moving right along to Mario Bava—
Playing Baron Otto von Kleist
The sadistic cursed Baron Blood…

Then a ho-hum Satan-cult flick—
With doomed Shelley Winters in tacky
Occult cheesy The Devil’s Daughter…

Followed by Grade-B Delusion—
AKA The House Where Death Lives
Full of early “slasher” murders…

Who can forget The Hearse—
Cotton playing the creepy driver
Slinking around in an old black hearse…

So that Joseph Cotton—
Ignoring Inspector Calloway’s advice
Ends up seduced by Death…




Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: Lhoffman on November 18, 2007, 11:04:53 PM
How Was Your Weekend


The most common
form of suicide
is committed by Everyman
done in by
neverending performance
of Social Niceties….
Shallow Conversations
liberally peppered
With WonderfulMarvelous
OhHowNice.
The distressed soul
simply
AllIsWelled to death.
One too many Forays into Congeniality
and it’s a willing plunge
into a grave dug deep
by Platitude.


Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: pugetopolis on November 18, 2007, 11:53:16 PM

How Was Your Weekend

The most common
form of suicide
is committed by Everyman
done in by
neverending performance
of Social Niceties….
Shallow Conversations
liberally peppered
With WonderfulMarvelous
OhHowNice.
The distressed soul
simply
AllIsWelled to death.
One too many
Forays into
Congeniality
And it’s a willing plunge
Into a grave dug deep
by Platitude.


Ah yes, and just think you've got Thanksgiving and Xmas to look forward to...   :)

While you've been gone, I did this "Niagara" riff with some screen-captures from the movie...
like I did with Faulkner's short story "Delta Autumn" with commentary. The way Guy Maddin
morphed the Winnipeg ballet into a movie gave me an idea. I picked Niagara (1953) and
commented on the series of images I posted. I picked scenes I thought were interesting
like the ones I picked to illustrate Faulkner's short story. It begins with Marilyn Monroe's
filmography... and ends with Joseph Cotton's filmography. So that the narrative loops back
around in a circle.

BTW I got Maddin's Cowards Bend the Knee dvd in the mail over the weekend and watched
it. Ugh. Too many hockey games. But the idea of a black & white old time matinee serial
with scratchy chapter headings is creative. Some behind-the-scenes looks at Brand
upon the Brain filmed here in Seattle were interesting... filmed around Puget Sound
and then turned into the same black & white type movie. The switch to black and
white gives the images more texture and chairascuro... things look more film noir.
Perhaps that's what makes The Saddest Music in the World so retro and beautiful...




Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: Lhoffman on November 19, 2007, 12:57:45 AM
LOL...Thanksgiving and Christmas....

I haven't watched Niagara in quite a long time, but I think I need to have another look.  There is also a smaller loop that works with Marilyn's murder on film and in real life. (Illustrated nicely by the photo below....and wasn't she beautiful.)  Also interesting parallel of filmography/real life Joseph Cotton....all that "boyhood innocence", perhaps done in by budget cuts at RKO and the loss of a long friendship.
 

(http://images.tribe.net/tribe/upload/photo/b2c/4c8/b2c4c82f-b65b-4891-9df4-60e70b23622b)








Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: pugetopolis on November 22, 2007, 01:01:29 PM
(http://www.cypherstyles.com/%5Cimg%5CproductImages%5Cparty%20monster%20front.jpg)

Is Gay Poetry Dead?

“It's about bringing to bear
a new voice to an old narrative…”
—Christopher Hennessy

To survive—
Gay poets needed new images.

They struggled—
And gay poetry found a new terrible lease on life.

One of the small ironies of Aids was that—
Gay poetry stayed alive longer than its natural lifespan.

Usually bourgeois movements—
Are eventually absorbed by neo-capitalism…

Notice neocon postmodernism—
How the Rove revolution pretty much took over…

Every aspect of gay poetry absorbed—
And picked over for thirty years by now…

Various strands of gay poetry—
In high & low culture of previous generations.

But none of us could have guessed—
How limited these cultural avenues were.

Gay poetry charted, gay poetry performed—
Gay poetry sold in New York City.

Then came Aids—
The disease was devastating & frightening.

Gay poets & their friends looked after each other—
Gay subcultures struggled to be recorded & celebrated.

There were gay poems to be written for the last time—
Simple poems of gays falling in love & dying…

But gay poets were supposed to grow old gracefully—
Wise like Walt Whitman there in New Jersey…

Poems of erotica and sexual fantasy—
They weren’t supposed to end up so thanatos-tainted…

And then there were the layers—
All the gay subtexts for new generations…

The project of “writing gay poetry”—
Transforming straight Wasteland into what?

Was that the purpose of Ariel—
Just to struggle with honky Calibans?

Centuries of near-invisibility come & go—
The gay muse always rediscovering himself.

Waking up & looking around—
I wonder, my dear, what he thinks now?

http://www.gaypoetry.com/design/poetry_dis.asp?dataID=34574





Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: Lhoffman on November 22, 2007, 02:48:33 PM
Pugetopolis...Powerful and heartbreaking.  Larkin spent a lot of words on this, the relationship between thantos and eros (although the social context in that time was not what it is now).  


Beyond all this, the wish to be alone
However the sky grows dark with invitation cards
However we follow the printed directions of sex
However the family is photographed under the flagstaff
Beyond all this, the wish to be alone.

Beneath it all, desire of oblivion runs:
Despite the artful tensions of the calendar,
The life insurance, the tabled fertility rites
The costly aversion of the eyes from death---
Beneath it all, desire of oblivion runs.

(Wants)





Time has transfigured them into
Untruth. The stone fidelity
They hardly meant has come to be
Their final blazon, and to prove
Our almost-instinct almost true:
What will survive of us is love.


(The Arundel Tomb)


Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: madupont on November 23, 2007, 02:28:13 AM
The Arundel Tomb

Side by side, their faces blurred,
The earl and countess lie in stone,
Their proper habits vaguely shown
As jointed armour, stiffened pleat,
And that faint hint of the absurd -
The little dogs under their feet.

Such plainness of the pre-baroque
Hardly involves the eye, until
It meets his left-hand gauntlet, still
Clasped empty in the other; and
One sees, with a sharp tender shock,
His hand withdrawn, holding her hand.

They would not think to lie so long.
Such faithfulness in effigy
Was just a detail friends would see:
A sculptor's sweet commissioned grace
Thrown off in helping to prolong
The Latin names around the base.

They would no guess how early in
Their supine stationary voyage
The air would change to soundless damage,
Turn the old tenantry away;
How soon succeeding eyes begin
To look, not read. Rigidly they

Persisted, linked, through lengths and breadths
Of time. Snow fell, undated. Light
Each summer thronged the grass. A bright
Litter of birdcalls strewed the same
Bone-littered ground. And up the paths
The endless altered people came,

Washing at their identity.
Now, helpless in the hollow of
An unarmorial age, a trough
Of smoke in slow suspended skeins
Above their scrap of history,
Only an attitude remains:

Time has transfigured them into
Untruth. The stone fidelity
They hardly meant has come to be
Their final blazon, and to prove
Our almost-instinct almost true:
What will survive of us is love.
                                             Philip Larkin


Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: Lhoffman on November 23, 2007, 11:33:24 AM
(http://www.estatevaults.com/lm/%20Arundel%20Tomb,%20Chicester%20Cathedral.jpg)


Hard to find a more concrete (pardon the pun) image of Thanatos and Eros than this.  They lie side by side in the tomb.    She turns her body slightly toward him, almost inviting, he holds her hand...perhaps echoing pre-coital scenes played  previously in the marriage bed.


Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: pugetopolis on November 23, 2007, 11:42:58 AM
(http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/1/17/Landon-IcarusandDaedalus.jpg)

If I Were Poet Laureate

http://www.gaypoetry.com/design/poetry_dis.asp?dataID=34594

If I were poet laureate—
I’d kick Ted Hughes
Out of the house quick
And immediately consult
My trusty ouija board…

“Oh Spirits of the Dead—
Especially you Homer
Wiser and tho blind
More experienced about
Trojan Wars than me…”

“What should I write—
About the status quo?
Neocon nincompoops
And all those nasty little
Dystopian things?”

“You know, my dear—
Tacky coup d'états
Getting rid of lawyers
Judges journalists
Things like that?”

“Especially poets—
Nefarious creatures
Postmodern pimps
Whores of the old
Library of Congress?”

“It’s derigeur they say—
For the fag muse to
Turn down such an
Honor as “Head Poet”
Of the Neocon Empire…”

“After all look at—
What’s his name
Orpheus who lost his
Head even tho she
Kept yakking away…”

“That’s what poets do—
Talking Heads opining
Away like bubblehead
Blondes on FOX-News
And lovely You-Tube…”

Sylvia gets serious—
“Oh Daddy you’re so
Mean with your stiff
Little moustache and
Big Nazi dick…”

“How I hate you—
And that pig Hughes
Both of you such hogs
How I pity your lame
Misogynist muse…”

“Elizabeth Bishop—
Can you hear me dear?
Surely we need help
Fast down here in the
Animal Farm World…”

“Please Sylvia and Ariel—
And you too Elizabeth
We mortal male poets
Need your help bad now
We are Icarus falling…”




Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: madupont on November 23, 2007, 04:43:20 PM
Have you ever heard of or read:

The Lesbianism of Philip Larkin,   a critique in Daedalus? That is what the repro above reminds me of somehow.


Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: madupont on November 23, 2007, 05:12:56 PM
Lhoffman,

(http://www.estatevaults.com/lm/%20Arundel%20Tomb,%20Chicester%20Cathedral.jpg)


Hard to find a more concrete (pardon the pun) image of Thanatos and Eros than this.  They lie side by side in the tomb.    She turns her body slightly toward him, almost inviting, he holds her hand...perhaps echoing pre-coital scenes played  previously in the marriage bed.






http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Image:Arundel.jpg

The title Earl of Arundel is the oldest extant Earldom and perhaps the oldest extant title in the Peerage of England. It is currently held by the Duke of Norfolk, and is used (along with the Earldom of Surrey) by his Heir Apparent as a courtesy title. It was created in 1138 for the Norman baron Sir William d'Aubigny. Until the mid-13th century, the Earls were also frequently known as Earl of Sussex, until this title fell into disuse. At about the same time, the Earldom fell to the originally Breton FitzAlan family, a younger branch of which went on to become the Stuart family which later ruled Scotland.

The last FitzAlan holder of the Earldom, the 19th Earl, was implicated in the Ridolfi Plot to place Mary, Queen of Scots, of the House of Stewart, on the English Throne. This led to Lord Arundel being placed under house arrest for the remainder of his life. This same Earl received, after Queen Mary's execution, the rosary and prayer book which she carried to her execution. It is amongst the Arundel relics which the Dukes of Norfolk hold today.

In his 1834 book on the Earls of Arundel, M. A. Tierney (Chaplain to the Duke of Norfolk) maintains that the first incarnation of the Earldom was with the House of Montgomery. Roger of Montgomery, 1st Earl of Shrewsbury was one of William the Conqueror's top generals, and William bestowed on him, amongst several hundred other manors, the property at Arundel, with the charge to fortify it with a castle. Montgomery is believed to have built the motte that is extant to this day, and is thought to have built a wooden keep on it, overlooking the river Arun.

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Arundel_Castle


"the FitzAlan line once again. The next earl, Thomas, married the daughter of John of Portugal. The couple* eventually became the first members of the FitzAlan family to be buried in the chapel built by Richard FitzAlan, the tenth Earl."


http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Image:Arundel_Cathedral.JPG                   http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Image:Arundelcatherdralinterior.jpg


*Pondering, the history on this in the Arundel regional pages is so vague that by saying, "first members....to be buried in the chapel" leaves some doubt.

Do you have any idea exactly who is identified as the couple in the pictured inclusion which appears to be the pair in Larkin's poem,The Arundel Tomb ?





Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: pugetopolis on November 24, 2007, 05:43:13 AM
(http://3quarksdaily.blogs.com/3quarksdaily/images/larkin_philip19750515.2)

Speaking of poet laureates, I was reading Selected Letters of Philip Larkin (1940-1985) last night, the only Larkin book I have, and I noticed in a letter to Robert Conquest (23 December 1984) Larkin saying “Well, we now have Ted as Laureate, as I expect you’ve seen.”—with the footnote by Anthony Thwaite that “Ted Hughes was appointed poet Laureate on 19 December after Larkin refused the offer from Mrs. Thatcher.”   

Photo #32 shows Larkin and Hughes standing on a damp sidewalk on a cold rainy day with the caption “A strange study of contrasting personalities...”


Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: madupont on November 24, 2007, 09:49:28 AM
Thought I'd tuck this in here, since they were friends,Brecht and Lorre during their exile years.

in dark times
they won't say: when the walnut tree shook in the wind
but: when the house-painter crushed the workers.
they won't say: when the child skimmed a flat stone across
      the rapids
but: when the great wars were being prepared for.
they won't say; when the woman came into the room
but: when the great powers joined forces against the workers.
however, they won't say: the times were dark
rather: why were their poets silent?

Bertold Brecht


Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: Lhoffman on November 24, 2007, 12:48:02 PM
(http://3quarksdaily.blogs.com/3quarksdaily/images/larkin_philip19750515.2)

Speaking of poet laureates, I was reading Selected Letters of Philip Larkin (1940-1985) last night, the only Larkin book I have, and I noticed in a letter to Robert Conquest (23 December 1984) Larkin saying “Well, we now have Ted as Laureate, as I expect you’ve seen.”—with the footnote by Anthony Thwaite that “Ted Hughes was appointed poet Laureate on 19 December after Larkin refused the offer from Mrs. Thatcher.”   

Photo #32 shows Larkin and Hughes standing on a damp sidewalk on a cold rainy day with the caption “A strange study of contrasting personalities...”


That sounds like an interesting read.  Modern Library?


Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: Lhoffman on November 24, 2007, 12:59:12 PM
...and here is a lovely little cut-and-paste on Larkin, lest I appear "intellectually uninformed and jejeune" to the pompous ass poser (she who shall not be named) who frequents this forum.  :D

http://books.guardian.co.uk/news/articles/0,6109,1063198,00.html

 
The Whitsun Weddings:  (any ideas on why this one might be favoured?)
   
 
  That Whitsun, I was late getting away:
Not till about
One-twenty on the sunlit Saturday
Did my three-quarters-empty train pull out,
All windows down, all cushions hot, all sense
Of being in a hurry gone. We ran
Behind the backs of houses, crossed a street
Of blinding windscreens, smelt the fish-dock; thence
The river's level drifting breadth began,
Where sky and Lincolnshire and water meet.

All afternoon, through the tall heat that slept
For miles island,
A slow and stopping curve southwards we kept.
Wide farms went by, short-shadowed cattle, and
Canals with floatings of industrial froth;
A hothouse flashed uniquely: hedges dipped
And rose: and now and then a smell of grass
Displace the reek of buttoned carriage-cloth
Until the next town, new and nondescript,
Approached with acres of dismantled cars.

At first, I didn't notice what a noise
The weddings made
Each station that we stopped at: sun destroys
The interest of what's happening in the shade,
And down the long cool platforms whoops and skirls
I took for porters larking with the mails,
And went on reading. Once we started, though,
We passed them, grinning and pomaded, girls
In parodies of fashion, heels and veils,
All posed irresolutely, watching us go,

As if out on the end of an event
Waving goodbye
To something that survived it. Struck, I leant
More promptly out next time, more curiously,
And saw it all again in different terms:
The fathers with broad belts under their suits
And seamy foreheads; mothers loud and fat;
An uncle shouting smut; and then the perms,
The nylon gloves and jewelry-substitutes,
The lemons, mauves, and olive-ochers that

Marked off the girls unreally from the rest.
Yes, from cafes
And banquet-halls up yards, and bunting-dressed
Coach-party annexes, the wedding-days
Were coming to an end. All down the line
Fresh couples climbed abroad: the rest stood round;
The last confetti and advice were thrown,
And, as we moved, each face seemed to define
Just what it saw departing: children frowned
At something dull; fathers had never known

Success so huge and wholly farcical;
The women shared
The secret like a happy funeral;
While girls, gripping their handbags tighter, stared
At a religious wounding. Free at last,
And loaded with the sum of all they saw,
We hurried towards London, shuffling gouts of steam.
Now fields were building-plots. and poplars cast
Long shadows over major roads, and for
Some fifty minutes, that in time would seem

Just long enough to settle hats and say
I nearly died,
A dozen marriages got under way.
They watched the landscape, sitting side by side
-An Odeon went past, a cooling tower,
And someone running up to bowl -and none
Thought of the others they would never meet
Or how their lives would all contain this hour.
I thought of London spread out in the sun,
Its postal districts packed like squares of wheat:

There we were aimed. And as we raced across
Bright knots of rail
Past standing Pullmans, walls of blackened moss
Came close, and it was nearly done, this frail
Traveling coincidence; and what it held
Stood ready to be loosed with all the power
That being changed can give. We slowed again,
And as the tightened brakes took hold, there swelled
A sense of falling, like an arrow-shower
Sent out of sight, somewhere becoming rain.

Philip Larkin

 
 


Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: pugetopolis on November 24, 2007, 02:00:47 PM
(http://3quarksdaily.blogs.com/3quarksdaily/images/larkin_philip19750515.2)

Selected Letters of Philip Larkin

Selected Letters of Philip Larkin (1940-1985), edited by Anthony Thwaite, London: Faber and Faber, 1992

“My contact with the world of letters is tenuous and precarious and I hope will remain so. Ted for the L’ship, don’t you think? That’ll put paid to him.”—Letter to Douglas Dunn (29 August 1984)

“Poet Laureateship—I think the above circumstance (the compulsion to write poems left me about seven years ago) disqualifies me for the Laureateship. A Laureate can fall silent, but he cannot be dumb from the start. Latterly it has been suggested that the Laureate should be a kind of “Mr. Poetry” and concern himself (or herself) with promoting poetry on a national basis, but this would not suit me either. Poetry to me has always been an intensely private thing, and I have avoided all its public manifestations. There are several excellent poets of whom none of the above is true, and I expect one of them to be appointed. The office itself, linking as it does poetry and sovereignty, is a unique honor and should be treasured and persevered, but the temptation to turn it into a “job” should be resisted.”—Letter to Graham Lord (11 August 1984)


Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: pugetopolis on November 24, 2007, 04:58:05 PM
(http://images.tribe.net/tribe/upload/photo/feb/b9f/febb9f5c-0358-4efe-b334-e859d7d4329d)
Borges as Big Brother

Big Daddy

Re: Outsourcing Poetry

Dear Mr. Borges—
Congratulations for being
Chosen USA Poet Laureate!!!

It’s truly an honor—
I’m sure you’ll agree just
Like winning the Lotto!!!

In fact that’s how it works—
We fix lotteries and elections
For the good of the Empire…

There are no requirements—
To be Mr. Poetry USA
Except maybe one thing…

All we ask is that you—
Outsource your Muse like
We’ve done with Labor…

We want good LMR—
Labor Management Relations
Globalized for Mankind…

We want happy workers—
We don’t want Union Poetry
None of that Solidarity stuff…

We want a Poetry Planet—
One big happy Third World
Double-Speak Heaven…

Naturally the Laureateship—
Will be the Bastion of Big Brother
You as the #1 Minister of Truth…

Both Inner Party and Outer Party—
As well as the Proles will celebrate
Your Oceania Verse, my dear…

Your task will be quite simple—
To rewrite and alter Poetic History
Into the New Party Canon…

Unpersons like Auden & Eliot—
Derelicts like Shakespeare and
Larkin and Miss James Merrill…

Our New Oceania Poetics—
Must be purged of such imposters
As well as Eurasia & Eastasia Lit…

We want to outsource—
Your ingenious way with words
Like Orwell did with Zamyatin…

We implore you to strive—
Even better than Katharine Burdekin
To outsource Swastika Night…

We ask you to disambiguate—
All Poetry into a single historical
And political Interpretation…

We want you to revise the Muse—
To embed the Impossible into
The Imagination of the State…

We want to erase British Poetry—
The poverty of Britain in 1948 when
Empire and Economy were dissolving…

We want to erase American Poetry—
Announcing instead Imperial victories
Not Allen Ginsbergian depravities…

We prefer Prosody Fortresses—
Poetic Dreadnoughts posing as
Jewels in the Crown of Empire…

We see Oceanic Laureateship—
Not just simply being “Mr. Poetry”
But rather the Muse as Big Brother…

We desire Total Poetry—
The Cult of Big Brother Verse
Party Line Poetics & Power…

We want Neocon Poetry—
Victory ditties and PC diatribes
Thoughtcrime Lit will be banned…

The Ministry of Poetry—
Will revise all poetic history
To conform with Party Poetics…

Old Muse records will be—
Incinerated completely in secret
Party memory holes…

Novel-writing machines—
Will join the struggle to ban
All Pre-Revolutionary Literature…

Clandestine relationships—
Between intelligentsia in ruined
Universities will be forbidden…

Old Libraries, old Bookstores—
All forms of Newsprint will be
Replaced by Newspeak…

Poetry is Peace—
Prose is Slavery and
You-Tube is Strength…

The Ministry of Poetry—
The Party’s Agit-Prop Arm
Will Flatscreen everything…

Poetry will never be wrong—
Since you as Poet Laureate will
Doublethink & Disambiguate all…

We want a Picture of the Future—
Imagine your Face gracing every
Bathroom Mirror in the Welt…

Looking into the Mirror—
The Proles will drive to work daily
With your Doublespeak Smile…

Doublethink Doppelgangers—
Staring at you in the Mirror
Each day embracing contraries…

Not bothered by little things—
Like cognitive dissonance and
Dystopian heebie-jeebies…

Let us praise Oceania—
Neocon Socialism in America
Britain and the Pacific…

Let us condemn Eurasia—
Eastasia as well as the Gulag
Rebels of Saturn’s Rings…

Give the Proles some Poetry—
But not enough to awaken them
To overthrow TPTB Party hacks…

We need Perpetual Poetry—
Like the Perpetual War that keeps
Oceania in control and power…

We don’t need Vocabulary—
For unrecognized phenomenon
We need more Disambiguation…

We need Poetry to disguise—
Ideological forces at work even
Tho completely incompatible…

The object of Poetry is Power—
The object of Prosody is Power
The object of Verse is Power…

Poetry imposes antisexualism—
Orgasm outlawed by the State
Replaced by genetic engineering…

All Futurology will be banned—
The Stock Market will be fixed and
Wall Street prognostications will rule…

The Managerial Revolution—
Even the ruling class will be duped
The Old Capitalist Class betrayed…

You as Minister of Poetry—
If you accept this Mission Impossible
Will succeed where others failed…

We prefer you to Evita Peron—
She had beauty and the colonels
But you have the brains…


http://www.gaypoetry.com/design/poetry_dis.asp?dataID=34607






Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: madupont on November 24, 2007, 11:49:52 PM
burial of the trouble-maker in a zinc coffin
here in this zinc box
lies a dead person
or his legs and his head
or even less of him
or nothing, for he was
a trouble-maker.

he was recognised as the root of all evil.
dig him in. it will be best
if his wife goes alone to the knacker's yard with him
because anyone else going
would be a marked man.

what is in that zinc box
has been egging you on to all sorts of things:
getting enough to eat
and having somewhere dry to live
and feeding one's children
and insisting on one's exact wages
and solidarity with all
who are oppressed like yourselves. and
thinking.

what is in that zinc box said
that another system of production was needed
and that you, the masses of labor in your millions
must take over.
until then things won't get better for you.

and because what is in the zinc box said that
it was put into the zinc box and must be dug in
as a trouble-maker who egged you on.
and whoever now talks of getting enough to eat
and whoever of you wants somewhere dry to live
and whoever of you insists on his exact wages
and whoever of you wnats to feed his children
and whoever thinks, and proclaims his solidarity
with all who are oppressed -
from now on throughout eternity
he will be put into a zinc box like this one
as a trouble-maker and dug in.
bb 


Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: pugetopolis on November 25, 2007, 03:12:01 AM
(http://images.tribe.net/tribe/upload/photo/feb/b9f/febb9f5c-0358-4efe-b334-e859d7d4329d)

Larkin Poetics

“There are, thereafter, only poems, no concept of poetry, no impulse to order poems in a single “statement.” A poem works cumulatively: the scene, tone or argument is set in motion, details assemble, until there is a point of lift-off, a modulation of tone to a deepening of seriousness. From the evocation of externals, the poet proceeds to release their composite meanings. When the “lift-off” fails the poems can be vivid verse catalogs only…”—Michael Schmidt, Lives of the Poets, London: Weidenfeld & Nicolson, 1998, page 948





Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: madupont on November 25, 2007, 10:39:47 AM
at potsdam `unter den eichen'

at potsdam* unter den eichen
one noon a procession was seen
with a drum in front and a flag behind
and a coffin in between.

at potsdam `under the oak trees'
in the ancient dusty street -
six men were carrying a coffin
with helmet and oak leaves complete.

and on its sides in red lead paint
an inscription had been written
whose ugly letters spelled the phrase:
`fit for heroes to live in'.

this had been done in memory
of any and every one
born in the home country
fallen before verdun.

once heart and soul caught by the tricks
of the fatherland, now given
a coffin by the fatherland:
fit for heroes to live in.


and so they marched through potsdam*
for the man who at verdun* fell.
whereat the green police arrived
and beat them all to hell.

bb


The Potsdam* district of Babelsberg also serves as one of the leading centers of European film production. The Filmstudio Babelsberg(UFA) has significant historical value as the oldest large-scale film studio in the world. The Deutsches Filmorchester Babelsberg frequently records soundtracks for domestic and foreign-based film productions.

(Hochschule für Film und Fernsehen "Konrad Wolf" HFF), founded in 1954 in Babelsberg, the foremost centre of the German film industry since its birth with 600 students today.

After the Edict of Potsdam in 1685 Potsdam became a centre of European immigration. Its religious freedom attracted people from France (Huguenots)

At the beginning of the Third Reich a ceremonial handshake between President Paul von Hindenburg and the new Chancellor Adolf Hitler took place on 21 March 1933 in Potsdam's Garnisonkirche (Garrison Church), symbolising a coalition of the military (Reichswehr) and Nazism.


Verdun was the site of the Battle of Verdun in 1916 during World War I. One of the costliest battles of the war, Verdun exemplified the policy of a 'war of attrition' pursued by both sides, which led to an enormous loss of life.

Thirteen-thousand crosses adorn the field in front of the ossuary which holds roughly 130,000 unidentified remains brought in off the battlefield. Every year yields more remains which are often placed inside the ossuary's vaults.

Nearby, the World War I Meuse-Argonne American Cemetery and Memorial is located east of the village and is the final resting place for 14,246 American military Dead, most of whom died in the Meuse-Argonne Offensive. The chapel contains a memorial to the 954 American Missing whose remains were never recovered or identified.


Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: madupont on November 25, 2007, 12:46:34 PM
Addendum in regard to the connection of the Film Industry crops up and
brought in a harvest times three which might be better entered as tripartite post to Movie Club.


Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: Lhoffman on November 25, 2007, 07:37:33 PM
Pugetopolis....am working my way slowly through the Bakhtin you mentioned a few weeks back.  I am stuck on his idea of the grotesque and whether Icarus can be seen as a prototype.  Does the grotesque need to rise to the level of spectacle or of the absurd? 


Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: pugetopolis on November 25, 2007, 09:02:06 PM
(http://graphics8.nytimes.com/images/2007/12/25/books/harrison-450.jpg)

Charles Bukowski

“A poet can have a deep sense
of himself as a Quasimodo in
 a world without bells…”
—Jim Harrison, NYTimes 11/25/2007

http://www.nytimes.com/2007/11/25/books/review/harrison.html

Poets like Bukowski—
Stations of the cross for me
Philip Larkin too…

I mope and pout—
Reading them until well
It’s time to move on…

Dilettantish I know—
But I can’t help it just like
Peter Lorre I suppose…

The grotesque—
Whether Mardi Gras or
Just lurking in the mirror…

The same with movies—
Saddest Music in the World
Eraserhead Mulholland Drive...

It’s just awful sometimes—
Just the other day I found myself
In my own “Ignore” Box…



Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: Lhoffman on November 25, 2007, 09:46:12 PM
"A durable poet, the rarest of all birds, has a unique point of view and the gift of language to express it. The unique point of view can often come from a mental or physical deformity."

(I suppose this could also speak to Bakhtin's Fallen Idols or Grotesques....)


rare bird
(backhanded compliment) rara avis
(layman's terms) odd duck
nevertheless in the language of
pleasureable damnation and
persistent decadence
there's nothing quite like a
durable poet
to get you through the night


Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: pugetopolis on November 25, 2007, 10:37:42 PM

rare bird
(backhanded compliment) rara avis
(layman's terms) odd duck
nevertheless in the language of
pleasureable damnation and
persistent decadence
there's nothing quite like a
durable poet
to get you through the night


Can you imagine Bukowski as Poet Laureate?

One of my guilty little pleasures... imagining

the Unimaginable... 
   :D :D :D




Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: pugetopolis on November 25, 2007, 10:40:07 PM
(http://graphics8.nytimes.com/images/2007/12/25/books/harrison-450.jpg)

Bukowski Bungalow

“the virulent anecdotal sprawl…”
—Jim Harrison, NYTimes 11/25/2007
http://www.nytimes.com/2007/11/25/books/review/harrison.html

Disastrous denouements—
Fetid classrooms tacky parlors
Polite outside but puke inside…

The canon with tall windows—
Gaunt gothic Americana campus
Where I never quite fit in…

I don’t worry about it tho—
My ramshackle bungalow down
Here by the lake of tears…

Bamboo in the moonlight—
Cats lurking in the hydrangeas
Anecdotal Daffy Duck musings…

Seagulls smirking down at me—
Big black crows mocking me
But what do I care about them? 

Thirty years the same shack—
Not having run away from myself
For a long time now…


Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: Lhoffman on November 25, 2007, 11:06:56 PM
Day after day
you carried my mail
and the days when you rang
I hid behind the door
until you gave it up,
hiding my packages
behind the rhododendrons,
sticky note tacked to my door--
you’ve got mail...
How does one greet
such monstrous visage?
Lovely weather we're having?
You're Looking well, Mr. B?
And one day I read
how the words had gone
how you’d waited to die
while Linda vacuumed
Nothing to declare…
If only I'd known of your love
for that godforsaken cat,
if only I’d asked Esmeralda.




Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: pugetopolis on November 26, 2007, 12:13:06 AM
(http://farm1.static.flickr.com/150/425871675_e5e332e2de.jpg)

The History Of One Tough Motherfucker

by Charles Bukowski

he came to the door one night wet thin beaten and
terrorized
a white cross-eyed tailless cat
I took him in and fed him and he stayed
grew to trust me until a friend drove up the driveway
and ran him over
I took what was left to a vet who said,"not much
chance...give him these pills...his backbone
is crushed, but is was crushed before and somehow
mended, if he lives he'll never walk, look at
these x-rays, he's been shot, look here, the pellets
are still there...also, he once had a tail, somebody
cut it off..."

I took the cat back, it was a hot summer, one of the
hottest in decades, I put him on the bathroom
floor, gave him water and pills, he wouldn't eat, he
wouldn't touch the water, I dipped my finger into it
and wet his mouth and I talked to him, I didn't go any-
where, I put in a lot of bathroom time and talked to
him and gently touched him and he looked back at
me with those pale blue crossed eyes and as the days went
by he made his first move
dragging himself forward by his front legs
(the rear ones wouldn't work)
he made it to the litter box
crawled over and in,
it was like the trumpet of possible victory
blowing in that bathroom and into the city, I
related to that cat-I'd had it bad, not that
bad but bad enough

one morning he got up, stood up, fell back down and
just looked at me.

"you can make it," I said to him.

he kept trying, getting up falling down, finally
he walked a few steps, he was like a drunk, the
rear legs just didn't want to do it and he fell again, rested,
then got up.

you know the rest: now he's better than ever, cross-eyed
almost toothless, but the grace is back, and that look in
his eyes never left...

and now sometimes I'm interviewed, they want to hear about
life and literature and I get drunk and hold up my cross-eyed,
shot, runover de-tailed cat and I say,"look, look
at this!"

but they don't understand, they say something like,"you
say you've been influenced by Celine?"

"no," I hold the cat up,"by what happens, by
things like this, by this, by this!"

I shake the cat, hold him up in
the smoky and drunken light, he's relaxed he knows...

it's then that the interviews end
although I am proud sometimes when I see the pictures
later and there I am and there is the cat and we are photo-
graphed together.

he too knows it's bullshit but that somehow it all helps.




Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: pugetopolis on November 26, 2007, 12:20:36 AM
(http://web.ncf.ca/ek867/buk.kat.jpg)
Charles Bukowski and little friend…

On Cats: “Having a bunch of cats around is good. If you’re feeling bad, you just look at the cats, you’ll feel better, because they know that everything is, just as it is. There’s nothing to get excited about. They just know. They’re saviors. The more cats you have, the longer you live.”


Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: Lhoffman on November 26, 2007, 01:27:11 AM
There are many clips of Bukowski reading his poetry on YouTube:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=iCrn1LDDoRc&feature=related


Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: pugetopolis on November 26, 2007, 11:38:53 AM
(http://www.kristo.com/Images/monetstacks.jpg)

Monet’s haystacks


Pugetopolis....am working my way slowly through the Bakhtin you mentioned a few weeks back.


Imho Monet’s haystacks are like poems—each of his paintings are different depending on the time of day. A morning haystack—what would that be like going to work in the morning with all of your paints, your painting paraphernalia, your lunch, your fold-up chair, sleepy-eyed in the early hours of the day—just to catch that special moment when the sun shines at just the right angle on that one specific particularly lovely haystack of straw, alfalfa, weeds, wheat, oats—just to catch it like Wallace Stevens’ jar in Tennessee—and then when the sun moves slowly higher and higher—to put away the morning painting and set-up the noon-hour painting—and continue with that one later on into the day—and perhaps later on if you feel like it and aren’t completely tired—to put that one aside and pick up the sunset painting—the one you took home last night with you when it got too dark to paint—but patient-enough and looking forward to the next day—when each haystack has its own mood and conversation with you—since perhaps that’s the way things are—dialogical imagination not just with people—but perhaps with haystacks out in the middle of nowhere—or later on when my eyesight begins to fail with age—to sit in one’s garden by a pool—with huge canvases big as church windows—painting the afternoon lily-pads and cat-tails and shadows of the long day—big splotches of dark greens and darker mauves—living with color and the smell of paint—doing what comes naturally—ending up conversing with light and colors and darkness—since that’s what you love—the play of light on water—the way light talks and laughs during the afternoon—when you still have eyes to see and ears to hear—the canvas the screen the blank sheet of paper…



Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: pugetopolis on November 26, 2007, 01:12:44 PM
Bakhtin

Another book you might find interesting is Michael Holquist’s Dialogism: Bakhtin and his World, London: Routledge, 1990.

Bakhtin gets pretty theoretical but some of his thoughts about writing are helpful. For example, in regard to Gogol’s “Notes of a madman,” he says it’s important that the tale unfolds as diary entries. As the diary unfolds, the clerk who’s authoring it becomes more and more deranged and the tension grows between the coherence of the steadily marching dates and the growing chaos as the entries lose contact with reality. The orderliness of the diary format finally falls apart with dates that have nothing to do with the office or work. The dialog between story and plot is the enabling condition for narrative as such—as the author struggles with the dates as he undergoes his mental breakdown. The clerk is really no different than us—trying to calibrate his personal rhythms with the office. Which is something every author does in general—making sense between story and plot = recognizable future.

Nabokov in his little volume on Gogol (New Directions, 1958) sees this laying bare of chronology as a conventional device similar to Gogol’s other stories. Bakhtin goes further calling these story/plot oppositions “chronotopes” or recurring, transcultural narrative patterns. Bakhtin sees “Notes of a madman” as a subgenre of autobiography—with things like “biographical time” playing an important role within the public career/private world of the narrator (see pages 122-123 of “The dialogue of history and poetics).

The other chapters have titles like—Existence as dialogue, Language as dialogue, Novelness as dialogue: The novel of education and the education of the novel, Authoring as dialogue: The architectonics of answerability. Interesting when you get bored with the short story or novel itself—either bored or more interested in how Gogol works…
   :D



Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: Lhoffman on November 26, 2007, 01:45:34 PM
The chronotope a whole different animal to wrestle down...In Forms of Time and of the Chronotope in the Novel, Bakhtin uses the image of knots being tied and untied.

"Time becomes, in effect, palpable and visible; the chronotope makes narrative events concrete, makes them take on flesh, causes blood to flow in their veins….Thus the chronotope, functioning as the primary means for materializing time in space, emerges as a center for concretizing representation, as a force giving body to the entire novel. All the novel’s abstract elements - philosophical and social generalizations, ideas, analyses of cause and effect - gravitate towards the chronotope and through it take on flesh and blood, permitting the imaging power of art to do its work."

I don't have that Nabokov, but I may pick it up as I like his writing on literature.  I suspect Nabokov loathed teaching, but somehow he must have been quite good at it.  Holquist also sounds helpful, and I see on his Bio that he translated Bakhtin.


Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: pugetopolis on November 26, 2007, 02:11:36 PM
As soon as he got a big check for the Lolita movie, he got out of Academe and moved to Switzerland where he and his wife lived at the Montreux Palace Hotel. In the same suite that Peter Ustinov lived in on the top floor. He could then devote all his time to reading, writing and collecting butterflies. Oddly enough, he had a precognitive dream earlier in which his Uncle Ruka predicted that Vladimir, his favorite nephew, would gain back all the family fortune lost during the Revolution. And that's exactly what happened... Boyd details the incident in his Nabokov biography...    :D :D :D


Title: Graham Greene
Post by: pugetopolis on November 27, 2007, 09:06:19 AM
(http://www.editorialgalaxia.es/imxd/autores/imx/1184673484graham_greene.jpg)
Graham Greene

The Nightmare

“The Bay of Naples faded
into the wallpaper.”
—Graham Greene

I have this recurrent nightmare—
I wakeup inside this same dream
And I don’t know who I am…

It’s like being Arthur Rowe—
In Graham Greene’s strange novel
The weird Ministry of Fear…

I wake up not knowing—
Who I am or why I’m there
It’s the most terrible feeling…

Much worse than the movie—
The one with what’s his name   
The Man With the X-Ray Eyes…

Ray Milland that’s his name—
Except in this dream I’m nameless
In a big nameless City of Fear…

Usually there’s somebody—
Inside the dream who knows me 
Even tho I don’t know who they are…

Last night it was a YMCA—
Like the one I used to work out in   
Except everything was different…

The worse part is not knowing—
Not knowing why I’m in the dream 
Or why I know it’s just a dream…

But there I am—
Like Arthur Rowe in this dream
Not knowing who, why or what I am…

Knowing only I know nothing—
Which is the worst kind of feeling 
A dystopian ill-at-easeness…

Knowing only the strange feeling—
Of being caught up in a situation
A nightmare of banal evil…



Title: Graham Greene
Post by: Lhoffman on November 27, 2007, 01:54:25 PM
From a previously unaired portion of a 1982 radio interview with Graham Greene by Nigel Lewis, included on The Spoken Word:  Graham Greene, released in October by the British Library.

NIGEL LEWIS:  Let me ask you a stock question.  If you had a wish, what would it be?

GRAHAM GREENE:  The death of a certain individual.

LEWIS: [Pause]  Do--does--do you think about that all the time?

GREENE:  No, no.  I have a hope that he might suffer the fate many men in the media suffer.

LEWIS:  Is that something that is constantly there?

GREENE:  Not constantly, no.  I'd say a Mass for his soul. [Laughs]

LEWIS:  You'd say a Mass for his soul, but the man himself is evil?

GREENE:  Yes!

(from the December Harper's)



Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: madupont on November 27, 2007, 06:59:16 PM
Dear Poetry Lovers,

If you're in New York City on Thursday, November 29th, 2007, don't miss a special 80th birthday tribute and reading featuring Philip Levine with Kate Daniels, E.L. Doctorow, Edward Hirsch, Galway Kinnell, Yusuf Komunyakaa, Malena Mörling, Sharon Olds, Tom Sleigh, Gerald Stern, Jean Valentine and Charles Wright.

Philip Levine was born in Detroit and is the author of 16 collections of poetry, most recently Breath. His other books include The Simple Truth, which won the Pulitzer Prize; What Work Is, which won the National Book Award; The Names of the Lost; Ashes: Poems New and Old and 7 Years From Somewhere, both of which won the National Book Critics Circle Award. He is the distinguished Poet-in-Residence in the Creative Writing Program at NYU.

Co-sponsored with the 92nd Street Y Unterberg Poetry Center, The New York University Creative Writing Program, the Academy of American Poets, Cave Canem Foundation, Cooper Union, Alfred A. Knopf, Poets House, Poetry Society of America, and Poets & Writers.

Hope to see you there!

Philip Levine 80th Birthday Tribute
Thursday, November 29th, 7:00pm
Great Hall, Cooper Union, East 7th Street
Free and Open to the Public
http://www.randomhouse.com/knopf/poetry/levine_tribute/


Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: madupont on November 27, 2007, 07:03:42 PM
http://www.randomhouse.com/knopf/ecards/anthonyhecht/


Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: pugetopolis on November 28, 2007, 04:15:28 AM
(http://3quarksdaily.blogs.com/3quarksdaily/images/larkin_philip19750515.2)

This Be The Verse

Philip Larkin

They fuck you up, your mum and dad.
  They may not mean to, but they do.
They fill you with the faults they had
  And add some extra, just for you.

But they were fucked up in their turn
  By fools in old-style hats and coats,
Who half the time were soppy-stern
  And half at one another's throats.

Man hands on misery to man.
  It deepens like a coastal shelf.
Get out as early as you can,
  And don't have any kids yourself.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2ZQGAJWDZwM&feature=related


Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: pugetopolis on November 28, 2007, 01:41:00 PM
(http://3quarksdaily.blogs.com/3quarksdaily/images/larkin_philip19750515.2)

Poetry and politics

“They fuck you up, your mum and dad.”—Philip Larkin

Larkin’s “This Be the Verse” poem is interesting—especially when seen and heard with the youtube motion graphics presentation.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2ZQGAJWDZwM&feature=related

Larkin mentions casually and humorously in Selected Letters (edited by Anthony Thwaite) that his legacy to Poetry would probably be the phrase “They fuck you up, your mum and dad.”   

Perhaps one could even say this “intergenerational warfare” goes on constantly everywhere—not only with Larkin and Great Britain but with America too…

It’s almost as if the “baby boomer” generation ended up in Viet Nam because of the WWII and Cold War mindset of the previous generation. Isn’t that what’s happening today as well?

Thus each generation “fucks up” the next generation over and over again…   

Ironic isn’t it?   


Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: pugetopolis on November 28, 2007, 02:16:28 PM
(http://3quarksdaily.blogs.com/3quarksdaily/images/larkin_philip19750515.2)

Sylvia Path— Hammer Films Poet

To Andrew Motion—15 November 1981

“Plath. As I’ve said she reminds me of Dylan Thomas more than anybody else though I can’t describe how… profusion of disturbing imagery that is both gripping and incomprehensible. I see her as a kind of Hammer Films poet…”

Larkin’s consternation may have had to do with Path’s “Big Daddy” approach to poetry. As an early feminist poet, she politicized many taboo subjects such as male chauvinism (Ted Hughes and her domineering father) and the Holocaust with her aggressive Ariel persona. A virtual cottage industry of Plath lit crit continues—now that the Hughes Estate has loosened its strangle hold on Path mss. and scholarship.

In Larkin’s Selected Letters, he discusses Hughes and Plath many times. The huge tome of Hughes’ Collected Verse always amazes me—compared with the slim volume of Larkin’s poems.   

I wonder why?
     


Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: pugetopolis on November 28, 2007, 04:16:24 PM
(http://3quarksdaily.blogs.com/3quarksdaily/images/larkin_philip19750515.2)

Poetry and politics

Days

What are days for?
Days are where we live.
They come, they wake us
Time and time over.
They are to be happy in:
Where can we live but days?

Ah, solving that question
Brings the priest and the doctor
In their long coats
Running over the fields.

—Philip Larkin

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=X2bNl91MrQo

Days come and go—that’s how we live.

As Larkin says—where else can we live but days?

Day after day—but then some days, well, they’re different…

Some days are more “political”—than other days.

Especially if you’re a poet laureate…like Ted Hughes…

Days for poet laureates like Ted Hughes—they must he intense.

I just can’t see Philip Larkin as poet laureate tho…

Why? Larkin just wasn’t verbose enough…

He was shy and reclusive compared with Hughes…

Hughes was handsome—and the ladies’ man…

Ted Hughes took his royal duties seriously—

Each and every Laureateship day he devoted to glorifying the Crown…

“ A Soul is a wheel 
A Nation’s a Soul
With a Crown at the hub
To keep it whole” 

He wrote Rain-Charm for the Duchy—
A Blessed, Devout Drench for the Christening
of His Royal Highness Prince Harry:

“Big sudden thunderdrops. I felt them sploshing …”

(First published in The Observer 23 December 1984)

And Two Poems for Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth
The Queen Mother on her Eighty-fifth Birthday:

“It was an ancient Land, The Land of the Lion…”

(First published in The Observer 29 December 1985)

A Birthday Masque for Her Majesty Queen
Elizabeth II’s Sixtieth Birthday:

“Flying from the Zenith
An Angel of Water.
All the Kingdom’s hurt rivers flicker
In its veins…”

(First published in The Times 21 April 1986)

A Masque for Three Voices
For the Ninetieth Birthday of Her Majesty
Queen Elizabeth the Queen Mother:

“Tragic drama gives its greatest
Roles to royalty.
The groundling sees his crowned soul stalk
The stage of history…

(First published in The Weekend Telegraph 4 August 1990)

The Unicorn
The Fortieth Anniversary of the Accession
Of Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth II:

“Invisibly
The spine of a people
Pillar
Of The Scales”

(First published in The Weekly Telegraph 6 February 1992)

These Laureate poems along with all his other verse appear in Collected Poems, edited by Paul Keegan, New York: Farrar, Straus and Giroux, 2003. A huge tome of 1333 pages spanning a long career of writing and publishing esteemed British poetry. As Poet Laureate, Ted Hughes was befriended by Prince Charles. Hughes' memorial stone above the River Taw was inaugurated in 2005 on land belonging to the Duchy of Cornwall. The granite memorial was airlifted into place on the moors using Prince Charles’ helicopter, an honour not afforded to any other Devon figure.

Philip Larkin would have been a different poet laureate...
 
 



Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: pugetopolis on November 28, 2007, 05:12:59 PM
(http://images.tribe.net/tribe/upload/photo/feb/b9f/febb9f5c-0358-4efe-b334-e859d7d4329d)

Big Daddy


BOCA AND PUGET:

I bet the part of the poem you, Boca, will utterly rejoice in is:

We want happy workers—
We don’t want Union Poetry
None of that Solidarity stuff…

Boquita, I see thee "derramando lagrimas de profunda emocion".(spilling teard of the deepest emotion).


Martin and Boca—

My “Big Daddy” satire posing Borges as Big Brother was simply a tongue-in-cheek look at Peron and Borges—and how writers whether they like it or not get “embedded” in politico-literary issues like Borges, Lorca, Orwell, Mailer, Roth, Gibson, Philip K. Dick. Even poets like Auden, Ginsberg and Philip Larkin get sucked into it…       

I can’t speak for Argentina or Latin American Literature—but it seems to me that “globalization” and the outsourcing of American jobs and industry will continue regardless of elections and increasing dystopian ennui. The same with immigration politics for Tyson Inc. and other large American corporations dependent on Hispanic, Somali and other work-forces being integrated into America’s globalized economy.

What will this globalized LMR (Labor/Management Relationship) be like? Other than George Orwell’s 1984—what does Dystopian Literature have to say about such matters? Does magic realism and the Cuban writer Alejo Carpentier "lo real maravilloso" (roughly "marvelous reality") have anything to do with Big Brother and Globalization?



Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: pugetopolis on November 28, 2007, 05:16:45 PM
(http://3quarksdaily.blogs.com/3quarksdaily/images/larkin_philip19750515.2)

“They fuck you up, your mum and dad.”—Philip Larkin


Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: madupont on November 29, 2007, 10:49:48 AM
re:pugetopolis #223 quoting a Larkin

No they don't!

Hardly. It is all greed, through and through. Greed at the top, and need of money among the underlings taken advantage of in their neediness created by those at the top. None of them have minds of their own and only one was impressed by his father's ideology to get the most that you can of power and wherewith all as had been done for generations. Yes, the Bushwas did in WW2 and brought about the end of the Cold War to go on from there creating circumstances to use to advantage in Latin America without borders, in Africa, and tried it in Europe which has now backfired. Americans will probably now have a lot to fear as a result of this mistake on their part to believe these clones.  They may need a poet laureate but they don't know what this means; at least not the people who believe all those stupid words of propaganda. Maybe they need to do without that type of nation for awhile, the kind that needs a poet laureate.  Let them appreciate the Muslim poets for awhile so that they realize what has happened; if they had known those poets before, none of this would have happened.


Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: pugetopolis on November 29, 2007, 02:14:09 PM
(http://3quarksdaily.blogs.com/3quarksdaily/images/larkin_philip19750515.2)

Writers and Readers
—for Philip Larkin

Dear Readers,

I’m more interested in Writers—
Than Readers since Readers
Are dime-a-dozen while most
Writers are few and in-between…

I’m not particularly interested in
Readers per se or how Readers
Think whether dialogically or
Mono-quixotically quack quack…

Writers write and Readers read—
Each Writer is different while
Most Readers are the same old
Used-up dreary thing…

Readers & Writers of Fiction—
Have a special relationship…
The next time in Half-Price
Books look at the rows and

Rows of pulp fiction romance
Paperback novels—beat-up
Dog-eared old used things—
No wonder Larkin quit writing

Novels and turned to Poetry.
And I don’t mean lovey-dove
Romance poetry either—as a
Day-to-day Librarian he knew

How Writers write and how
Readers read—he loved books
And he loved working in calm
Old university libraries…

Tall windows and quiet—
By day lifted study-storehouses
By night converting into
Flattened cubes of Light…

But when it came to the
Niceties of giving Readings
And the cluck-cluck coterie
Of old hen society affairs… 

That wasn’t his cup of tea—
The politics of Poet Laureate,
Dining with Mrs. Thatcher and
All that Animal Farm stuff…

As Larkin says in “Fiction
And the Reading Public”—
Most Readers and Writers
Are a boring dreary lot…

They fuck each other up—
They may not mean to
But most of the time at
One another’s throats…     
     




Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: pugetopolis on November 29, 2007, 05:12:56 PM
(http://3quarksdaily.blogs.com/3quarksdaily/images/larkin_philip19750515.2)

The Poet Laureate

“They may need a poet laureate—
But they don't know what this means;
At least not the people who believe
All those stupid words of propaganda.”
   —http://tinyurl.com/ysqnbc

I suppose you’re right, my dear—
You’re older and wiser than me
And you’ve been around the
Block once or twice…

It seems to me tho—
That the British Empire needed   
A poet laureate much more 
That we’ll ever need one…

After all like they say—
From sea to shiny sea the
Sun never set on the great
And glorious British Empire…

They needed something—
Just as glorious to buttress
Their far-flung conquests—
The English language itself…

The list of poets is long—
But all the King’s horses
And all the King’s men can’t
Put the Empire together again…

The difference between—
The British Empire and ours
Was that ours was just a
Fast food McDonalds Empire…





Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: pugetopolis on November 30, 2007, 01:02:58 PM
(http://3quarksdaily.blogs.com/3quarksdaily/images/larkin_philip19750515.2)

Letter to Andrew Motion—30 November 2007

“We rise from stepping-stones of our dead selves”
—Philip Larkin, Selected Letters of Philip Larkin, 
   Anthony Thwaite, London: Faber and Faber,1992

Dear Andrew—

This may come somewhat—
As a complete surprise my dear
But I’ve been following your
Poet Laureatehood lately,

I forget who summoned me—
Was it your predecessor Ted
Hughes and his lively dead wife
Sylvia “Ariel-esque” Path? 

Or was it charming James Merrill—
Doodling around with that little
Ouija Board of hers there under
The changing light of Sandover?

Contrary to my glum expectations—
There’s an afterlife after all but
I shan’t bother your laurel-wreathed
Head with all that nonsense now…

Suffice it to say that indeed—
Miss Auden is here with us along
With Chester and a lewd loud
Bunch of cute Greek soldiers…

All of them young and AWOL—
Dancing around in the moonlight
Peloponnesian deserters and the
Usual Trojan War drop-outs…

Ouzo flows like the Styx—
Sluggish as Volga vodka and
Sparkling as Rhine wine which 
Pleases Bukowski our host… 

There are no hangovers here—
Only the sense of immediate
Gratification with a very slight 
Tingle of playful camaraderie...

All of us are poet laureates—
Down here in I forget which
Circle of hell we’re ensconced
In where no exit is an Artform…

Needless to say I miss you—
I think about you and the Queen
A lot down here where I do my
Fine ditties for Persephone…

The young Lord of Darkness—
Drives a big black Mercedes in
The dead of night with me and
Mrs. Thatcher in the backseat… 

Philip










Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: Lhoffman on November 30, 2007, 06:35:19 PM
...so your game is deconstruction....Let me read something about Larkin and see what I can come up with.


By the way, the post above is phenomenal.


Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: Lhoffman on November 30, 2007, 07:44:38 PM
Train Wreck*


Who knows when you lost the muse--
maybe it started to go
back in nineteen-sixty-three,
along with your virginity
and that scratched up
Beatles album.
Maybe the first time
you heard Bechet’s stick…
the voice that fell like love
the inception of your silence...
Pure bliss to give birth to such noise
but the closest you came
was the poetry of the gutbucket
and so those evenings spent
with Kingsley
Ginned up at the pub
Staggering back to Monica
and the House on Hull…
Trampling the frail cut grass
Dreaming of the Bayou
while baying at the moon
over the imminent white hours of death.


*Train wreck: Event during the playing of a tune when the musicians "disagree" on where they are in the form (i.e. someone gets lost), so the chord changes and the melody may get confused for several bars, but depending on the abilities of the musicians (it happens to the best of them), there are usually no fatalities and the journey continues.


Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: pugetopolis on November 30, 2007, 09:25:30 PM
(http://3quarksdaily.blogs.com/3quarksdaily/images/larkin_philip19750515.2)

On Larkin

Actually, according to Selected Letters—Larkin was into jazz. He published All that Jazz: A Record Diary 1961-1971. I guess he liked Duke Ellington and Count Basie. He had a large record collection and listened to jazz tapes on the way to work.

I got his 2 novels at the university bookstore today. I’ll read them and then make my own judgment about whether he was a failed novelist or not. If Thatcher asked him to be England’s poet laureate then he must have had the proper British credentials for the job.

According to Seamus Heaney (Beowulf) and Michael Schmidt (Lives of the Poet)—Larkin was okay until he suddenly became consumed with Death. He stopped publishing and said he lost his Muse. His poem “Aubade” pretty much summarizes it.

So I don’t know. Maybe he had a midlife crisis or lost his sex-drive or thought he was gay or whatever. Poets like Larkin and Hughes and Tennessee Williams are complex personalities. Like Lynch and del Toro and Glenn Gould—who knows what demons drive them?

I’m really not into deconstructing them—I just want to enjoy their work that’s all. What I post—is how I think…
       

 


Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: Lhoffman on December 01, 2007, 12:33:22 AM
I knew about his Jazz reviews and his admiration of Bechet.  But as to deconstruction....perhaps he really did want to play the clarinet....

I saw a site on deconstruction a while back that was written by an engineer.  It was quite funny.  His philosophy of Literary Theory boiled down to, "well, we wouldn't accept such unsubstantiated research in my field, but hey, lit crit isn't rocket science."  (Of course someone quite close to me is finishing his PhD in Music Theory...so who am I to talk?)

Larkin mentions the Beatles in his writing, but do you know he was also a fan of The Animals?  (Great set here)

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=E8NZd7NlHbQ&feature=related


Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: madupont on December 02, 2007, 08:34:38 PM
Till wonder gets so saturate with the thing not known You have become the thing you knew by loving most What most compels us to the land's beginning. And thus, my upland slope, I touch you here Incredulously, like one who comes To greet you, walking on the tiptops of the trees.
 
                                                                      Jean Garrigue


Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: madupont on December 02, 2007, 10:44:52 PM
AND THEN THERE WAS THIS,

As if deep back in the interior Enclosed by the coffered rim Gildings from the illuminations, Figures in gold-leaf flame, Returned through translucence again Atomies of the passion, A vial of roses and blood. Like a clarity of being become A concordance, an equation, this light With the soul transformed in its chambe...

Didn't this remind you even a little bit of Billy Bob and his Jolie Angelina?


Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: pugetopolis on December 03, 2007, 03:09:49 PM
(http://emol.org/nevada/images/tinytim.jpg)

Tra-la-la-la-la

I try to "butch it up"—
But if I act "fem" everybody
Either laughs at me...
Or spits on me...

I try to tip-toe politely—
Thru the Tulips
But inevitably I somehow
Manage to step on a few toes...

Toes can be talkative—
Toes let me know right away
If I accidently step on
Them with my High Heels...



Yes, troll-la-la-la-la-la... Of course, if one presumes
that talking in the same tones with the same diction
as Authoritarians makes you acceptable to them,
bigger mistake by humankind was never made.


Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: madupont on December 03, 2007, 04:13:34 PM
I truly enjoyed Tiny Tim and Miss Vicki but that was what year? But TT was a realist.

I thought about it, realistically, which is why the matter of the year is so important. Tim was easily hurt back then.  Times have changed. Then, Vicki was femme and Tiny T was Lebanese. (careful, they have a daughter alive and --well, in Pennsylvania) What I thought about, is that styles have changed and what you call "fem" screams. Maybe you're just an old-fashioned boy?


Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: pugetopolis on December 03, 2007, 04:54:28 PM
(http://3quarksdaily.blogs.com/3quarksdaily/images/larkin_philip19750515.2)

“They fuck you up, your mum and dad.”—Philip Larkin


Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: Donotremove on December 04, 2007, 11:02:14 AM
Puge, I am replying over here in Poetry (in keeping with my post in AmHist) to thank you for your post to/about me.  I don't know that I deserve your kudos (do we ever see ourselves as others do?).  Often, what is seen as my restraint and reserve--Mr Nice Guy--is an unwillingness to gather the sources needed to support replies that, if I were true to myself, would be long, involved, and open to misinterpetation.  In other words, I hate the hassle so I remain quiet about LOTS of things that I feel quite strongly about. I'm a lazy sob, so when you see a post of mine you can be quite sure I have given the content of it a lot of thought, revising, revising, until it is as close to what I mean and in as few words as I can devise.

One one thing you can be assured.  I am GLBT friendly.  I understand (as well as any hetro can) the difficulty life presents you with 24/7, with no end in sight, til death parts you and me.

One of my sons (deceased) was gay and such a wonderful person never existed from the time he was born (one-half a set of twins, that twin also deceased.)  His two brothers "put up" with him, barely.  What's a father to do?  Two of his sons are ass holes but he still loves all three?  Yes.  I have one son left and he has changed his mind about gays.  The change began when he went to his brother's funeral and saw the chapel full to overflowing with fine men and women, all gay, who loved his brother.  Too bad his brother was ashes by then.  The change might be precipitous.  My Gaydar senses that HIS son might just be gay.

My daughter has never had a problem with gayness.  One of her sons does, somewhat.  On both sides of my family I have cousins and uncles who were gay (all dead now) with family opinons about homosexuality ranging from rejection to acceptance. 

So, Puge, regardless of whether I agree with you all the time, you can rest assured I am not against you in any way because of your being gay.  And, except for a few of the obvious ones here at Melba, I think my fellow posters feel the same way.  You DO have a tendency to equate disagreement with you as being anti-gay.  But it's understandable and I allow for that.


Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: madupont on December 04, 2007, 04:09:59 PM
"Loose accentual patterns keep his free verse elegantly measured, and he has methodically pruned his lines of any unnecessary adornments. Lines such as “The rooster dresses for breakfast in his finest / rust red hackles shining in the morning sun / sickle-shaped white iridescent tail feathers” demonstrate his sensitive ear, constructing chains of rhyme and assonance (e.g., “dresses—breakfast—finest—shining—iridescent”). At his strongest, as in “Ferns,” “The Plow” or “The Prelude” (a marvel of compression, offering eight lines as opposed to Wordsworth’s 14 volumes), the poet stands comparison to William Carlos Williams, Lorine Niedecker or Robert Creeley. "

Description from a review of a poet.


Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: pugetopolis on December 04, 2007, 04:37:37 PM
(http://images.google.com/url?q=http://www.collectionscanada.ca/obj/027019/f1/nlc010069-v6.jpg&usg=AFQjCNGjFjH4iE1zuSHCKfxAScHwxKcSvw)

Jimmy Durante Mon Amour


Too bad his brother was ashes by then.  


Dear Donotremove,

That’s why I’m here—

I’m desperate dontchaknow?
 
Ashes to ashes—and all that crummy stuff…

I gotta squawk while there's still some time...  

Everything you say is true—and I know you’re my Friend.

I’ve read enough of your posts in The New York Times

And here in Melba to trust you and listen to you…

My problem is this—there’s not much time left...

There’s never enough time—

Especially when so many of my friends are dead now.  

Deader than doornails, baby…

Especially all my writer friends—

Most of them better writers than I could ever be...

Done in and dead now—by the "gay plague"…

That’s what they say anyway…

But who knows the real reason why?

It’s not fun being Paranoid dontchaknow?

But that's just the way it is when you're nothing—

But a Zit on the big fat ass of the Zeitgeist...  

I’ve been at this gay lib game a long time now—

Like you say it’s a 24-hour 7-days-a-week Proposition.      

And it fucking started for me in the First Grade…

And it’s been going on ever since, baby…

It ain’t pretty—being a bad boy prima donna…

But somebody’s gotta do it—here in Straightville USA…

I may step on a few tacky touchy toes—

Tiptoeing thru the Tulips like I do so uncouthly—

Day to day here in the lovely Blogosphere...

My fellow gay poets sometimes chicken out...

"We're poets" they say...

"But just poets who happen to be gay."

They chicken-out the easy way as usual...

But I can't help it—even Tiny Tim knows...  

I'm about as butch as a wet noodle...

But I’m going out kicking, baby—

My mouth ain't shuttin' up that easy...

Like that band on the sinking Titanic—

I'm going down down down...  

Like a Nightingale in Distress…


 :D :D :D








Title: Where Are You Jimmy Durante—When I Really Need You?
Post by: pugetopolis on December 04, 2007, 05:35:12 PM
(http://images.art.com/images/products/large/10099000/10099500.jpg)

Where Are You Jimmy Durante—
When I Really Need You?   


Where Are You Jimmy Durante—
When I Really Need You?   

I try to be suave and sophisticated—
Debonair, stylish and Manhattanesque… 

I try to be burlesque and campy—
Rather than tacky, kitschy and bourgeoisie…

I try and try and try really I do—
But I can’t compare to the Masters… 

Jimmy Durante makes me laugh—
That coy look in his come-hither sexy eyes…

Those sexy bangs on his ratty wig—
Only make his drag-act even more funny...

And when he croons my favorite song—
The lovely “As Time Goes By”…

Well then things don’t seem to be—
So bad after all I guess…
 

http://www.gaypoetry.com/design/poetry_dis.asp?dataID=34706




Title: American Weimar
Post by: pugetopolis on December 05, 2007, 12:35:14 PM
(http://www.grazian-archive.com/quiddity/Ginsberg/Cover.jpg)

American Weimar
—for Allen Ginsberg

Dipping into Dystopian Lit—
Can be lots of Entertainment like
A phone call from the Big Apple…

“I don’t have time for prose anymore”—
Allen Ginsberg told me from NYC
“That’s why I like your poetry.”

“I try to write it quick,” I said—
“Down, dirty and fast like Bukowski   
In the dark with a hangover.”

“Poetry is shorthand” he said—
“Spontaneous verse the name of 
The Americanist Blog Muse…”

“I thought you were dead” I said—
Long-distance clairvoyance not
My usual modus operandi…

He laughed telling me—
“You’d be surprised, baby, you’re
Still just a naïve chicken poet…”   

I told him I was getting paranoid—
I kept feeling I was like living
During American Weimar times…

“Honey wake up and smell it”—
He said telling me “It’s later than
You think—it’s already 1935.”     

http://www.gaypoetry.com/design/poetry_dis.asp?dataID=34711





Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: Donotremove on December 05, 2007, 01:18:15 PM
Puge, Masters is as Masters does.  Thank the gods poets have different voices, different rooms.  Yo've been at this long enough to have developed your "voice" and "style."  You must feel comfortable with it or you would have changed to something else by now.  Lots of folks here have remarked well about your poetry from time to time.  I marked that site.  I want to go back and read some of the poetry.  Take care.


Title: The Book Lover
Post by: pugetopolis on December 05, 2007, 02:04:16 PM
(http://images.art.com/images/products/large/10099000/10099500.jpg)

The Book Lover
—for Donotremove

I got this Book-of-the-Month Club ad—
In the mail yesterday that said I should
Buy some more Books to read!!!

The Best Suspense Books right now—
Better Savings, Easier Ordering plus
Reader’s Choice and Better Selection!!!

Suspense Lurks around every Corner—
Spencer’s Latest Case a Love Triangle
With some Tacky Nasty Angles!!!

Get 6 Books for a Lousy $1 baby—
Tales to Keep You Up All Night and
Books You Won’t Wanna Put Down!!!

Where Engaging Books Capture—
You and Your Bored Imagination
Plus the Best Fiction in the World!!!

Meet the World’s Most Intriguing Guys—
Mealy-Mouthed Tom Brokaw and
Squeaky-Clean Barack Obamba!!!

I yawned especially when I read—
“Long Awaited and Magnificently
Anticipated” sitting on the shitter!!!


Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: Donotremove on December 05, 2007, 02:25:19 PM
 :)


Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: madupont on December 05, 2007, 04:14:35 PM
University of California Press congratulates Robert Hass, whose most recent book, Time and Materials (Ecco/Harper Collins), has received the National Book Award for poetry.
We are pleased that someone of such generous spirit and great talent has been recognized by the National Book Foundation.


Title: Mercedes Mon Amour
Post by: pugetopolis on December 06, 2007, 03:48:38 PM
(http://www.paintingsbybruce.com/images/mercedesbenz300sd72dpi.jpg)
Mercedes Benz 300SD
Oil on canvas 1985
$300


Mercedes Mon Amour

—for Bdhpoet

mercedes mon amour— 
my albuquerque boyfriend 
my chicken chauffeur...

driving me late—
into the desert night
all the way to las vegas...




Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: pugetopolis on December 07, 2007, 11:43:43 AM
(http://www.paintingsbybruce.com/images/rolls.jpg)
'56 Rolls Royce
Oil on canvas 2002
$100


The Rolls Royce Muse
—for Bdhpoet

“They fuck you up,
your mum and dad.”
—Philip Larkin

You can say that again—
But Poets are even worse…
Can you imagine what would
Have happened to the late 
Great British Empire if that
Philip Larkin character had
Become Poet Laureate!!!

Surely every Rolls Royce 
From London’s Piccadilly
Circus to the swank Eiffel
Tower there in gay Paris
Would have gone belly-up
And sunk really fast like
The poor doomed Titanic 
Deep in the Atlantic…

One wonders what in the
World got into Madame
Thatcher’s mind or was it
The Queen’s Peccadillo
To choose such a man
As Philip Larkin as the
Spokesperson for the
Old Rolls Royce Muse?



Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: pugetopolis on December 07, 2007, 02:43:39 PM
(http://www.thewrittenwordautographs.com/images/510_1.jpg.jpg)

River Phoenix

The opening blowjob scene too much—
It must have blown a lot of people’s minds
Especially innocent naïve teeny-boppers…

But mine too reminding me of Warhol’s movie—
The blow-job one they hissed and booed at
Because that’s all Warhol showed was the face
of the young handsome hustler…

But Gus Van Sant shows more than that—
River Phoenix befriending young Portland
hustlers to get the feel for what male prostitution 
was all about back then…

Van Sant letting Phoenix and Reeves ad lib
Around the fire at night getting into male love
And what that was all about…then camping it
up with Udo Kier in the motel room—slow-mo
three-way fun and games…

Van Sant recapturing again—the immediacy of
Mala Noche boyhood—letting the impromptu
young hustler moment do its thing—giving the 
Idaho script a good rim-job…
 

http://www.gaypoetry.com/design/poetry_dis.asp?dataID=34728


Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: pugetopolis on December 07, 2007, 10:07:08 PM
(http://home.uchicago.edu/~jniimi/library1.jpg)

Architect haiku

—for dzimas

morning off the bay—
shining up seattle streets
thru koolhaas glass…


Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: madupont on December 08, 2007, 12:01:30 PM
Listen Up!  Microsoft has just discovered what a friend phoned to tell me their Computer Tech  has put up bulletins throughout their workplace that a New Virus gets into your e-mail and then sends you an e-mail which tells you that A FAMILY MEMBER IS TRYING TO CONTACT YOU

DO NOT OPEN.  IT WILL TURN OFF YOUR COMPUTER. WHEN YOU START YOUR COMPUTER AGAIN, IT WILL DESTROY YOUR HARD DRIVE


Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: pugetopolis on December 08, 2007, 09:21:14 PM
(http://filmfanatic.org/reviews/wp-content/uploads/2007/06/Gulch.JPG)


Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: madupont on December 09, 2007, 11:17:37 AM
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cpOeZzkwPC0 

The Ballad of the Skeletons


Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: pugetopolis on December 10, 2007, 05:49:42 PM
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6hHjctqSBwM

Sylvia Plath Reads 'Daddy'



Title: Britain Names A New Poet Laureate, Some Surprises
Post by: pugetopolis on December 11, 2007, 11:30:20 AM
(http://i8.photobucket.com/albums/a1/onethatisnttaken/Larkin_pic2.jpg)

Britain Names A New Poet Laureate,
Some Surprises


By WARREN HOGEPOGE
The New York Times
Published: December 11, 2007

Philip Larkin, a deceased poet, jazz critic, and librarian was chosen today to become Britain's Poet Laureate, succeeding Andrew Motion.

Thanks to the wonders of modern science and genetic engineering, the somewhat grumpy resurrected new Poet Laureate held a press conference today amidst a throng of excited journalists and skeptical literary critics.

Asked what his thoughts were about returning from the styxian Land of the Dead, Mr. Larkin remarked, “After declining the honor of being Poet Laureate once, I’ve changed my mind. I hope Mrs. Thatcher will forgive me for being so rude the first time, but now I’m more than ready and willing to devote myself wholeheartedly to being Great Britain’s Big Daddy of British Poetry.”   

The poet laureate is approved by the Queen but chosen from a short list by the Prime Minister. Past honorees include Tennyson, Wordsworth, Cecil Day-Lewis, John Masefield and John Betjeman. The first poet laureate was John Dryden in 1670, and though there is no formal job description, it is understood to necessitate writing verse about the royal family and on grand national and ceremonial occasions.





Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: pugetopolis on December 11, 2007, 11:40:17 AM
Letter to the Queen
By Philip Larkin

“Did you know Auden
got a rectal fissure from
being buggered by a sailor
and had to have an operation,
and that this produced his
“Letter to a Wound”? Yes,
Queens take all the romance
out of life, don’t they.”

—Philip Larkin, Selected Letters
of Philip Larkin (1940-1985),
edited by Anthony Thwaite,
London: Faber and Faber, 1992


Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: pugetopolis on December 15, 2007, 12:53:22 PM
(http://www.cronicasdlanzarote.com/IMG/jpg/pilar_boda_web.jpg)

Pilar del Rio

“If I’d died before I met you, Pilar,
I’d have died feeling much older.”
—José Saramago

pilar del rio serves coffee in demitasses
she’s elegant from seville
she’s saramago’s second wife—
nearly 30 years younger than him
she meets him in the mid-’80s—
lecturing in lisbon…
del rio’s e-mail avatar “blimunda”—
from baltasar and blimunda
a novel…


Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: pugetopolis on December 20, 2007, 06:09:25 PM
(http://images.tribe.net/tribe/upload/photo/8ae/486/8ae486e7-eb51-426f-a800-be26121426c5)

Pale Fire
—for Vladimir Nabokov

Illustrated manuscripts—dreaming about faraway Zembla—secluded here in these snowy New England woods—playing ping-pong with young lazy college freshmen in my basement—tonight I’ve got those old Zembla midnight blues—how they haunt me on these long cold evenings—staying up late playing solitaire on my laptop—late into the lonely New England night—Shade’s jealous wife guarding every move of her Appalachian poet husband next door—even so I’ve decided to write a grand Preface to his sad magic realist poem—along with a lengthy Zemblan commentary & detailed historical index—revising and rewriting Shade’s somewhat flawed epic poem—adding my own sophisticated Zemblan lyrics—plus new chic you-tube movies—to turn Shade’s drab poem into a new postmodern epic—delicate fractal palms crawling across the frosted window-panes—listening to the ancient ticking grandfather clock sobbing to itself in the lonely living room next door—as I desultorily keep publishing and perishing in this little New England college town—exiled from my home and kingdom back in faraway Zembla—moping in this dumpy little campus cottage—wise astute Professor Shade my only friend—working on his intriguing “Pale Fire” in his spare time—with me waiting wondering wishing—when will Oleg come to America to keep me warm in bed—my poor Zemblan soul shrinking with ennui and boredom—surely soon I’ll be nothing more than a helpless gimpy Pin-head like all the other New Wye professors—as time slowly inches by with everybody feeling sorry for me—but there’s nothing they can do—nothing can save me from my Zemblan Exile blues—intricate onyx memories—Oleg dancing for me with his perpetual slavic pout—thick Persian carpets writhing beneath nude barefoot teenage Nijinsky dancing by the fire—old Zemblan infatulations making it hard for me to forget—young handsome Oleg Duke of Rahl pouting all the time—his sullen lips trying to convince me not to leave—but I’m in New Wye now here at the university—my tiny tacky rental campus bungalow—with its ping-pong table and my opal ring—a shimmering liquid mirror covering the doorway to my melancholy past—Prince Oleg taking me for long drives on the fast Autobahn at night—his high Zemblan cheekbones and sad blue eyes—in the shadow of low-flying dark Zeppelins—young Tchelitchev his Russian set designer boyfriend—creating a new mise-en-scene for us here at New Nye—Prince Youssoupoff designing a new sleek cigarette case for me—one with rubies embedded in imperial eagles exiled like me—blonde Prince Oleg the Svelte—Charles the Beautiful’s young lover—it’s goodbye Zembla and hello www.newwye.edu—here with me and my big black Cadillac zooming thru the night—the radio playing cool American jazz deep into the dark woods—my young Zemblan motorcycle bodyguards—escorting me down spectral Highway 666—my imagination a two-lane blacktop late at night—blue moon sailing in a stucco sky—the lights on the road pale as palest fire—


http://www.gaypoetry.com/design/poetry_dis.asp?dataID=34813




Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: madupont on December 21, 2007, 01:05:51 AM
The Savior must have been a docile Gentleman     
by Emily Dickinson 

 
The Savior must have been
A docile Gentleman—
To come so far so cold a Day
For little Fellowmen—

The Road to Bethlehem
Since He and I were Boys
Was leveled, but for that 'twould be
A rugged Billion Miles—
 


Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: pugetopolis on December 21, 2007, 06:24:21 PM
(http://image.guardian.co.uk/sys-images/Arts/Arts_/Pictures/2007/09/04/bukowski460.jpg)

a threat to my immortality 
by Charles Bukowski

she undressed in front of me
keeping her pussy to the front
while I layed in bed with a bottle of
beer.

where'd you get that wart on
your ass? I asked.

that's no wart, she said,
that's a mole, a kind of
birthmark.

that thing scares me, I said,
let's call
it off.

I got out of bed and
walked into the other room and
sat on the rocker
and rocked.

she walked out. now, listen, you
old fart. you've got warts and scars and
all kinds of things all over
you. I do believe you're the ugliest
old man
I've ever seen.

forget that, I said, tell me some more
about that
mole on your butt.

she walked into the other room
and got dressed and then ran past me
slammed the door
and was
gone.

and to think,
she'd read all my books of
poetry too.

I just hoped she wouldn't tell
anybody that
I wasn't pretty.

—Charles Bukowski, “A Threat to my Immortality,
“The Pleasures of the Damned, New York:
Harper-Collins, 2007, 94-95.
 


Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: madupont on December 23, 2007, 01:49:25 PM
Suddenly There’s Poughkeepsie
by Grace Paley
 
what a hard time

the Hudson River has had

trying to get to the sea

 

it seemed easy enough to

rise out of Tear of

the Cloud and tumble

and run in little skips

and jumps   draining

                a swamp here and

    there   acquiring

streams and other smaller

rivers with similar

longings for the wide

imagined water

 

suddenly

there’s Poughkeepsie

except for its spelling

an ordinary town but

the great heaving

ocean sixty miles away is

determined to reach

that town every day

and twice a day in fact

drowning the Hudson River

in salt and mud

it is the moon’s tidal

power over all the waters

of this earth at war with

gravity     the Hudson

perseveres    moving down

down    dignified

slower    look it has

become our Lordly Hudson

hardly flowing

                          and we are

now in a poem by the poet

Paul Goodman  be quiet heart

home home

                        then the sea



Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: madupont on December 23, 2007, 02:20:53 PM
What is most interesting about the above poem is that Grace Paley is the most renowned and most interesting of short story writers in America and having been so for some time, many, many decades of surprises worth, she has now begun to write poems. I consider that an interesting development in a writer.

There are some whose career goes nowhere by the time they are in their fifties because they get stuck and fall back upon a format that is no longer appropo, compulsively presenting us with the same concepts over and over again, which of course shows no "poetic growth". Then of course there is every possibility that they did not have that talent to begin with but had to justify that they were somebody or something to those  with whom they found themselves hanging around back when and whose poetic growth we had never heard of either.

From friends(rather than relatives for instance)who worked and settled on the west coast sometime approximate before or after or during the Summer of Love, we and they know quite well the roster of the writers who were accepted by the standards of the culture of their time  and of their colleagues; I've tried to make that point very clear to those less knowledgeable about that literary art form and unaware when a snow job is being foisted upon them (which I believe started when a  culture-critic celebrity, with an average degree in "literature" at an average upstate college was foisted upon a discussion of the Western tradition thus far as to an analysis of the poems per se and some of the circumstances of interest in the poets biographs, merely because of her sexual preference.  A bad mistake to place that as the prime criteria and ahead of the work itself, including the ability to be currently aware of aesthetic choices in writing when one is distracted by issues of libido fulfillment. I think that those considerations are rather ignored by a neophyte lacking in most of the hallmarks of the poetic craft and a writer's wide cultural interests).

Grace is of course an East Coast writer of the highest caliber; even if, when I was a neophyte, I made the mistake of supposing she probably could be Mrs. Bill Paley?   We all have to grow sometime; and Grace Paley is still doing it.


Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: pugetopolis on December 24, 2007, 03:17:03 AM
(http://images.tribe.net/tribe/upload/photo/6e7/a9c/6e7a9c13-3eb1-4cff-a1ed-bb79119a94a4) (http://images.tribe.net/tribe/upload/photo/f77/854/f77854d0-4fa1-4af3-9b62-3c42b0faae51)
(http://images.tribe.net/tribe/upload/photo/b4a/96d/b4a96df5-6b3c-478c-b9ec-2c16a911c39a)(http://images.tribe.net/tribe/upload/photo/0a9/b23/0a9b23e6-e39b-4e3b-8546-621395b6605a)

To The Whore Who Took My Poems
by Charles Bukowski

some say we should keep personal remorse from the
poem, stay abstract, and there is some reason in this,
but jezus;
twelve poems gone and I don't keep carbons and you have
my paintings too, my best ones; its stifling:
are you trying to crush me out like the rest of them?
why didn't you take my money? they usually do
from the sleeping drunken pants sick in the corner.
next time take my left arm or a fifty
but not my poems:
I'm not Shakespeare
but sometime simply
there won't be any more, abstract or otherwise;
there'll always be mony and whores and drunkards
down to the last bomb,
but as God said,
crossing his legs,
I see where I have made plenty of poets
but not so very much
poetry.


Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: madupont on December 24, 2007, 04:01:48 PM
Yeah, well we've all had that  happen. Finding that people stole paintings given to us by the artist when we were the model and then finding out the thief was supposedly our friend; or having our poems confiscated for evidence, when we were the victim of being invited to give a reading.


Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: pugetopolis on December 24, 2007, 08:17:53 PM
(http://www.helnwein-photography.com/stc/ghpicts/gh984.jpg)

the intellectual
—by Charles Bukowski

she writes
continually
like a long nozzle
spraying
the air,
and she argues
continually;
there is nothing
I can say
that is really not 
something else,
so,
I stop saying;
and finally
she argues herself
out the door
saying
something like—
I’m not trying to
impress myself
upon you.

but I know
she will be
back, they always
come back.

and
at 5 p.m. 
she was knocking at the door.
   
I let her in.
I won’t stay long, she said,
if you don’t want me.

it’s all right, I said,
I’ve got to take a
bath.   

she walked into the kitchen and
began on the
dishes.

it’s like being married:
you accept
everything
as if
it hadn’t happened.

—Burning in Water Drowning in Flame:
Selected Poems 1955-1973, Los Angeles:
Black Sparrow Press, 1974, 121-122.   




Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: Donotremove on December 27, 2007, 02:58:28 PM
Puge, I'm posting this over here because I know for sure you will see it here.

Graham Greene.

I'm reading his Complete Short Stories.  Jesus.  I can only read a few at a time.  Losers.  Everybody is marginal, looking at life from the outside, hoping to find a way to belong but knowing it'll never happen.  The guilty and the innocent all getting slammed against the wall (of fate,) regardless.

Was Greene depressed, mostly?  I'm in the first section, the stories he wrote in the 20s and 30s.  He must not have been religious during this time.  No one is in these stories, not the men, anyway.  A few women--older.

Speaking of being depressed.  You tend that way, and lately you seem on a downward spiral, again.  The two poems (right now) at the poetry site . . . I don't understand either of them at all.

God, I need a cigarette.  Take care.


Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: pugetopolis on December 27, 2007, 05:04:54 PM
(http://i53.photobucket.com/albums/g68/almaxp/graham_greene.jpg)

Writing as therapy

“Looking over my short stories now, which stretch in time from 1929 to the eve of the 1970s, I am struck by an odd fact—humor enters very late and very unexpectedly. The only three stories I wrote during the war were humorous ones—there again the short story was an escape from the blitz and the nightly deaths. So perhaps the stories which make up the collection May We Borrow Your Husband?, all written during what should have been the last decade of my life, are an escape in humor from the thought of death—this time of certain death. Writing is a form of therapy; sometime I wonder how all those who do not write, compose or paint can manage to escape the madness, the melancholia, the panic fear which is inherent in the human situation.”

—Graham Greene, “The Novelist and the Short Story,” The  Portable  Graham Greene, New York: Penguin, 1994, 492-493.




Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: Donotremove on December 28, 2007, 09:00:14 AM
Well, Puge, that explains a lot.  Thanks.  This Greene is the last unread book in the house.  I've got to get something in here to go "with" the Greene so I won't become suicidal. Or start smoking again.


Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: madupont on December 28, 2007, 11:13:03 AM
Zounds, Donotremove, as a kid, I read a huge amount  British writers and Anglo-Americans who,in those days, were the adults and tended to write some awfully depressing truths (when they were not achieving balance with some really amusing stuff) and I could take comfort in the fact that I was young and therefore need not worry.

That is until somewhere along the line, when no longer a minor, I had to put in the usual several decades of fighting adult depression, until one day I could truthfully say I was post-menopausal but why should I say that?  Merely to validate that I was no longer depressed.  (It may indicate that there are causes common in our society that we so romantically prefer not to more carefully evaluate.)  But I never bought the "farm" at the point where lady-writers were no longer in fashion and women who wrote became known as "feminist writers". Suddenly, women who did not write kept diaries and thought that womens' problems could be resolved by "therapeutic poetry, fiction,essays" what have you.

As a reader, instead head for the bookshelf labeled Evelyn Waugh, with a little bit of Saki, and occasionally Noel Coward is just the ticket.


Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: pugetopolis on December 28, 2007, 05:47:46 PM
(http://cache.eb.com/eb/image?id=66326&rendTypeId=4)

Donotremove—speaking of menopausal comedy, didn’t you think “Can We Borrow Your Husband?” was funny? Maybe your edition doesn’t have it—but my paperback Penguin Complete Short Stories has it. If you haven’t read the “May We Borrow Your Husband” short story then you’re missing a treat. You know British humor—it’s kind of dry and ironic. I thought there was a lot of humor in The Third Man though—like that lecture Holly Martins gives to the hoity-toity Viennese intelligentsia about his western pulp fiction novels. Ha ha. And the movie was pretty funny too. Let’s face it—writers aren’t happy people. Why would they be writing if they were contented little bourgeois piggies watching FOX-News on the couch every night? …Did I say that?


Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: Donotremove on December 29, 2007, 01:38:14 AM
Puge, I haven't come to "Borrowed Husband" yet.  I'm reading straight through.  It's in there, though.


Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: Donotremove on December 29, 2007, 11:20:53 AM
That's the copy I have, Penguin Classics.  I have started "Husband" out of sequence.  Irritatingly predictable while slowly spinning out the details.  Odd for me to think that when I am fond of Jamesian and Proustian sentences.  What to do?  Must be a mood I'm in.  Disgruntled and catty.


Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: Donotremove on December 29, 2007, 02:34:47 PM
I guess I am just a real dullard when it comes to British humor.  I do know that the English and the Scots have a hard time saying much of anything directly.  Especially in matters of the heart.  Harris wouldn't have made ground with Poopy anyway, or been happy for very long if he had.  The girl is too stupid for consideration (about everything, not just the real sexual orientation of Peter, even considering the "book talk".)  Thank goodness he held his tongue.


Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: pugetopolis on December 29, 2007, 02:48:30 PM
(http://images.tribe.net/tribe/upload/photo/ff9/dfc/ff9dfc7b-d45e-42e5-85c9-0e1988d10f26)

Disgruntled and catty? Well, that’s okay. I feel that way myself lately. Sounds kinda like the narrator in “May We Borrow”—or rather Mister Greene himself. He certainly dishes the tacky interior decorator couple rather succinctly doesn’t he? One wonders what happened to the lovely couple there on Corsica? Or maybe one doesn't want to know. And poor Poopy—she reminds me of one of those poor Jamesian innocent “abroad” ladies so to speak. I’ve read that Greene was rather fond of Miss James…


Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: pugetopolis on December 29, 2007, 03:41:39 PM
Yes, well, Greene can be catty and camp. Perhaps burlesque is a better word. His biographer notes several instances of Greene’s sexual ambivalence in his various short stories and novels:

“One detail helps to explain why the “supposedly” straight novelist would join forces with the gay men. The reason that Harris is staying in Antibes is that he has come there to work quietly on his next book—a biography of Lord Rochester. Any true follower of Lord Rochester would be happy to play the kind of sexual prank described in Harris’s story. And he would not be in the least concerned about switching loyalties from heterosexists to homosexuals. The nobleman was often at a loss as to whether he should sleep with a women or a boy:
 
Nor shall our love-fits, Chloris, be forgot,
When each the well-looked linkboy strove t’ enjoy,
And the best kiss was deciding a lot
Whether the boy fucked you, or I the boy.     

—Michael Sheldon, Graham Greene—
The Enemy Within, New York: Random House,
1994, p 63. 


Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: Donotremove on December 29, 2007, 04:57:24 PM
I wasn't aware that Lord Rochester was bisexual.  Knowledge of that would inform the story, to a reader, a great deal.  Of course, there are huge gaps in what I know as to what there is to know.  I have always leaned toward what I liked wherever it leads, as opposed to "learning in depth" about whatever.

Talk about funny, though.  "Our man in Havana" is about as good as it gets.


Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: pugetopolis on December 29, 2007, 05:22:43 PM
“Had she no idea of the nature of the young man she had married?”—page 315

I suppose the crucial thing isn’t whether Greene was gay or not—but rather his constant compulsion to pose the question in his work.

Greene’s comic flirtation in Getting to Know the General for instance. According to Sheldon, Greene preferred to make evasive moves in border territory. The usual tactics like taking sudden leaps in one direction or another, dropping hints along the way, covering important tracks, and laying fake trails. His espionage work during WW II probably contributed to this literary (spy pulp fiction) approach. Perhaps simply the word “catty” works best?   

This in itself is an interesting question within a predominately straight discussion group, i.e. just how relevant is the sexual persuasion of the author in terms of the gay/camp text. I remember Whiskeypriest politely not wanting to get into lifestyle issues during the first Nabokov discussion I was in way back when—in regard to Vladimir’s gay brother who ended up dead in a nazi concentration camp.

Roadytoad and I got into it having read the Salon article about Sergey and his influence on several of Vladimir’s novels such as The Real Life of Sebastian Knight. Frances on the other hand took great umbrage to the article and even the mere hint of anything queer going on despite the facts and research. Funny how things work out—we became friends and she went on to the Greene celebration in England and studying with a Greene scholar online.

I mention this to illustrate how contexts grow and fade—enriching our understanding of authors and ourselves…


Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: pugetopolis on December 29, 2007, 06:02:25 PM
“I encountered them one evening in a little sailor’s bar in the old port of Nice”—page 304?”—page 315

I have always leaned toward what I liked wherever it leads, as opposed to "learning in depth" about whatever.

That's how I approach reading and writing too. I stick to my intuition and rely on Keats' "negative capability" for composition. I usually don't read biographies or Lit crit until I've read the poem, short story or novel. 

But "learning in depth" about my lifestyle as a writer is "intuitive" too. It's not just objective research or mere secondaire literature. It's the real thing from the minute I wake up to when I'm at work to when I have time to write and publish. That's what makes Lord Rochester relevant to me and perhaps tangential to you.

In other words, Greene is obscure or tacky or campy or catty depending on the nuances one picks up or the hints the narrator gives the reader about what's going on or the context of the plot... But then you know that already...   

One man's kitsch is another's man's camp...   :D





Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: madupont on December 30, 2007, 01:54:05 AM

I wasn't aware that Lord Rochester was bisexual.  Knowledge of that would inform the story, to a reader, a great deal.  Of course, there are huge gaps in what I know as to what there is to know.  I have always leaned toward what I liked wherever it leads, as opposed to "learning in depth" about whatever.

Talk about funny, though.  "Our man in Havana" is about as good as it gets.


My brother and I shared the humor of this latter film back in the Seventies, out at Hazel's house when visiting.

I was really surprised though that it was merely two months ago that I had seen The Libertine, and could not praise Johnny Depp's performance enough as John Wilmot, the Earl of Rochester.  Rochester was a very precise poet; there  was no match for him among his contemporaries.

Depp dedicated his performance to two of his dearest friends or most admired predecessors, Marlon Brando, and Hunter S.Thompson.


Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: pugetopolis on December 30, 2007, 07:43:59 PM
(http://www.ohs.org/education/oregonhistory/images/William_Stafford_in_Lewis_&_Clark_College_Library_CN_014269.jpg)
William Stafford

Disgruntled and catty

That's the copy I have, Penguin Classics.  I have started "Husband" out of sequence.  Irritatingly predictable while slowly spinning out the details.  Odd for me to think that when I am fond of Jamesian and Proustian sentences.  What to do?  Must be a mood I'm in.  Disgruntled and catty.

“Out of sequence”—that’s how I usually read a collection of short stories. For me reading Greene’s short stories isn’t like reading a novel by James or Proust where it’s important to read each chapter carefully and sequentially to follow the story and enjoy things like plot complications and character development—all the things that go into a good novel…

Imho a short story collection is like a collection of selected poems in the sense that sequentiality is less important than the gestalt of each individual poem.

For example, the Kansas and later Pacific Northwest poet William Stafford does it this way:

“Stafford established his habit of rising early every morning to write during the 1940s when he lived with other conscientious objectors in work camps in Arkansas and California. As it becomes clear from the fictionalized account of those experiences Down in My Heart, outdoor work for the U.S. Forest Service left him with little energy for writing or studying at night, so Stafford and the other writers in the camp rose before dawn and wrote until they were called for breakfast. In his Contemporary Authors Autobiography Series essay, Stafford claims that during those hours "something is offering you a guidance available only to those undistracted by anything else." Critic Laurence Lieberman, writing in the Yale Review, remarks that Stafford, who has kept the practice for almost fifty years, "has continued, unwaveringly, ... to develop and refine one of the most delicate supersensitive recording instruments in our poetry. He has been training himself to hear and feel his way back in touch with distant places, ages, epochs."

http://www.poetryfoundation.org/archive/poet.html?id=6496

And later in his Contemporary Authors Autobiography Series essay:

"I speculate that when you relax, your real self, or the self you accept as yours, takes over; and for me that self had been so formed that my poems were respectful of religion, people, and ideas that were different. [When writing,] I felt like a wide-ranging scout, but I usually drifted into a certain kind of territory."

Stafford was a catty and disgruntled poet...

His critics say that he was reckless with his submissions and his large body of work is "uneven” because there’s no Proust-Jamesian evolution of Style—no leaping incremental changes in his works, the kind of thing critics feed on.

In other words, Stafford was “out of sequence” because he started each day with a new window of opportunity and a blank sheet of paper. His poems accumulated—they didn’t evolve nor were they ruled by any sense of Intelligent Design… He was a Pacifist in word and deed... Starting each day that way. He was totally into discovery of the moment... 

Stafford once asked “What does it feel like to be ink?”

A very catty disgruntling question…   :D :D :D

It’s a question I ask myself each morning…

My motto is “Ink Inc.”   



Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: pugetopolis on December 31, 2007, 03:07:53 AM
Letters Home

Starting here,
What do you
want to remember?
—William Stafford


(http://images.tribe.net/tribe/upload/photo/934/308/93430854-6834-4c53-bb8d-4f9378a66a38)

http://snipurl.com/1w6pw


Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: pugetopolis on December 31, 2007, 03:31:19 AM
Stacks of samizdat

“Someone’s terribly
inevitable life story,
maybe mine”
—William Stafford


(http://images.tribe.net/tribe/upload/photo/987/bbe/987bbe6a-6f55-4e23-a4f1-f61c576f975f)

http://snipurl.com/1w6pd


Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: pugetopolis on December 31, 2007, 04:25:06 AM
The Trouble with Ink

“But when we read,
it’s just print…”
—William Stafford


(http://images.tribe.net/tribe/upload/photo/0e2/565/0e256594-9cfb-473f-a4bf-471d85a1dec7)

http://snipurl.com/1w6r8


Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: pugetopolis on December 31, 2007, 04:48:17 AM
Ink Inc.

Stafford once asked “What does it feel like to be ink?”
A very catty disgruntling question…   
It’s a question I ask myself each morning…
My motto is “Ink Inc.”


I've been getting up in the morning early
before going to work doing what Stafford
did when he was a conscientious objector
working with the Forest Service. I pretend
I'm an ardent Pacifist protesting something
although I'm not sure what it is or where it
is or who it is but whatever it is that really
doesn't make any differnce in the morning
because the event horizon is pretty much
open to the Stafford texts I'm reading each
day. I have this stack of Stafford poems
and I pick one or two each day to think
about and meditate on. The connection
I'm getting with Stafford is Kansas which
is something we share with each other.
We were both born there and went to
school there. He was working on his
Masters when WWII broke out. Later
a MFA at Iowa then Lewis and Clark
where he taught many years. So when
he talks about Kansas and the Pacific
Northwest I know what he's talking
about. The trouble with ink is getting
it to speak but it's speaking pretty good.
The above three poems. Experimental
so far but I thought I'd share them...


 :D




 


Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: Donotremove on December 31, 2007, 06:45:53 AM
Puge, you are way beyond me in your musings.  You always have been.  When I was in my 30s-40s and had the notion that I was a writer, I would have identified with your angst.  Now, I am simplified to the point of, sometimes, a blankness that scares me but that I have become comfortable with (maybe accustomed would be a better word.) Less emotional upheaval.

I am writing to you, now, with my brain fuddled by low blood sugar, so I don't know that I am making any sense at all.  I miscalculated my insulin dose at 10:30 PM yesterday evening and now am in the middle of getting my physical body back on an even keel (eating something.)  Being diabetic (since 2000) is a bummer.

I wouldn't be reading so much of Greene, now that I see he is not going to write anything that even comes close to being "light hearted" in between his relating the fate of his ill starred characters, if I were't "out" of something new to read.  I have a Pico Iyer--essays, Sun After Dark--that is as unremittingly dark as Greene is.  And my life right now is in a rather bad juncture.

I think I'd better leave well enough alone, lest you think I am a Poopy too.  :)


Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: pugetopolis on December 31, 2007, 07:59:51 AM
Donotremove, I’m sorry you’re not feeling well. I should have kept things more “light-hearted” like Our Man In Havana… I apologize for getting off on these tangents like William Stafford’s poetics. I’m so dense I didn’t realize he grew up in Kansas. I thought he was just a Pacific Northwest poet but now I see a lot of “Kansas” in his work. Thanks for discussing Greene with me…   :)


Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: Donotremove on December 31, 2007, 08:56:45 AM
Puge, not to worry.  I need to read the Yiddish Policeman whatever it is; the one set in Alaska.

Speaking of Alaska.  I see your neck-o-the-woods on the weather.  You've got snow?  That should remind you of (disappearing) black on white (ink on snow.)  ;)


Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: Donotremove on January 01, 2008, 04:21:26 PM
"Language is a cracked vessel upon which we beat a tune for bears to dance to, all the while longing for the stars pity"  --- Flaubert




(I hope I've got the quote right)


Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: madupont on January 01, 2008, 04:46:29 PM
It does sound like him.  He found humans amusings.  I do, at rare moments.   A little bit, all of the time but other people find that sarcastic when it isn't intended that way at all. I just see the funny side of our endeavor to remain bears who can dance if they like because we think the other animals will somehow admire us.


Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: Donotremove on January 01, 2008, 05:37:59 PM

"If you go down to the woods today, you'd better not close your eyes"


Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: pugetopolis on January 01, 2008, 06:27:56 PM
(http://www.swarthmore.edu/Humanities/kjohnso1/pictures/domjar.jpg)

"Language is a cracked vessel upon which we beat a tune for bears to dance to, all the while longing for the stars pity"  --- Flaubert (I hope I've got the quote right)

Hmmm, well, I personally tend to look at “Language” itself like Wallace Stevens does in this simple little poem. Language may be a cracked little jar—but it has a way of doing something to everything around us. Cosmopolitan existence in many ways is like a “slovenly wilderness”—whether FOX-News or the local newspaper headlines. But sometimes a small inconspicuous anecdote like this can say a lot:

Anecdote of the Jar
By Wallace Stevens

I placed a jar in Tennessee,
And round it was, upon a hill.
It made the slovenly wilderness
Surround that hill.
The wilderness rose up to it,
And sprawled around, no longer wild.
The jar was round upon the ground
And tall and of a port in air.
It took dominion every where.
The jar was gray and bare.
It did not give of bird or bush,
Like nothing else in Tennessee.




Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: madupont on January 01, 2008, 09:01:37 PM
 That's rather funny, having been in Tennessee but a short time, I know full well what a glass jar like that is used for: to pass the corn-liquor at a three day party in the country for someone on the way to Nashville or on the way back from Nashville. The music is good, in fact smoking, and we all have a good time. Ya come back soon, ya hear?


Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: madupont on January 01, 2008, 09:04:59 PM


"If you go down to the woods today, you'd better not close your eyes"


You mean, today's the day the Teddy Bears have their Picnic?

I'm busy cooking casseoulet right now, or rather waiting for it to finish, so I won't go down to the woods.

Have a picture of that around here someplace of the bears dancing in the woods but I forget what it is called and who painted it but may discover it.

Just let me refill my Madeira,ma dear.


Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: pugetopolis on January 01, 2008, 11:41:50 PM
(http://www.jssgallery.org/Paintings/Mugs/Henry_James_(charcoal).jpg)

That's the copy I have, Penguin Classics.  I have started "Husband" out of sequence.  Irritatingly predictable while slowly spinning out the details.  Odd for me to think that when I am fond of Jamesian and Proustian sentences.  What to do?  Must be a mood I'm in.  Disgruntled and catty.

Speaking of James, I just wanted to mention that I've been reading a LRB review by Colm Toibin, “A Man with My Trouble," 3 January 2008, on The Complete Letters of Henry James (1855-72), Vols I-II, ed Pierre Walker and Greg Zacharias, Nebraska, Jan 2007. It’s about Henry James' letters and early travels to Europe especially Italy. Toibin goes into how the early James wrote a lot to his brother William and his father; and how as James matured these early Jamesian letters ironically became the basis for the later Jamesian depictions of young innocent Americans abroad.

Letters are interesting. I'm reading Larkin's Selected Letters now. As with the Plath estate, the James Letters has been in a state of controversy because of Edel's tight hand on the estate rights. William James' wife and some other members of the James family were concerned with certain "lifestyle" matters in the letters. So that this edition of the Complete Letters could prove to be very interesting. The early James in Rome had quite the wicked tongue...






Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: pugetopolis on January 02, 2008, 12:08:36 AM
Maddy, unfortunately this London Review of Books essay
is only available online if you’re a paid subscriber—so you won’t
be able to do one of your fascinating cut & paste postings. I enjoy
them so much. But then you may be able to get a copy at your
nearby Princeton Library…or even buy The Complete Letters
at your local Barnes and Noble. Or maybe Borders...
  ;D


Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: pugetopolis on January 02, 2008, 04:06:52 AM
(http://www.jssgallery.org/Paintings/Mugs/Henry_James_(charcoal).jpg)

The early James in Rome had quite the wicked tongue...


Such as:

To his sister Alice on the view from St. Peter’s in Rome: “I’m sure I saw one of the pontifical petticoats hanging out to dry.”

To Alice on Pope Pius IX: “When have seen that flaccid old woman waving his ridiculous fingers over the prostrate multitude and have duly felt the picturesqueness of the scene and then turn away sickened by its absolute obscenity…”

To his father: “When the Pope, clad in shining robes crept up to the altar and in the midst of that dazzling shrine of light, possessed himself of the Host and raised I aloft over the prostrate multitudes, I got a very good look at him by poking up my head and confronting that terrible toy…”

--Colm Toibin, “A Man with My Trouble," LRB, 3 January 2008, on The Complete Letters of Henry James (1855-72), Vols I-II, ed Pierre Walker and Greg Zacharias, Nebraska, Jan 2007, page 15.




Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: madupont on January 02, 2008, 11:31:52 AM

Maddy, unfortunately this London Review of Books essay
is only available online if you’re a paid subscriber—so you won’t
be able to do one of your fascinating cut & paste postings. I enjoy
them so much. But then you may be able to get a copy at your
nearby Princeton Library…or even buy The Complete Letters
at your local Barnes and Noble. Or maybe Borders...
  ;D



I don't have any problem with that. I subscribed to it prior to moving from the farm house, and later decided to let it go in favor of other preferences.

There is only so much time and life is not a contest.

Talk about a wicked tongue....  Having survived Cynthia Ozick's undergrad enthusiasm for The Master, I'm sure that I can go along with Colm Toibin; but I must say, although I prefer her wit, his insights are more masculine. That's his current interest as an intellectual.

Can't recall where I have just seen "photo" of James and lover in Rome, do you know the one I am talking about? What had me in stitches was that while Henry was putting on his supermasculine gruff-jowled pose, the dandy on his right had that exasperating dilletante wardrobe which made him look ever so much like Tom Wolfe. Who could have predicted.

I generally can buy books from almost any university press including the bookstore on Princeton campus by ordering direct. Which carries more than either B&N or just B.


Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: Lhoffman on January 02, 2008, 12:27:17 PM
I subscribed.  I've always meant to but put it off.  Unfortunately, I can't read the on-line edition until I get the first hard copy in the mail. 


Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: nnyhav on January 02, 2008, 02:39:19 PM
I waited til they offered half off regular subscription rates. NYRB came up with the deal a few months ago (which I shan't be renewing, too nonfictional, unless you consider coverage of politix, but then same goes for all MSM these days), and LRB followed 2 issues ago. These guys I may renew at regular rates when the time comes. (Oh, and the archives access to the latter is better too.)

on HJ see also http://bookforum.com/inprint/014_04


Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: pugetopolis on January 02, 2008, 08:58:13 PM
(http://www.jssgallery.org/Paintings/Mugs/Henry_James_(charcoal).jpg)

Portrait of a Lady

“a letter is a performance—
sometimes public…”
—Peter Brooks, “The Awkward Age,”
Book Forum Dec/Jan 2008

Wendell Holmes—
He’s gone salmon-fishing in Maine.
The Spring is well started as to verdure
But the air is cold & the skies gray.

The siren song of Europe—
It could not be silenced.
That old siren song of Europe
How should it be listened to?

“It’s a complex fate—
Being an American, ”
James wrote in 1872 to
Charles Eliot Norton…

The responsibilities—
It entails in fighting against
Superstitious evaluations of
Being Portrait of a Lady…




Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: pugetopolis on January 02, 2008, 09:02:41 PM
(http://www.jssgallery.org/Paintings/Mugs/Henry_James_(charcoal).jpg)

The Obscure Hurt

“the adjective still puzzles—
obscure to the doctors?
to be obscured from others?”
—Peter Brooks, “The Awkward Age,”
Book Forum Dec/Jan 2008

Dearest Hendrik Andersen—
Hugh Walpole, Jocelyn Persse…
Our little game of hide-and-seek
“Burn, burn, burn!”

If I’d been a French novelist—
Instead of merely creating one
All these 10,423 letters would be
Serene leather-bound tomes…

It’s a complex fate, my dear—
Being an American writer
Stuck without a decent
Bibliothèque de la Pléiade…

Homoeroticism so trying—
Making my family back home
So very uncomfortable…
Especially Percy Lubbock.

If only Edith Wharton—
Had been permitted to
Help me tell the whole
Shocking Awful Truth…




Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: pugetopolis on January 02, 2008, 09:52:40 PM
(http://www.jssgallery.org/Paintings/Mugs/Henry_James_(charcoal).jpg)

Venice

“Sightseeing is serious business”
—Peter Brooks, “The Awkward Age,”
Book Forum Dec/Jan 2008

Oh blissful vision—
To spend another week
In Venice a happy man
Rather than closet-case…

Poor Benjamin Babcock—
Some say he’s my dearest
Brother William but perhaps
The real American is me…

I feel it’s in my power—
To ‘‘do” Venice quietly…
As thoroughly as those
Gondoliers can be done.

Pushing and paddling—
Young and bare-chested
Bare-legged even nude
In the fresh canal air…

Magnificently tanned—
Michelangelo muscles
And me prostrate there
Before the true David…

Why climb Rome’s steps—
To contemplate equestrian
Marcus Aurelius when a
Venetian boy will do?




Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: Lhoffman on January 02, 2008, 10:21:17 PM
Pugetopolis...here is a site you might enjoy. 

http://www.henryjames.org.uk/




Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: nnyhav on January 02, 2008, 10:23:39 PM
The HJ diversion reminds me of recent reading of David Leavitt's The Indian Clerk, ostensibly about Ramanujan but really about G.H.Hardy & Co. (including the Apostles) -- Leavitt has Hardy reading James on several occasions. Amongst the historical tidbits are Littlewood's description of Hardy as "a nonpracticing homosexual" of which James partakes some resemblance. One of the most out-of-character bits is Hardy indulging in rough trade, a squaddy named Thayer, who (uncharacteristically)takes the passive role -- while it moves the plot along, it stands in contradistinction to the rest of the Hardy portrait. Seems mistaken even if intended as such.

Sorry for any offtopicality; just the way the thread's woven, it ravels ...

(addendum: more at http://marksarvas.blogs.com/elegvar/indian_clerk_week/index.html )


Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: Lhoffman on January 02, 2008, 10:24:01 PM
Nnyhav...thanks for posting the earlier link.  Will look at that later tonight.


Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: pugetopolis on January 02, 2008, 11:38:46 PM
(http://www.jssgallery.org/Paintings/Mugs/Henry_James_(charcoal).jpg)

Queer Transatlantic Sketches

“But the travelogue is
often of superb quality”
—Peter Brooks, “The Awkward Age,”
Book Forum Dec/Jan 2008

The first edition sold out—
One thousand copies almost
Immediately for a sex-starved
Readerly public back home…

Down, down, down I went—
Down on rapturous Italy…
My descent thru Swiss Alps
And Simplon Pass into heaven…
 
Wild luxuriance of corn & vines—
Olives figs mulberries chestnuts
And frescoed villages with boys
Such clamorous young beggars…

Baveno vast cool dim—
Delicious hotel with great
Orange-haunted terrace
There by the calm lake.

Reading Stendhal’s novel—
The Charterhouse of Parma…
The sense of going down
On Italy for the first time…





Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: pugetopolis on January 02, 2008, 11:41:03 PM
(http://www.jssgallery.org/Paintings/Mugs/Henry_James_(charcoal).jpg)

Michael-angelesque

“Beauty is work”
—Peter Brooks, “The Awkward Age,”
Book Forum Dec/Jan 2008

So many generations—
Between the grandeur that
Was Rome and poor tawdry
Misanthropic New England…

American upper middle classes—
So full of cultural aspirations…
Just like Harvard professor
Charles Eliot Norton clueless…

Lovely Minny Temple—
My beloved 24-year-old cousin…
How The Wings of the Dove
Hovers over dead beauty…

A boy by Bronzino—
A grand English country house
Michael-angelesque squareness
His full lips, his long neck…

His eyes of other days—
Brocaded blush wasted reds…
Once a young Roman senator
Now dead, dead, dead…




Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: pugetopolis on January 02, 2008, 11:43:15 PM
(http://www.jssgallery.org/Paintings/Mugs/Henry_James_(charcoal).jpg)

Letters To Rome

“And the self-communion
of writing as well.”
—Peter Brooks, “The Awkward Age,”
Book Forum Dec/Jan 2008

Henry James a lonely man—
Hotels villas country houses
Writing letters to himself and
Letters home to America…

The real letters though—
Written back to London and Rye
Back to Rome and Venice
True abodes of Aesthetics…

Not to pontifical petticoats—
Hanging out to dry nor flaccid
Old queans in obscene tiaras
Creeping up altars of shame…

But rather something else—
Small masterpieces like his
Letters alert sensitive and
Full of astute judgments…

The rest is Travelogue—
Escape from New York with
Its Jolly Corner and ghost
Of what could have been…





Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: pugetopolis on January 03, 2008, 01:16:27 AM
The thread

Sorry for any offtopicality
“Just the way the thread's
woven, it ravels...”

Thank you nnyhav for the Peter Brooks review.

http://bookforum.com/inprint/014_04/1374

Tomorrow a journey to the U-District bookstore—Henry James Goes to Paris (Princeton University Press, 2007). Plus The Complete Letters of Henry James (1855-72), Vols I-II, ed Pierre Walker and Greg Zacharias, Nebraska, Jan 2007…

Funny how Threads work—starting with an offhand remark by Donotremove: “Odd for me to think that when I am fond of Jamesian and Proustian sentences.  What to do?  Must be a mood I'm in.  Disgruntled and catty”



Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: pugetopolis on January 03, 2008, 01:18:57 AM
Then your link to the Peter Brooks review…

Then my ad-lib impromptu meandering tidbits about James…

That’s how it works through—the meandering literary mind…

For me it works best in poetry forums like Paglia’s BBB.

Paglia’s essays on New Criticism Lit Crit were important…

But beyond Explication and Textual Criticism—

There’s the unexplainable Thread…

Not the usual tape loop going on all the time…

The same day-to-day Eraserhead thread…

Holly Martins cowboy in Viennese drag…

Author of The Oklahoma Kid and all that…

Same old Western pulp fiction scenarios… 

Instead a Jameson detour…

Transatlantic travelogue…

Innocents abroad… 




Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: pugetopolis on January 03, 2008, 01:21:38 AM
Unraveling the thread
—for nnyhav

“A writer is not trying
for a product but accepting
sequential signals and adjustments
toward an always-arriving present”
—William Stafford 

Unraveling the Thread—
Sometimes that’s the most
Important thing that happens
During a discussion…

The thread inside your head—
Relaxing and letting go
Beowulf’s word-hoard locked
Tight inside your Saxon mind…

Thinking absent-mindedly—
Takes a lot of work sometimes
But negative capability opens
Fabulation up rather nicely…




Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: madupont on January 03, 2008, 03:22:12 AM
That's a little bit like Alfred Molina telling the pickups that he is writing a book about the Lion-hearted; the second half of which will cover sodomy.
 Waking up, the morning after, the girl is gone and he can't remember any of it, until it comes to him that he can smell it.

The story ends with him signing copies of his book  for little girls since it has been revised to sell as a children's fairy tale.


Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: madupont on January 03, 2008, 03:39:25 AM
Death in Venice    Blamed sarcastically by Mann’s old enemy, Alfred Kerr, to have ‘made pederasty acceptable to the cultivated middle classes’, it has been pivotal to introducing the discourse of same-sex desire to the common culture.

In the 1920s he was hostile to Bertolt Brecht, and assailed him with accusations of plagiarism.

Sounds like the more things change, the more they remain the same.


Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: pugetopolis on January 03, 2008, 06:35:15 AM

(http://www.helnwein-photography.com/stc/ghpicts/gh984.jpg)

the  catch

by Charles Bukowski

crud, he said
hauling it out of the water,
what is it?

a Hollow-Back Blue Whale, I said.

no, said a guy standing by us on the pier,
It’s a Billow-Wind Sand-Groper.

a guy walking by said,
it’s a Fandango Escadrille without stripes.

we took the hook out and the thing stood up and
farted. it was grey and covered with hair
and fat and it stank like old socks.

we rolled it to the edge of the pier and pushed it
back into the water. We watched it sink and vanish.

it was a Hollow-Back Blue Whale, I said.

no said the other guy, it was a Billow-Wind Sand-Groper.

no , said the other expert, it was a Fandango Escadrille without stripes.

then we all went our way




Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: nnyhav on January 03, 2008, 09:41:45 AM
Back on track via another James, Clive that is ... Borges says in This Craft of Verse that some authors and books are lost upon one if not encountered when young (Poe a prominent example, don't have the book at hand at the mo), Clive extends this to those not encountered when precocious:
http://www.poetrymagazine.org/magazine/1207/comment_180311.html
There are times I disagree with CJ, but for the most part find him infotaining; in this case I just don't know -- the Cantos have been threatening from my bookshelf for some time (and will for some time still ...), but the article has curious resonance with his own doggerel
http://www.janegalt.net/archives/004715.html


Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: madupont on January 03, 2008, 12:33:28 PM
nnyhav,

I can agree with you about the Cantos, which I had to look into when studying Chinese.  This is a pretty intense discipline to ratchet up real enthusiasm when enlisting to examine the genius of Ezra Pound who perhaps was mad as some poets are although they consider it a divine blessing.

Foot note to pugetopolis, just one of the many books stolen from me (by someone who didn't even have the sense to print his own stuff when he would otherwise not be published at all. He settled for being a local character).

Thanks,nnyav, for referrence material.Very kind thought.


Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: pugetopolis on January 03, 2008, 06:17:32 PM
Back on track via another James, Clive that is ... Borges says in This Craft of Verse that some authors and books are lost upon one if not encountered when young

Nnyhav, I’ve enjoyed reading Borges’ This Craft of Verse as well. Here are a few quotes from this book that I like—
 
 “I think of myself as being essentially a reader. As you are aware, I have ventured into writing but I think that what I have read is far more important than what I have written.” (pages 97-98)

“I have found joy in many things—in swimming, in writing, in looking at a sunrise or sunset. But somehow the central fact of my life has been the existence of words and the possibility of weaving those words into poetry.” (page 100)

“It may be blasphemy to say that in order to enjoy Baudelaire and Poe we should be young. Afterwards it is difficult. One has to put up with so many things: one has to think of history and so on.” (page  107) 

And last but not least—

“When I am writing something, I try not to understand it.” (page 118)

·   Of course, Borges just doesn’t let that last quote simply  dangle out there. He elaborates on the “craft” angle…
·   “I think that one of the sins of modern literature is that it’s too self-conscious.”
·   “When I write, I try to forget all about myself.”
·   “I merely try to convey what the dream is.” (pages 118-119).


—Jorge Luis Borges, This Craft of Verse, Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 2000


Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: pugetopolis on January 03, 2008, 07:15:43 PM
Clive extends this to those not encountered when precocious:
http://www.poetrymagazine.org/magazine/1207/comment_180311.html
.janegalt.net/archives/004715.html

I had just started reading your Clive James link when I noticed D.A. Powell was the featured poet. 

http://www.poetrymagazine.org/magazine/0108/poem_180538.html

What a pleasant coincidence I said to myself. I’d just finished reading an interview with Powell in Christopher Hennessy’s Outside the Lines—Talking With Contemporary Gay Poets, Ann Arbor, University of Michigan Press, 2005, 142-158.

In fact, the photo of Powell in Poetry is the same photo in Outside the Lines. But what really got my attention was Powell’s poem—especially after learning recently that William Stafford the Oregon poet was born in Kansas and got his BA and MA from KU.   

The lines from “cruel, cruel summer” that caught my attention were:

“either the postagestamp-bright inflorescence of wild mustard
   or the drab tassel of prairie smoke, waving its dirty garments”

“picture the terrain sunk, return of the inland sea”


These are typical Midwestern regionalist images—“prairie smoke” and “island sea”—the inland sea being an actual shallow fetid Cretaceous Sea that stretched up from the Gulf of Mexico almost to the Canadian border. It left vast fields of limestone around the Flint Hills in Kansas where I was born. Limestone was used for building bridges, banks, churches, courthouses and fence-posts—much of it imbedded with fossils millions of years old…

Interesting how the Powell interview last night—coincided with the Powell poem today...
     



Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: nnyhav on January 03, 2008, 08:58:18 PM
Right, here's the full bit:

"Allow me to go back again to my boyhood days and remember other authors who struck me. I wonder if it has been often remarked that Poe and Oscar Wilde are really writers for boys. At least, the stories of Poe impressed me when I was a boy, yet now I can hardly reread them without feeling rather uncomfortable over the style of the author. In fact, I can quite understand what Emerson meant when he called Edgar Allen Poe the 'jingle' man. I suppose that this fact of being a writer for boys might be applied to many other writers. In some cases, such a description is unjust—in the case of Stevenson, for example, or of Kipling; for although they write for boys, they also write for men. But there are other writers whom one must read when one is young, because if one comes to them when one is old and gray and full of days, then the reading of those writers can hardly be pleasant. It may be blasphemy to say that in order to enjoy Baudelaire and Poe we should be young. Afterwards it is difficult. One has to put up with no many things: one has to think of history and is on."

Borges nonetheless wrote stories strongly and intentionally aligned with those of Poe; did that make him a "writer for boys"?


Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: nnyhav on January 03, 2008, 09:14:03 PM
... and from the same issue as the Powell, there's Anne Winters' Hardy's Catalogues:
http://www.poetrymagazine.org/magazine/0108/poem_180536.html
of course that would be Thomas not G.H.; the latter's poetry was in number theory and such ...


Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: pugetopolis on January 03, 2008, 10:08:53 PM
Boy Lit

Borges nonetheless wrote stories strongly and intentionally aligned with those of Poe; did that make him a "writer for boys"?

In his essay “Kafka and his Precursors,” Borges says “every writer creates his own precursors.” New genres arise from existing genres.

It seems to me Borges didn’t make any high-brow vs. low-prow genre distinctions. His caveat about Poe seems to me to be rather self-effacing since he drew on Poe, Wells, Jules Verne and many other writers ignored or discounted by the modernist as well as postmodernist canon. They weren’t all just juvenile sci-fi pulp fiction paperback writers.

Although there’s nothing wrong with that. Some of my best friends—excuse me favorite writers—are rather boyish like the “slipstream” writers in Kelly’s Feeling Very Strange anthology (San Francisco: Tachyon 2006)…   
 
Borges seems boyish to me. He writes without embarrassment—if that’s Boy Lit that’s okay with me.




Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: pugetopolis on January 03, 2008, 11:20:40 PM
(http://www.jssgallery.org/Paintings/Mugs/Henry_James_(charcoal).jpg)

The Jolly Corner

“It was unknown,
inconceivable, awful,
disconnected from 
any possibility!”
—Henry James,
“The Jolly Corner”

Spencer Brydon faints—
The horror within horror…
His closeted composure
Stunned beyond belief…

Miss Alice Staverton—
Tries to console him…
"You’ve been unhappy 
And ravaged," she says.

Brydon nods knowingly—
But he’s lied to her like
He’s lied to himself all
These jaded years…

They say goodbye—
She doesn’t see Spencer
Brydon after that scene
With the ghostly double…

She thinks he’s gone—
She’s awfully disappointed
Thinking he’s sailed for
London just like that…

Running away from it—
The queerest abruptness
In the face of this peculiar
Wanton wonderment…

Instead he stays—
Locking all the doors
Pulling the curtains and
Closing all the windows…

His chilled adolescence—
Coming back to haunt him
The only thing grotesque 
Being himself in the mirror…

The stranger isn’t evil—
Nor is he odious or
Blatant or vulgar there
At the top of the stairs…

The ghost is young—
He’s actually the built 
Handsome young Hendrik
Christian Andersen!!!

A rage of personality—
Overcomes Brydon nightly
His head going around
And around then down!!!




Title: Re: Poetry Discuss your favorite poems or post your own
Post by: madupont on January 04, 2008, 01:34:37 AM
Notice how the subtitle of this forum is (see above)

Just so long as they are your own?


Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: pugetopolis on January 04, 2008, 02:18:12 AM
(http://tbn0.google.com/images?q=tbn:5OJybCdoP02PqM:http://www.nd.edu/~agutting/Wilde_Oscar.jpg)

“A poet can survive
everything but a misprint.”
—Oscar Wilde


Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: pugetopolis on January 04, 2008, 03:09:49 AM
(http://www.jssgallery.org/Paintings/Mugs/Henry_James_(charcoal).jpg)

The Turn of the Screw

“My eyes were now
on Miles’ own face,
in which the collapse
of mockery showed me
how complete was the
ravage of uneasiness.”
—Henry James,
The Turn of the Screw

I was shocked, my dear—
Simply shocked by the
Coarse vulgarity of that
Awful man Peter Quint…

It came to me that—
Somehow I had to
Shield poor Miles from
That Beast of Evil…

Peter Quint came—
He came into view
Like a slithering sly
Snake into our fair
Little Eden abode…

First the window—
Then his pale white
Devil’s visage was
Pressing up against
The glass itself…

I felt a surge—
A delicious surge of
Involuntary erotic
Transcendentalism…

How horrible it was—
Quint’s ugly Lies
Had become my
Shameless Truth…

I wanted Miles—
I could feel his
Little innocent
Heart beat away…

“You shan’t!!!”—
You shan’t have
This lovely boy
I hissed at Quint…

The scoundrel—
He smirked at my
Devotion with such
Ersatz nonchalance…

I squeezed Miles—
His tremendous
Pulsing little heart
Almost bursting…

“Evil Quint!!!”—
You shan’t have
Miles ever again,
You beast…

Peter Quint—
Yawned as if
Bored with the
Whole drama.

As if he were—
Waiting for
Something to
Happen…

I held Miles—
But his little
Dispossessed
Heart had stopped…





Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: pugetopolis on January 04, 2008, 04:52:36 AM
(http://www.jssgallery.org/Paintings/Mugs/Henry_James_(charcoal).jpg)

Young James Does Bayreuth

“a close, possibly erotic
friendship with a young
Russian artist, aesthete,
and devotee of Wagner…”
—Peter Brooks
Henry James Goes to Paris

The stench of it all—
The ruthless suppression
Of the Paris Commune
Only four years earlier…

Mixed with Art—
Nascent modernism…
Durand Ruel’s Second
Impressionist Exhibit…

The Writers—
Turgenev, Flaubert, Zola,
Maupassant, Daudet,
Edmond de Goncourt…

But that was nothing—
Compared with Paul
Zhukovsky the pre-
Nijinsky young faun…




Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: Urethra_Franklin on January 04, 2008, 05:10:02 AM
Please stop.


Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: pugetopolis on January 04, 2008, 06:13:33 AM
(http://tbn0.google.com/images?q=tbn:5OJybCdoP02PqM:http://www.nd.edu/~agutting/Wilde_Oscar.jpg)


Precisely!

Thanks for playing, splooge.

You win one free Bash Pass.



Dearest Urethra,

But you promised me a free Bash Pass…

Puget





Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: nnyhav on January 04, 2008, 08:44:21 AM
more synchronicity: Bloomberg quote of the day:
"I am not young enough to know everything" -- Oscar Wilde


Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: pugetopolis on January 04, 2008, 11:36:42 AM
(http://greatganesha.files.wordpress.com/2007/03/cocktail.jpg)

Cocktail Hour

“the cocktail hour
finally arrives”
—D. A. Powell

It’s cocktail hour—
Jurassic vibes
Svelte el primitivo…

A pink flamingo—
Impales my cocktail
Perfect manicured lips…

A day at the office—
Now the front lawn and
My chaises-lounge…

Where croquet balls—
Rot languidly all
Summer long…

Tidying up—
My young Latino
Gardener exhausted…

Never mind that—
Never mind the lawn
C’mon Arturo…


http://www.gaypoetry.com/design/poetry_dis.asp?dataID=34887


Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: pugetopolis on January 04, 2008, 07:59:36 PM
Prehistoric Red State Kansas
 
“Sometimes up out
of this land a legend
begins to move.”
—William Stafford

 
(http://images.tribe.net/tribe/upload/photo/ece/512/ece51220-06cf-403a-b05f-3db15667ea40)
 
http://tinyurl.com/2ws63s


Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: pugetopolis on January 04, 2008, 08:27:08 PM
Stoic Republican Kansas Boyfriend

“Out here the gravity
of discontent pulls in
only one direction:
to the right, to the right,
further to the right.”
—Thomas Frank, What's
the Matter with Kansas?


(http://images.tribe.net/tribe/upload/photo/40d/b6d/40db6d6f-4dd9-4772-af5b-58d3d626833d)
 
http://tinyurl.com/2ykjts



Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: pugetopolis on January 04, 2008, 08:33:37 PM
(http://images.astronet.ru/pubd/2006/07/03/0001214757/tornado_nguyen_big.jpg)

The Tornado

“A storm that
needed a mountain”
—William Stafford

A tornado that needed a town—
Meeting it in Tornado Alley
A town called Greensburg
And flattening it…

A small Kansas town—
Then nothing left but the
Courthouse and the
Town’s only bar…

That’s how quickly things—
Can change in Kansas
A tornado grinding its way
Up from Oklahoma…

And then 1500 people—
Suddenly kissing everything
Including their own asses
A quick Dorothy goodbye…





Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: pugetopolis on January 04, 2008, 09:47:07 PM
(http://www.emporia.com/waw/wawdesk.gif)
William Allen White

The Emporia Gazette

"You don't understand, 
I was just lucky."
—William Stafford

Three generations later—
The Westering Experience
Having come and gone…

Now the only thing going—
West is the Santa Fe Railroad
And old Highway 50…

The big Mack trucks—
Roaring down Sixth Avenue
Past the Carnegie Library…

The Westering Experience—
I suppose William Stafford
Felt it out there in Oregon… 

The West as Midwest—
And the West as Far West
But is it still Westering?

I don’t have any Nostalgia—
For Willa Cather and all that
Oh Pioneers! Shit…

It’s more like Paul’s Case—
And the Great Escape from
Closet case existence… 

My GAR grandmother—
The little old ladies keeping
Alive the Civil War dead…

Pounding their pianos—
John Brown’s body still
Rising from the Dead?

West of town back then—
Past the Skating Rink and
Stinky Anderson Feed Lots…

The smell of Shit—
Mixed with Big Money
Kansas City and Chicago… 

The Depression—
Wandering around inside
Their Thirties Kansas minds…

Growing up in Liberal—
Hutchinson KS like Stafford
And his family did back then…

Westering in Dustbowls—
Huge numbers unemployed
Youth hitching trains West…

The weltering Kansas heat—
The total collapse of anything
Remotely O Pioneers! heroic…


I want a more realistic—
Approach to Midwestern
Regionalism under my feet…

More pacifist toward the real—
Less greedy and grasping
More wordily worldly wizen…

Writing in the morning—
Being conscientious and
Objectionable like Stafford…



Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: pugetopolis on January 04, 2008, 10:16:23 PM
(http://www.kshs.org/publicat/khq/1976/graphics/76_2_coverbillbx.jpg)

Westering Inward

“either the postagestamp-bright
inflorescence of wild mustard or
the drab tassel of prairie smoke,
waving its dirty garments”
—D. A. Powell

Writing in the quotidian now—
Paying attention to tornados
Qualms queer little queries…

Writing ad lib constantly—
Doing morning ink exercises
Sticking with the moment…

The Jar in Tennessee—
With two legs and a pen
Slightly disorganized…

But more like listening—
Plains, farmhouses, creeks,
Fields covered with snow…

What does the Link say—
The meadowlark on the
Fence to the boy there…

Hidden dialogs—
Secret conversations while
Westering inward…




Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: pugetopolis on January 04, 2008, 11:22:59 PM
(http://www.skyways.org/orgs/fordco/blacksunday35.jpg)

Black Sunday Dustbowls

“picture the terrain sunk,
return of the inland sea”
—D. A. Powell

All my busy chit-chat—
Did it do anybody any good?
Well, I didn’t really care
I was writing for myself anyway…

I’ve been keeping track—
All the gruesome Black Sundays
Dustbowls tornados droughts
For a long time now, my dear…

Even tho I was just—
Small town literary material
In a world of shame and sorrow
Doing daily dear diary stuff—

After all it was no big deal—
Small town queens had always
Been a dime a dozen—hanging
Around minor metropolises...

Long before Rome fell—
There were lots of queen bee 
Bastions for the Rich and Famous
Who enjoyed their jaded lives… 

It really didn’t matter much—
In the Big Show Biz scheme
Of things because I was just
Another dumb naïve cluck…
 
Fickle faggy faggothood—
Communing every noon-hour
With all my butchy farmboy
Boyfriends in the parking lot…

Hanging around in dumpy
Chevy pickup trucks playing
Hard to get as usual when
I slithered into the frontseat…

Down thru ancient Time—
Long tacky centuries of stoic
Republican chicken romance
And pouty political rectitude…   

Sometimes I could see—
Big Black Sunday clouds
Moving over the faces of
Moody young farmboys…




Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: pugetopolis on January 05, 2008, 12:23:01 AM
(http://images.tribe.net/tribe/upload/photo/d09/abd/d09abd61-0cee-4ec3-844b-6253edd7b74a)

The Emporia Dead

All the small town dead—
Walking around on dead feet
Driving around in dark black
Limousines that are really
Hearses for the living-dead…
 
Knowing all the small faces—
Knowing all the small lives
And me already dead too—
Black and white noir me…

That’s what living—
In a small town does
To you even when
You’ve flown the coop…

Doing you in with the—
Slow realization that your
Little mind won’t change
It will just get worse…
 
Looking thru old postcards—
Old family photo albums
Archives on the Internet
Feeling old aches and pains…
 
Intuitively like back then—
Getting to know the Living
Dead Emporians inside me
Maplewood cemetery crowd…

The stoic acceptance—
And resignation that comes
With being born dead in a
Dying small midwestern town…




Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: pugetopolis on January 05, 2008, 01:28:48 AM
(http://images.tribe.net/tribe/upload/photo/8a3/ea3/8a3ea354-8fa2-435f-a500-4bbfb9d39609)

Kansas Historical Quarterly

It was pretty easy—
Being brain-dead back then
in Emporia Kansas USA…
 
With all the retired dead—
Farmers and dead widows
And decaying thoughts of
The Living Dead…

Even tho being young—
Obscures the obvious
Death Wish pervading
Small Kansas towns like
Flint Hills Emporia…
     
It’s always been that way—
Since the lonely horridness
Of the Plains got even with
The poor suckers who got
There and couldn’t get out…
 
The ones in my yearbook—
Always there for Reunions
Stuck in the same routines
And old archetypal movies
Full of ennui and inertia…

The only difference being—
I’m looking into the Past
The way it used to be and
They’re looking out of it…

Dying Commercial Street—
Sliding down from campus
Past the Santa Fe tracks to
Cottonwood River Bridges…
 
Where Lorna Anderson—
And the good Reverend Bird
Wait to murder you dead
Gruesome gothic style…

Even in Deadsville—
Amidst dead bodies there’s
Still sex & blow jobs to be
Had in Peter Pan Park…

Going down on guys—
Needing it on Friday nights
Grinning skull-death groins
Tight teenage bluejeans…
 
Pouty young genealogies—
Cute bored Mexican boys
Putting-out in backseats
For ten or twenty bucks…

Agonies and ecstasies—
Sucking off guys on the
Wrestling team in the dark
Parking lot after practice…





Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: pugetopolis on January 05, 2008, 02:15:24 AM
(http://images.tribe.net/tribe/upload/photo/c5d/bb5/c5dbb57e-21a8-4825-96b2-7df88b48fc87)

Kansas Historical Quarterly

I didn’t mind it—
Really it wasn’t that bad
Being a fag way out there
In the middle of Nowhere…
 
Growing up in that dumpy
Little Kansas college town
Full of retired farmers and
Old widows waiting to die…
 
There was always cute—
Young collegiate guys to
Die for next to campus there
In my neighborhood…

Unscrupulous ghetto—
Landlords subdividing old
Mansions on Come Back
Little Sheba Street into
Tacky apartments and dumpy
Little hovels and garrets…
 
Where out-of-town young
Undergraduate cute jocks
Needed quick blowjobs
From queer paper-boys
Like me going from door to
Door selling subscriptions…

Even dead towns deader
Than doornails—even they
Need to get off sometimes—
Just to kill the monotony of
Living day-to-day there in
Zombieville Kansas USA…

Lonely bored boys—
A long ways from home
There at dingbat Kansas
State Teachers College…
 
Especially Phys Ed jocks—
Needing it really bad with all
That pent-up Venus-torso
Tension and big biceps…
 
Moody manly muscles—
Those nice big jock legs tight
Around my nelly neck in
The pale gothic moonlight…

Their long drawn-out—
Premature Edgar Allan Poe
Burials playing dead while
I tried artificial respiration…
 
Such exquisite cases—
Deadly sexy rigor mortis
During finals cold winter
Nights ringing doorbells…
 
The Emporia Gazette—
Never has a newspaper had
Such a devoted young queer
Paperboy as little queer me…
 
With my news hungry lips—
My look of blushing shame
As they shot the back of
My shameless head off…



Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: pugetopolis on January 05, 2008, 04:35:37 AM
(http://images.tribe.net/tribe/upload/photo/1f6/63b/1f663b21-a8b3-4f3b-9fcc-6e20570dc5b8)

Commercial Street

Emporia USA—
American Gothic Lite
What can I say about it other
Than what I’m saying now…
 
My so-called Midwestern
Bildungsroman in that
Strange little college town
In the middle of Nowhere…

Shitty little cow town—
Plopped down like some
Unexpectedly indiscrete
Cow patty out of the Sky…

Divine topocosmic city—
Founded there on The Hill
Inner sanctum of Republican
Plutocrats and GOP gods…

Entrails of owls consulted—
Astrologers mapping out the
Vast Peenemünde prairie sky
As I fell down into the dawn…




Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: pugetopolis on January 06, 2008, 02:52:04 PM
(http://exhibits.slpl.org/scanned/pixel/ste00500.jpg)

The New York Stories

“…in this city that
was a mixture of
remembered Eden
and a faded style”
—Colm Tóibín
The New York Stories of Henry James

Thumbing thru the paperback—
Glancing thru the table of
Contents—The Story of a
Masterpiece—

A Most Extraordinary Case—
Crawford’s Consistency—
An International Episode—
Washington Square—

The Impressions of a
Cousin—Crapy Coprnelia—
A Round of Visits—
The Jolly Closet…




Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: pugetopolis on January 06, 2008, 03:15:00 PM
(http://exhibits.slpl.org/scanned/pixel/ste00500.jpg)

Manhattan
 
“Everyone asks me
what I ‘think’ of everything,”
said Spencer Brydon; “and
I make answer as I can—
begging or dodging the
question…”
—Henry James
The Jolly Corner

Alice Staverton—
She keeps knocking
At my door expecting
I suppose me to answer…

But I’m not at home—
At least not at home
The way I used be
Way back when…

Things are different now—
More postmodern and
Deconstructive and
Gay they say…

Jolly just isn’t—
The word I suppose
The Big Apple just isn’t
The same my dear…




Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: pugetopolis on January 06, 2008, 03:17:28 PM
(http://exhibits.slpl.org/scanned/pixel/ste00500.jpg)

Modernist Pulp Fiction

“The great house of fiction
would stand as tall as any
skyscraper, its rooms would
remain well lit even as the
world outside darkened.”
—Colm Tóibín
The New York Stories of Henry James

Funny how these stories
Work—weaving in & out
Of each other—they’re
Like people…

People with lives of
Their own—people you’d
Meet on the subway—not
Speaking to you—

Not for awhile anyway—
But then maybe not at all
Except thru stories like this—
Stories with subtle links…

Much more subtle than—
Miss Merrill’s ouija board
This strange changing
Light over Manhattan…




Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: pugetopolis on January 06, 2008, 03:21:30 PM
(http://exhibits.slpl.org/scanned/pixel/ste00500.jpg)

Obits

“His eye moved quickly
to the list of names, ghost
names taken from obituaries
and death notices, names
for characters and places,
names which could be
inert in his notebooks or
could still be used, he
could spend day after day
giving life to them…”
—Colm Tóibín
The Master

Names. Hammer—Meldrum—
Synge—Grundle—Adwick—
Blanchett—Sansom—Saunt—
Highmore—Hannington (or place)—

Medley (house)—Myrtle—
Saxon—Yule—Chalkley—
Grantham—Farange—Grose—
Corfe—Lebus—Glasspoole (or place)—

Bedfont, Redfont (places?)—
Vereker—Gainer—Gayner—
Shum—Oswald—Gonville—
Mona (girl)—Mark—Floyer—

Minton—Panton—Summervale—
Chidley—Shirley—Dreever—
Trendle—Stannace—Housefield—
Longworth—Langsom—Nettlefold—

Nettlefield—Beaumorris—
Delacoombe—Treston—Mornington—
Warminton—Harnmer—Oldfield—
Horsefeld—Eastmead…




Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: pugetopolis on January 06, 2008, 03:24:42 PM
(http://exhibits.slpl.org/scanned/pixel/ste00500.jpg)

The Jolly Closet

“The Jolly Corner leaves its
protagonist stranded between
a presexual past and an
implausible present…”
—Colm Tóibín
The New York Stories of Henry James

Here I am back again—
Back in Manhattan penthouse—
Jaded Euro-punk boyfriend
Back in Berlin where he
Belongs without me…

It’s hard to imagine any
Truly authentically
Innocent bildungsroman
For such a decadent
Creature as me…

And yet surely I was
Somewhat innocent
Once in my life way
Back when before the
Demise of time?




Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: pugetopolis on January 06, 2008, 03:29:59 PM
(http://exhibits.slpl.org/scanned/pixel/ste00500.jpg)

Manhattan Moonlight

“James, like many of his
contemporaries in London,
was interested in doubles…”
—Colm Tóibín
The New York Stories of Henry James

Doppelgangers, my dear—
They’re serious business
When it comes to Writing
And Reading and Tricking…

If you don’t believe me—
Just ask Poe or Stevenson
Madame Maupassant or
Mademoiselle Rimbaud…

I avoid them diligently—
My attic is full of portraits
Moaning and groaning  in
The Manhattan moonlight…

Miss Wilde is up there—
Along with that tacky
Marquess of Queensberry
Spoiled rich brat…




Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: pugetopolis on January 06, 2008, 03:32:12 PM
(http://exhibits.slpl.org/scanned/pixel/ste00500.jpg)

The Turn of the Screw

“For a writer, the blurring of time
present and time past is a freeing
of the imagination”
—Colm Tóibín
The New York Stories of Henry James

Deborah Kerr isn’t ready—
She likes being Governess
The Innocents closer to
The Henry James novella…

But Alejandro Amenábar—
Subverting both text and
Movie along more magic
Realist lines of direction…

Turns the screw—
A little bit more with his
Surprise ending that’s
Even more haunting…




Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: Lhoffman on January 06, 2008, 05:19:22 PM
Pugetopolis....are you on the Nabokov listserve?  Today's mailing refers to this

http://www.amazon.com/Finding-Figure-Carpet-Vision-Silence/dp/0595418597/ref=sr_1_2?ie=UTF8&s=books&qid=1199641958&sr=8-2

"In his 1896 short story, "The Figure in the Carpet," James sets forth a riddle for his critical readers as he approaches the major phase in his career. He imagines a fictional novelist, Hugh Vereker, who tantalizes his critics with the idea of a single thread, a design woven throughout all of his major works, hidden in plain sight. The design, Vereker says, is as "obvious as a foot stuck in a shoe" but the distinguished novelist is convinced no one will ever see it. One critic, Corvick, however, during a trip to India, has an astonishing flash of revelation: he sees the figure and the discovery is "immense." When Corvick returns and shares his epiphany with Vereker, the novelist assures him that his discovery is precisely accurate; there is not "a single, wrong note." But Corvick dies in a car crash before he can write his definitive book on Vereker's secret design.

My book will show the reader that there is indeed a "figure in the carpet" in all of the major works of Henry James himself. The pattern is fully manifested in The Turn of the Screw in 1897 and remains the consistent thread all the way through the Master's final completed novel, The Golden Bowl, in 1904. My own discovery of "the figure in the carpet" transpired in a succession of revelations over the thirty years it took me to complete this book. I began writing about the relation of writing to painting and how James translates structural aspects of the silent art of painting into prose. James borrows both silence and simultaneity from the painter, his "brother of the brush," and experiments with their narrative equivalents. I saw with increasingly clarity that James' admiration of the powers of painting led him into depicting non-verbal aspects of consciousness in language. Finally I saw the whole system lock into place; everything fit. The figure in the carpet was revealed as visible silence. James brings the reader into the full consciousness of his character by taking us into the silent radiation of the visible. As readers we experience the silence before language, the silence between words, and the silence after language. In this book I will show my reader how "the figure in the carpet" operates as the controlling design in "every square inch of text" in each of James' most famous novels and tales.
"


which took me to this, the text on-line. 

http://www.gutenberg.org/etext/645





Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: nnyhav on January 06, 2008, 06:52:41 PM
HJ stole borrowed the figure in the carpet trope from Constance Fenimore Woolson. (I'm currently reading Lyndall Gordon's bio, HJ A Private Life; haven't got to that part just yet, but have seen it elsewhere.)


Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: rmdig on January 06, 2008, 07:29:47 PM
Henry James stole what from Woolson?


Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: Lhoffman on January 06, 2008, 07:56:37 PM
That's interesting nnyhav, please let us know if you remember where you have seen this.  Would the trope have originated in her writings or in conversation with HJ? 

Would also be interested to know what LG has to say about the matter.



Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: Lhoffman on January 06, 2008, 07:58:07 PM
BTW....much of Woolson's writing is available on-line.


Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: nnyhav on January 06, 2008, 08:45:56 PM
from Gordon p154-5
"... the first of Woolson's three great stories of women artists, is 'Miss Grief'. Here, a woman writer of untutored genius seeks out a sophisticated mentor ... 'Miss Grief' is less about Miss Grief than about the narrator, the unnamed mentor she is determined to meet: in the lap of society, he cultivates stylistic graces at the expense of content. He is astute enough to percieve the genius of Miss Grief, but is shocked by a philosophy that contradicts the progressive optimism of the nineteenth century: in Miss Grief's work of fiction, the saviour is a doctor who helps patients to die when life becomes intolerable. A 'murderer', thinks the mentor. He tampers with her fiction, but in vain. For it proves as impossible to eliminate that doctor as to take out 'a figure in a carpet' without unravelling the whole."

( the CFW story is at http://www.gutenberg.org/files/22401/22401.txt )


Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: Lhoffman on January 07, 2008, 01:41:16 AM
Nnyhav...thanks for the story.  Spent a pleasant evening reading.  I hadn't read this one before.  But, as to the borrowing/stealing of the trope, perhaps this is why it has been suggested that the unbroken thread that runs through the stories of HJ (at least after 1880) is Constance Fenimore Woolson.

Do you think it's possible that James may have used this idea as a tribute or a personal remembrance of his recently deceased friend?   James' story was published shortly around two years after her death.


(There is also something in this story that reminds me of The Aspern Papers.  Perhaps the contempt on the part of the aunt for literary men?)


Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: rmdig on January 07, 2008, 12:38:21 PM
But it's so much more titillating to accuse James of stealing something from Woolson.  On the other hand, I believe it was George Bernard Shaw who once said, "Good writers only borrow, great writers steal."





Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: nnyhav on January 07, 2008, 01:04:06 PM
But it's so much more titillating to accuse James of stealing something from Woolson.  On the other hand, I believe it was George Bernard Shaw who once said, "Good writers only borrow, great writers steal."
I didn't mean to devalue HJ as a writer by substituting borrowing for stealing. but, googling, it looks like everybody stole that quote from somebody else!

Let's just say 'appropriated' ... and of course HJ made the trope his own, but the fuller story is that he made a lot more his own (The Aspern Papers came to mind for me as well). CFW twigged it, even writing into a later story HJ's use of 'resource' ...


Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: Lhoffman on January 07, 2008, 01:44:39 PM
I can see the two of them sitting around, chatting.  The idea of the figure enters the conversation.  Woolson refers HJ to a story she had written just before meeting him.  HJ is intrigued...Perhaps he toys with it over the years and revisits it in full after her death.


Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: madupont on January 07, 2008, 02:06:16 PM
nnyhav,

Of course the real condeming evidence was his, in his habitual turn of destroying any correspondence, that in this case may have taken up a difference of opinion on whose material it was to use, by burning it  in the fireplace immediately after attending to the disposition of her body.

Uncannily, he writes as if viewing her clothes floating out on the canal to the beyond; weird choice suggesting he was sometimes far gone.  Only then, does he burn her letters to him and his letters to her.  We get a fairly good account of what the  gondelier looked like, in true James' ordering of what he perceives.

So I would suggest rather than any of the other opinions expressed thus far in the responding posts, that only after covering his tracks did he then reveal that he felt an enormous guilt.  It came to the surface like the clothes of the drowned woman(when oddly, the body of the suicide is not mentioned), at that point of having to return to life as it was prior and he can not resist going directly to take up the rent of her old rooms in the past before she ever traveled to Venice.  He stayed there and communed with her presence whatever there was of it, in memory, for I forget how long.   It is a peculiar trip arising from guilt.  I also do not buy the writing of the Milly Theale story as covering this turn of events with Constance Fenimore Cooper.  Wings of the Dove simply transposes into a fictional form the fact that his cousin never was able to spend time with him when she was relying on him as her cousin but he was just a callow young man who had better things to do. She therefore died of tb, as he couldn't bother to use his time that she might die happy because he had better things to do at the time. After which, he had his story.

I guess, of the whole lot of his novels and stories, I prefer The Golden Bowl.  And having lived down the street from his place(I stayed on the west side of Washington Square at the Gertrude Vanderbilt studio), I somewhat appreciate the atmosphere he works into his stories of when he lived in the neighborhood but that's about it. For a personality who writes and actually does it well, as I've said many times, I prefer Edith Wharton.  Why Henry should have expected her to be more comprehending for his sake, when she already comprehended quite well in terms of her own marital experienc beats me. Otherwise, I find Colm Toibin a truly good writer who keeps my interest, he's psychologically solid in his motivating of characters (who just happen to be real renowned persons) when he describes them.


Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: Lhoffman on January 07, 2008, 02:44:10 PM
Madupont....but we must keep in mind that The Master is a work of fiction.....well researched fiction, but fiction nonetheless.

Washington Square is truly evocative.  I've spent many hours there myself.  Odd that the whole thing is built on death...Perhaps H James Sr. wasn't quite as delusional as we have been led to believe.  And what a lively breeding ground the imaginations of William, Henry and Alice. 


Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: nnyhav on January 07, 2008, 03:50:44 PM
Quote
[...] habitual turn of destroying any correspondence [...]
There's a lot less left of CFW's correspondence in general, heavily filtered by her literary executors. No question that HJ wanted to keep all relation with CFW, whatever its nature, private. She too was reticent, though. It's kept much of the history speculative, in Lyndall Gordon as well as in novelistic reimaginings. One might say that Gordon has reappropriated Woolson, and Minny Temple, as the figure in the carpet.


Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: pugetopolis on January 07, 2008, 08:15:50 PM

One might say that Gordon has reappropriated
Woolson, and Minny Temple, as the figure in the carpet.
   


I like the idea of reappropriated narrative...

Lyndall Gordon is good at it, i.e., Eliot, Mary Wollstonecraft, etc.

Appropriation and reappropriation definitely early postmodern literary signatures...like the Portland Building.

Haute-Bourgeois Retrotecture?


(http://data.greatbuildings.com/gbc/images/cid_1109295603_Portland_Building_noid.jpg)
Portland Building—Portland, Oregon

See Re: Haute-Bourgeois Retrotecture

http://forums.escapefromelba.com/index.php/topic,190.msg58207.html#msg58207


Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: pugetopolis on January 07, 2008, 08:22:03 PM
(http://www.pbs.org/wnet/americannovel/timeline/images/james_pic.jpg)

The Ghosts of Henry James
 
“Henry James’s ghosts—
possess an unusual degree
of reality because we see
them invariably through
the people who see or
“feel” them…”
 
—Leon Edel, Preface to
The Turn of the Screw, The
Ghostly Tales of Henry James,
ed Leon Edel, New Brunswick:
Rutgers University Press,
1948, Introduction, page xxvii




Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: pugetopolis on January 07, 2008, 08:27:31 PM
(http://www.pbs.org/wnet/americannovel/timeline/images/james_pic.jpg)

After-Dinner Conversation
 
“One evening in 1913—
(So the anecdote goes)…
Henry James and his compatriot
John Singer Sargent who had
Recently painted James’s portrait
Dined at a great old London
House at No. 3 Cumberland Place.
The conversation turned, at one
Moment during the evening to
Ghosts and tales of horror…"
 
—Leon Edel, Preface to
The Turn of the Screw, The
Ghostly Tales of Henry James,
ed Leon Edel, New Brunswick:
Rutgers University Press,
1948, page 435




Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: pugetopolis on January 07, 2008, 08:34:33 PM
(http://www.pbs.org/wnet/americannovel/timeline/images/james_pic.jpg)

A Sense of Terror
 
"Mildred, Lady Gosford—
At the home of whose parents
The dinner was taking place
Told the novelist that she had
Read The Turn of the Screw
With excitement and mounting
Sense of terror—without
Fully understanding what
Was happening…"
 
—Leon Edel, Preface to
The Turn of the Screw, The
Ghostly Tales of Henry James,
ed Leon Edel, New Brunswick:
Rutgers University Press,
1948, page 435





Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: pugetopolis on January 07, 2008, 08:37:55 PM
(http://www.pbs.org/wnet/americannovel/timeline/images/james_pic.jpg)

Ghost Story
 
“My dear Mildred—
The story was told to me
By Archbishop Benson…
I have caught the impression
His mystery made on me and
I have passed it on to you—
But as to understanding it,
It just gleams and glooms...”
 
—Henry James, Preface to
The Turn of the Screw, The
Ghostly Tales of Henry James,
ed Leon Edel, New Brunswick:
Rutgers University Press,
1948, page 435



Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: pugetopolis on January 07, 2008, 08:54:11 PM
(http://www.pbs.org/wnet/americannovel/timeline/images/james_pic.jpg)

Amusette
 
“This is the amusette
This is the trap that
Henry James boasted
He had set for the
Inattentive reader in
This tale…”
 
—Leon Edel, Preface to
The Turn of the Screw, The
Ghostly Tales of Henry James,
ed Leon Edel, New Brunswick:
Rutgers University Press,
1948, page 435.




Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: Lhoffman on January 07, 2008, 09:39:46 PM
Here's Henry by JSS

(http://henry-james.navajo.cz/henry-james-5.jpg)



Amusette
 
“This is the amusette
This is the trap that
Henry James boasted
He had set for the
Inattentive reader in
This tale…”
 
—Leon Edel, Preface to
The Turn of the Screw, The
Ghostly Tales of Henry James,
ed Leon Edel, New Brunswick:
Rutgers University Press,
1948, page 435.




"Amusette"....lovely little word.  Sounds like it means something along the lines of "a small amusement" when it's really a weapon.  Edel knew what Henry James was about in The Turn of the Screw...a little story that packs a big punch.


Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: madupont on January 08, 2008, 12:47:40 AM
The least known version of, Turn of the Screw, was done by Marlon Brando, while he was still with it.


Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: pugetopolis on January 08, 2008, 06:15:58 AM
A bundle of fascinating threads—

Lyndall Gordan’s HJ A Private Life, Constance Fenimore Woolson, Miss Grief, Castle Nowhere, The Old Stone House, Lee McKay Johnson, Finding the Figure in the Carpet: Vision and Silence in the Works of Henry James… Some serious reading ahead for me. Thank you. In the meantime if I may I’d like to sort of narrow in on another thread that puzzles me. It has to do with James’s choice of Miles as the boy in The Turn of the Screw based on an interesting contradiction of Edel’s Ghost Stories (1948) and the Norton Edition of Turn of the Screw (1966)… It has to do with Miles and either his eyebrows or his eyelashes…
   :D :D :D



Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: pugetopolis on January 08, 2008, 06:21:42 AM
(http://www.pbs.org/wnet/americannovel/timeline/images/james_pic.jpg)
 
The Anomalies
 
“James was,
above all, guarded.”
—Colm Tóibín
The New York Stories of Henry James
 
The Turn of the Screw—
is pre-eminently a record of
Feeling. As the readers follow
The governess through all the
Anomalies—anomalies kept
Crystal clear which means
Consistently anomalous!—
They discover that the art my
Storytelling has been to
Make them accept this young
Woman and to swallow her
Story. They are ready to believe
Everything that she tells them—
And no doubt she gives them 
An honest record of what
She thinks and how she feels.
But if they wish to discover what
Really happened at Bly, they
Must disengage fact from
Fiction, substance from
Emotion…
 


Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: pugetopolis on January 08, 2008, 06:23:44 AM
(http://www.pbs.org/wnet/americannovel/timeline/images/james_pic.jpg)

The Governess
 
“her considerable
intelligence and her
raw vulnerability…
his sister’s unquiet
ghost which came
to him…”
—Colm Tóibín
The Master
 
I gave her no name—
I didn’t tell her what she
Looked like—I never described
Her attire—or her manner—
The usual information given
A reader about a novelist’s
Heroine was absent there. She
Only had a consciousness—
A mind—a mirror receiving
impressions—reflecting them.



Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: pugetopolis on January 08, 2008, 06:26:09 AM
(http://www.pbs.org/wnet/americannovel/timeline/images/james_pic.jpg)

New York Edition Preface
 
“In my later preface—
I reformulated this idea
saying it was a question
of “our young woman’s
keeping crystalline her
record of so many intense
anomalies and obscurities.”
 
—Henry James, Preface to
The Turn of the Screw, The
Ghostly Tales of Henry James,
ed Leon Edel, New Brunswick:
Rutgers University Press,
1948, page 434




Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: pugetopolis on January 08, 2008, 06:28:31 AM
(http://www.pbs.org/wnet/americannovel/timeline/images/james_pic.jpg)

Revisions to the Story
 
The evidence of what I had
Sought to do with my governess
Can be bound in the revisions
Which I made for the New York
Edition. If there is speculation
As to what my “conscious
Intentions” were, one can find a
Concrete answer there. The word
“Perceived” as used by her is
Invariably altered to felt. “I now
Recollect…” is changed to “I now
Feel…” and ‘it appeared to me…”
To “It struck me…” In each case—
And they are relatively numerous—
One should note my determination
To alter the nature of the governess’
Testimony from that of a report of
Things observed, perceived,
recalled—to things felt.




Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: pugetopolis on January 08, 2008, 06:30:20 AM
(http://www.pbs.org/wnet/americannovel/timeline/images/james_pic.jpg)

Letter to H. G. Welles
 
“A singleness of effect—
was required about my young
Woman—I had to take a very
Sharp line. The grotesque
Business I had to make her
Picture and the childish
Psychology I had to make
Her trace and present, were,
For me at least, a very
Difficult job, in which absolute
Lucidity and logic were
Imperative. Therefore I had
To rule out subjective
Complications of my own—
Play of tone etc."

—Henry James, Letter to
H. G. Wells, Leon Edel, Preface
to The Turn of the Screw, The
Ghostly Tales of Henry James,
ed Leon Edel, New Brunswick:
Rutgers University Press,
1948, page 434




Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: pugetopolis on January 08, 2008, 06:34:43 AM
(http://www.pbs.org/wnet/americannovel/timeline/images/james_pic.jpg)

Chateau de Varennes
 
“…the ghost story
told me at Addington
(evening of Thursday 10th)
by the archbishop of
Canterbury…”
—Colm Tóibín
The Master
 
I had once lodged—
Next to one of the familiar
Towers of France
Chateau de Varennes…
Castles, moats, towers—
Picturesque country-houses
Along with “haunted rooms”
Very much like Bly…
My travel papers are
Filled with descriptions
Of such ghostly mansions
With lakes and servants…
The crenellated tower of
Hawthorne’s villa there
At Bellosguardo haunted
By a Florentine monk
Burned at the stake…





Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: pugetopolis on January 08, 2008, 06:36:51 AM
(http://www.pbs.org/wnet/americannovel/timeline/images/james_pic.jpg)

The Boy with Six Inches
 
“There was an association—
with this Chateau. During my
visit with some American
friends who lived there, I was
charmed by a young boy of
the household. The boy had
eyelashes “six inches long”
and as I added in a letter to my
mother, he was the source of
much delectation to me during
certain rare moments when
the superior discipline of the
house permitted him to appear…”
 
—Henry James, Preface to
The Turn of the Screw, The
Ghostly Tales of Henry James,
ed Leon Edel, New Brunswick:
Rutgers University Press,
1948, page 431




Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: pugetopolis on January 08, 2008, 06:38:40 AM
(http://www.pbs.org/wnet/americannovel/timeline/images/james_pic.jpg)

Textual Criticism
 
“Before writing his story,
James “was charmed by a
young boy…. aged six or seven,
with eyebrows ‘six inches long.”
 
—Ignace Feuerlicht, “Erlkönig and
the Turn of the Screw,” Journal of
English and Germanic Philology,
LVIII (Jan, 1959), pages 68-74)
quoting The Ghostly Tales of
Henry James, ed Leon Edel 
(New Brunswick, 1948, page 431 in
The Norton Edition of The Turn of
the Screw, ed Robert Kimbrough,
New York: Norton, 1966, 236-237




Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: pugetopolis on January 08, 2008, 06:42:39 AM
(http://www.pbs.org/wnet/americannovel/timeline/images/james_pic.jpg)

Eyebrows vs. Eyelashes

“He did not know
why this had to
written, why the
stirring of the
memory was
not enough.”
—Colm Tóibín
The Master
 
“I had found a reference to
Feuerlicht on the I-net but
didn't know where he'd gotten
his quote about James and
eyebrow boy. In fact, I'm still
unclear where Edel gets his
info. The letter you quote
mentions the chateau but
no boy. Given the gallons
of ink split over "Turn of the
Screw," you'd think you'd
hear more about this. Keep
me abreast of what you find
out. I know I've run across
eyebrow boy before but
perhaps I was looking at the
early Edel in the library or
something. Apparently gay
critic Michael Moon has
written on James so I wonder
if he's gone into this.”
 
—Email communication from
Professor Marshall McClintock of
The Uranian Institute, London UK




Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: pugetopolis on January 08, 2008, 06:45:33 AM
(http://www.pbs.org/wnet/americannovel/timeline/images/james_pic.jpg)

The Anatomy of an Anomaly

“He lived on the
randomness of the
mind’s workings, and,
now, as the day began,
he found himself
involved in a new
set of musings and
imaginings.”
—Colm Tóibín
The Master
 
“Dear Professor McClintock—
The complete Edel preface
Elaborates on the strange
“Six inches long” anomaly—
But as you can see Edel calls
It the boy’s “eyelashes.”
Feuerlicht in his “Erlkönig
And the Turn of the Screw,”
Journal of English and
Germanic Philology article
Calls the “six inch” anomaly
The boy’s eyebrows. Either one—
Eyelashes or eyebrows—sounds
Rather bizarre and problematic.
For example, what would a
“Six inch” eyebrow look like—
Perhaps spanning the boy’s
Forehead across the bridge of
His nose forming one long
Continuous delicate eyebrow
Six inches long? On the other
Hand, Edel’s version of “six-inch”
Eyelashes is almost ludicrous
Because they’d be even more
Artificial looking than Marilyn
Monroe’s famous eyelashes in
Movies like Niagara and Some
Like It Hot…I confess, my dear
professor, that as a textual critic
I’m somewhat flummoxed by
This strange quirky little turn
Of the screw in the text…”
 
—Email communication to
Professor Marshall McClintock of
The Uranian Institute, London UK
 
PS
 
“Perhaps Edel and Feuerlicht
Are both wrong and James’s
Letter to his mother might
Enlighten my troubled intuitions
About this whole matter—
Let me research some letters to
See if James’s correspondence
Sheds any light on this rather
Increasingly disturbing matter…”




Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: pugetopolis on January 08, 2008, 06:48:02 AM
(http://www.pbs.org/wnet/americannovel/timeline/images/james_pic.jpg)

Letter to Mrs. Ellen Louise
Chandler Moulton

 
“I remained in Paris—
Till July 1876, “turning into
An old, and very contented
Parisian," writing The American,
My Tribune letters back to
New York and other criticism.
The American began in the
June Atlantic and my brief
Preface recalls how “much
Was still unwritten” and the
Great “variety of scenes of
Labor” in which I struggled
To complete it. I went till
September into the French
Provinces—Étretat in
Normandy, the Childes’
Chateau de Varennes and
Biarritz. In late July I was
Writing William that “my last
Layer of resistance to a
Long-encroaching weariness
And satiety with the French
Mind & its utterance has
Fallen from me like a garment.”
I was done with them, forever
& was turning English again.”
 
—Letter to Mrs. Ellen Louise
Chandler Moulton 20 October 1876
Notes Congress MS HJL II, 69 




Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: pugetopolis on January 08, 2008, 06:50:16 AM
(http://www.pbs.org/wnet/americannovel/timeline/images/james_pic.jpg)

James’s Double Theory
 
“Also, the reference to the
gay Jungian double theory
is as follows: Mitch Walker,
"The Double: An archetypal
Configuration," Spring (1978),
pp. 165-75. I assume "Spring"
Is the title of some sort of
Journal, but that was as good
A reference as I could find.
I was hoping to find a website
For Walker, but I get the sense
From what I did find that he
May have passed away. There's
An article by him that references
His double idea on the White
Crane website: You might like to
Noodle around that site a bit—
All Faery spirituality and such
But some interesting poetry.
I also ran across references
To Walker's other books: The
Revolutionary Psychology of
Gay Consciousness in Men, The
Archetype of Gay-centeredness,
And The Uranian Soul: Studies
In Gay-Centered Jungian
Psychology. It's not clear to me
That these are books or pamphlets
Or exactly what. Most seem out of
Print now.”
 
—Email communication from
Professor Marshall McClintock of
The Uranian Institute, London UK
 
www.whitecranejournal.com/wc01038.htm




Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: pugetopolis on January 08, 2008, 06:54:21 AM
(http://www.pbs.org/wnet/americannovel/timeline/images/james_pic.jpg)

Becky Sharp and Jane Eyre

“He took up his pen
again—the pen of all
his unforgettable efforts
and sacred struggles…”
—Colm Tóibín
The Master
 
“I can only note—
the image of a certain
“Mademoiselle  Danse”
as a “depressed English
governess” I glimpsed
one day in 1876 while
dining in a French
household; I noted
associations—Becky
Sharp & Jane Eyre alluded
To indirectly in The Turn of
The Screw—the Jane Eyre
Who Came to a lonely
house—had a housekeeper
for Company and an
orphan as her charge, and
who fell In love with her
handsome employer. The
governesses of life and
Literature thus co-exist
and merge in the “queer
dim play” of consciousness
and it is from this queer
consciousness that the
governess of Bly emerges…”
 
—Henry James, Preface to
The Turn of the Screw, The
Ghostly Tales of Henry James,
ed Leon Edel, New Brunswick:
Rutgers University Press,
1948, page 431




Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: pugetopolis on January 08, 2008, 06:58:09 AM
(http://www.pbs.org/wnet/americannovel/timeline/images/james_pic.jpg)

Norton Second Edition
 
“Dear Professor McClintock—
As I mentioned the second
Norton edition doesn’t include
the Feuerlicht “Erlkönig essay—
in fact Norton replaced all the
“Recent Criticism” in the 1966
edition with newer studies:
 
RECENT CRITICISM: 1970-PRESENT

Tzvetan Todorov, “The Fantastic”
Shoshana Felman, “Henry James: Madness and the Risks of
Practice (Turning the Screw of Interpretation)”
Henry Sussman, “James: Twists of the Governess”
Bruce Robbins, “Recognition: Servant in the Ending”
Ned Lukacher, "Hanging Fire": The Primal Scene of The Turn of the Screw”
Paul B. Armstrong, “History and Epistemology: The Example of The
Turn of the Screw”
T. J. Lustig, “Henry James and the Ghostly

http://www.wwnorton.com/college/english/nce/screw2/toc.htm




Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: Lhoffman on January 08, 2008, 03:20:08 PM
It almost makes sense that "eyebrows" is an editing or hearing error.  Six-inch eyelashes makes sense given what we know about Miles (and also what we don't know).  Eyelashes are a symbol of feminity.  Miles is a very well behaved little boy who is adored by all, gets along with his sister and tries to please his governess.  But for reasons not expressly given, Miles is expelled from his boys school.  What is the reason?  Is it that Miles has been followed to school by the ghosts and the evil that accompanies them?  or has it to do with Miles' six-inch long eyelashes? 

People read this novel as a ghost story or as a story about an unreliable narrator.  But, given HJ's closeted homosexuality, perhaps the novel is really about Miles, and really the question becomes "Who is Miles?"


Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: pugetopolis on January 08, 2008, 10:17:43 PM
(http://images.tribe.net/tribe/upload/photo/080/d66/080d66e6-b71b-4767-9b67-5f5bdf064de2)
People read this novel as a ghost story or as a story about an unreliable narrator.  But, given HJ's closeted homosexuality, perhaps the novel is really about Miles, and really the question becomes "Who is Miles?"

Good question...


Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: pugetopolis on January 09, 2008, 12:26:40 AM
(http://images.tribe.net/tribe/upload/photo/080/d66/080d66e6-b71b-4767-9b67-5f5bdf064de2) (http://images.tribe.net/tribe/upload/photo/fa6/035/fa6035ca-21a8-4797-b1e1-c425be17bccc)
(http://www.pbs.org/wnet/americannovel/timeline/images/james_pic.jpg)(http://images.tribe.net/tribe/upload/photo/472/f1e/472f1e75-c8bc-4bc0-85d1-f5ba435b9a83)

Deconstructing the Master

“How is queer Henry, and how might he be described?
The story of Henry James’s sexuality remains as elusive
and difficult (and as compelling and disturbing) as
James’s own Turn of the Screw.”
—Hugh Stevens, “Queer Henry in a Cage,”
The Cambridge Companion to Henry James   

Here are some brief points from Stevens’s essay in regard to "Turn of the Screw" and "Figure in the Carpet." 

1. It seems appropriate to begin an essay on “queer Henry” with a theoretical quandary embedded in The Turn of the Screw, if only to point out that the critical assumptions of a certain mode of twentieth century life-writing, assumptions that the story of a subject’s romantic and sexual life can be told in a literal way, are explored and questioned in James’s own fiction.

2. Within the framework of The Turn of the Screw, the governess’s tale has the status of a nonfiction autobiographical memoir, one when notoriously refuses even to give its subject’s name. The prevalent mode of anonymous first-person life narration in the late nineteenth century is, of course, the sexological case study, a mode of narration that might still be seen to tell in literal vulgar ways.

3. James is constructed as a writer, but not a reader—at least he cannot read himself as well as we can (thus he fails to realize an Emersonian self-knowledge). It is simply not countenanced that James might consciously be exploring erotic possibilities, taking prose as his medium; nor is it considered that James might be a subtle manipulator of the dynamics of secrecy and knowledge, rather than their mere victim. Yet who has explored such dynamics more perceptively than James?

4. In countless fictions (“The Figure in the Carpet”), James is fascinated with the epistemology of the secret that will not reveal itself…”   

5. Recent scholars view literary writing as participating in the construction of identities within a certain historical context. This entails a shift in the ontological status of the writing. Rather than expressing the prior identity of its creator, it might be seen as a site where, within certain historical constraints, identity might be performed rather than repressed in a literary text.”

—Hugh Stevens, “Queer Henry in a Cage,” The Cambridge Companion to Henry James, 120-127.  http://tinyurl.com/32zylm

In other words, queer performativity is a strategy like this Thread for the production of meaning and being—“being” as perpetually re-making and re-forming itself thru a kind of performance art rather than mere discursive reportage.
       




Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: pugetopolis on January 09, 2008, 08:18:29 AM
(http://www.womenwriters.net/domesticgoddess/images/whartonportrait.jpg)
The Mount Estate and Gardens

"I am very happy here—
surrounded by every loveliness
of nature & every luxury of art
& treated with a benevolence
that brings tears to my eyes."
—Henry James 

The Mount Mansion—
Edith’s 42-room Lenox Estate 
Here in the Berkshires…

Her little getaway from
New York City and tacky
Park Avenue—

Pearl-white exteriors
And manicured gardens
Italian Villa-esque—

Residency programs—
Now for visiting poets
Writing in bed…

Like me this morning—
Lovely languishing me
With my MacArthur grant

Denizen of the gods—
Here in the Berkshires
Amy Clampitt’s House…

Every morning from
From dawn till dusk—
It’s Martini Hour for me…

I’m proud I’m a Poet—
And a rich one too
Sleeping in James’s bed…

Golden Bowl wealth—
No Jolly Corner for me
I’m crème de la crème…

McMansion elegance—
Lavishly redecorated
For sophisticate me…

http://www.gaypoetry.com/design/poetry_dis.asp?dataID=34921

(Please note—the idea of a 'camp deconstructive poetics'
seems so alien and flippant compared with the astute
pronunciamentos of such excellent academicians
as Eve Kosofsky Sedgwick with her 'reparative readings'
as escapes from today’s 'hermeneutics of despair and
paranoia'—but what I’m looking for is a model for
recapturing not so much a lost world as a lost 'libidinal
intelligence'. Reading James can induce a fantasy of being
James. This fantasy synchs with the fantasmatic faculty
itself—refreshing and restoring the 'shock of the strange'
in all its uncanny queerness. Camp, kitsch, burlesque—
these ancient fabulation-performance arts perhaps are
what I need to escape the paranoid turn of the screw
Sedgwick discusses in the introduction “Paranoid Reading
and Reparative Reading” to her anthology Novel Gazing—
Queer Readings in Fiction
, Durham: Duke University
Press,1997. I’m especially indebted to Renu Bora’s essay
on The Ambassadors entitled “Outing Texture” with
her ideas on the narrative touch of Henry James himself
being a 'texture of innuendo'. In Turn of the Screw
there’s a “texture of ersatz innocence and paranoia”—
whirring away like black velvet inside James’s mind…
   


Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: pugetopolis on January 10, 2008, 02:41:15 AM
(http://www.womenwriters.net/domesticgoddess/images/whartonportrait.jpg)
Edith Wharton

Poet in Residence at the Amy Clampitt’s
Home for Wayward Girls


“The mere pen can do but scant justice
to the various elements of my situation,
the recent, the constant, & the above all
acutely—so acutely—actual & that really
to talk about them we must take some
future N.Y. good fireside hour & then
thresh them out to the last straw…”
—Henry James to Edith Wharton

It’s all coming back to me now—
all those tacky transgressive interior
monologs and marginalized secret
sexual identities from Edith’s fantasy
past—all those ludicrously incestuous
masochistic meanderings—ironically
mocking me as I toss tumescently
here in Amy Clampitt’s dingy dark
bedroom—

This drab writers getaway—
Unlike the Berkshire mansion…
I’m doomed to live here for a whole
year as I work on my Edith Wharton
book of poems—the limp waterstained 
curtains hungry to hang down forlornly
for another century on two—it’s just
awful being The Local Lenox Girl—
having to answer the doorbell with an
excruciating hangover…

Being obliged to answer—
some dull query from one of the local
blue-rinse ladies crowd in town—
if they only knew beneath the potted
hedge of rubber trees—real discarded
rubbers lollygag in the obscene 
leering moonlight—swarms of local
gypsy boys I have to beat off with
whips—while mandolins on the
mantel plink and plunk awry—
away into the lonely night...

(Please note: The Amy Clampitt Residency Program
seeks to “benefit poetry and the literary arts by
converting Amy Clampitt’s prior residence into a
facility which provides for a place to foster the
study and promotion of poetry and/or a poet in
residence through six to twelve month residencies
at the Amy Clampitt House near Lenox, Massachusetts.
It is expected that the resident fellow will commit to
residing in the house full-time and focusing
exclusively on his/her creative work except for
occasional absences. The resident fellow will be
asked to give a reading locally of his/her work.
The Amy Clampitt House is a charming, fully
furnished, 3-bedroom, 2-story house in Cape style.)




Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: pugetopolis on January 10, 2008, 02:54:41 AM
(http://www.womenwriters.net/domesticgoddess/images/whartonportrait.jpg)
Edith Wharton

The Dahlia Gardens

“Hermaphrodite of pity and violence,
the chambered pistil and the
sword-bearing archangel”
—Amy Clampitt

There are places—
Where no poets can reach
Down by the Potomac
In the dismal beltway gutters
Where drunks and derelicts
Mix with November leaves
And spent residue of last
Summer’s desultory dahlias
And mangled magnolias…

Enjambed against curbs—
By passing limousines and
Headlights of the risky and
The famous fearing the next
Arcane calamity newspeak
Disaster while Wall Street
And The New York Times
Jive on and on…

Office buildings loom—
Same old cold bureaucrats
And haughty demeanors—
Blackening flowerbeds and
Blackening beltway dahlias
Gone like death in crummy
Rush hour tar pit sludge—
Preserved like dinosaurs
And hairy mammoths…
Old dead politicians and
Once powerful lobbyists…






Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: Lhoffman on January 10, 2008, 08:28:31 PM
Edith Wharton....Henry James.  Interesting relationship.  (Is Culwin Henry?)

http://www.readbookonline.net/readOnLine/3255/


Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: pugetopolis on January 11, 2008, 03:04:37 AM
(http://www.womenwriters.net/domesticgoddess/images/whartonportrait.jpg)
Edith Wharton

The Eyes (1910)

“Among his contemporaries
there lingered a vague tradition
of his having, at a remote period,
and in a romantic clime, been
wounded in a duel...”
—Edith Wharton, The Eyes

Thru the haze of cigars—
And after a few drinks my eyes
Having grown in the evening   
Somewhat accustomed to the
Darkness of the study with its 
Fine library of old books and
Gilded bindings and old oak
Walls…

That’s when Storytelling—
Both at its best and perhaps
Most boring would begin—
Especially once Monsieur
Pugetopolis got going… 

[Please excuse me while
I interrupt my Mouth to
Interject a much more
Simple and pleasing
Answer to your question,
My dear Hoffman, about
Culwin being Henry…]

As you  probably know—
James wrote a similar
Ghost story enticingly
Entitled “The Jolly Corner”—
Published as pulp fiction 
First in Ford Madox Ford’s
English Review (Dec 1908)
And later more hoity-toity
In Miss James’s The Novels
And Tales of Henry James—
The classy somewhat addled
New York Edition (1909) with
Its ingeniously maddening
Prefaces going on and on
Which didn’t sell so well—
So that there was plenty of
Time for Edith to read it and
Do her own charming risqué
Version of the rather queer
And delightful tale— Whish!
There goes my version of
It entitled “The Jolly Closet.” 

Both tales tell the story—
“The Double” story again
Resurrecting itself like it
Always does to challenge
The writerly imagination
To come up with yet still 
Another ghostly version
Of the “queer in extremis”—
Something dear to the
Deconstructionists who
Thrive on doubling and
All that jazz…

I shan’t detour tho—
Not quite yet anyway—
Into the labyrinthine
Maze of Miss James
Or Edith Wharton’s
Queer performativity—
Either “The Eye” or
“Jolly Closet’ or even
“The Turn of the Screw” —
Other than to say that
My fondest desire now
as I delve deeper into
‘Ghostly fiction’ would be
To take a long drive into
The Berkshire woods
And dark countryside
With Edith behind the
Wheel and Henry James
As my fine raconteur
And guileful guide into
The New England mind
And imagination of those
Other two finely gifted yet
Troubled supernaturalists—
Ghostly Herman Melville
And haunting Hawthorne…




Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: pugetopolis on January 11, 2008, 07:52:16 AM
(http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/thumb/e/e8/Demuth_Charles_Turkish_Bath_with_Self_Portrait_1918.jpg/467px-Demuth_Charles_Turkish_Bath_with_Self_Portrait_1918.jpg)
Charles Demuth Turkish Bath with Self-Portrait 1918

Deconstructing Turn of the Screw

“He knew that he would suffer
no further indignity at the hands
of theater audiences; he would
devote himself, as he had
pledged, to the silent art of
fiction.”
—Colm Tóibín
The Master

Henry James’s ghost story—
“The Turn of the Screw”—
Is actually the story of his
Totally unexpected and 
Terribly rude “screw job”—
After his long-awaited play
Guy Domville not only
Flopped—but went down
Screaming in embarrassing
Flames—while Miss Wilde’s
An Ideal Husband playing
At the Haymarket was a
Popular great success...   

But Turn of the Screw—
It's also a play—
A gay charming yet
Hauntingly vindictive little
Piece of performance art—
Full of dramatic flair and
Suspense perhaps with
“The Importance of Being
A Queen Bee” as its not
So subtle subtitle…



Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: pugetopolis on January 11, 2008, 08:14:34 AM
(http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/thumb/c/c5/Demuth_Charles_Incense_of_a_New_Church%2C_1921.jpg/468px-Demuth_Charles_Incense_of_a_New_Church%2C_1921.jpg)
Charles Demuth Incense of a New Church 1921

Performance Art

“He took up his pen
again—the pen of all
his unforgettable efforts
and sacred struggles…”
—Colm Tóibín
The Master

Rather than write—
For the fickle mob like
Oscar Wilde riding the
Tiger of fame and public
Misfortune across the
Stygian Thames—James
Would write for himself
Instead projecting his
Hopes and fears on a
Stage more becoming
To his gay imagination…

He would transform—
Both himself and his
Work from then on into
A theater of the mind—
If there was going to be
A screw-job he was going 
To do it to himself—

No flaunting foppish son
Of some tacky Marquess
Of Queensberry would
Do him in like Oscar got
Screwed—no fussy boy
No mad Marquess no
Fickle mob would ever
Screw him again—
James would screw
Them all instead…




Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: pugetopolis on January 11, 2008, 08:34:45 AM
(http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/b/b9/Demuth%2C_Charles_%281883-1935%29_-_1930_-_Distinguished_air_-_Acquarello.jpg)
Charles Demuth Distnguished Air 1930

The Archbishop of Canterbury

“He was ready to
begin again, to return
to the old high art of
fiction…”
—Colm Tóibín
The Master

After Gay Domville flopped—
James commiserated with
The Archbishop of Canterbury
Edward White Benson outside
London at the dark brooding
Archiepiscopal residence—
Addington…

Returning to De Vere Gardens
James wrote in his notebook—
“Note here the ghost-story
told me at Addington by the
Archbishop—the mere vague
Undetailed faint sketch of it.”

James brooded over it—
Turning the screw of it over
And over in his mind—taking
Three years to find a strategy
To fit his queer performativity…




Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: pugetopolis on January 11, 2008, 08:40:30 AM
(http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/7/76/Demuth_Charles_The_Jazz_Singer_1916.jpg)
Charles Demuth The Jazz Singer 1916

Pulp Fiction

“He had begun the story
as a potboiler, a way of
fulfilling a contract.”
—Colm Tóibín
The Master

Miss James was perverse—
Precociously perverse in her
Youth—polymorphously
Perverse as she got older
And wiser like the laconic
Miss Havisham in Great
Expectations…

She needed a cute Pip—
And a young beautiful girl
Like petulant Jean Simmons
To entertain her with cards
And games of chance to
Distract her from her sad
Wedding night that never
Was or would be real…

Instead Miss James—
Like bitter Miss Havisham
Would drown herself in
The depths of some dim
Sexual subaqueously fetid
Otherworldly ghostly dark
Haunted mansion that only
The sullen world of fiction
Could encompass—first as
Potboiler pulp fiction then
A novella spawning celluloid
Fantasies in the future…   




Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: pugetopolis on January 11, 2008, 08:50:38 AM
(http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/d/da/Demuth_Charles_Wild_Orchids_1920.jpg)
Charles Demuth Wild Orchids 1920

The Governess

“He allowed her to fool
herself, something he
had never allowed
anyone before.”
—Colm Tóibín
The Master

He became her—
Something he had never
Done before—giving
Himself permission to
Wallow in the fear and
Loathing of the moment—
To scare himself with
The love that dared not
Utter its shameful name…

He wanted to know her—
To feel askance and
Ashamed of herself for
What she wants to do with
Miles nude in bed erect or
In the moonlit garden—
The unspeakable things
Quint and the previous
Young governess got
Sucked into every night
In the brooding Tower…




Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: pugetopolis on January 11, 2008, 08:56:53 AM
(http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/f/f8/Demuth_Charles_Trees_and_Barns_Bermuda_1917.jpg)
Charles Demuth Bermuda 1917

Peter Quint

“He worked….”
 —Colm Tóibín
The Master

He worked hard at it—
Becoming the leering face
In the dining room window—
Pressing his evil ogling
Eyeball up close to the
Cold cruel glass…

He worked hard at it—
Step by step witnessing
Himself omitting himself
As he became the Other
In love with Miles the
Not so innocent youth
Precocious beyond his
Most perverted expectations…

He worked hard at it—
His love affair with Miles
Playing coy like some
Innocent naïve seductress—
Posing as a calm cool and
Above-it-all Governess—
Then switching over to
Evil Peter Quint who’d
Come for the boy Miles..




Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: pugetopolis on January 11, 2008, 09:13:05 AM
(http://images.tribe.net/tribe/upload/photo/1a0/c11/1a0c1185-21bf-4215-9592-c898c8f460c2)
John Singer Sargent Portrait of Edouard Pailleron (1881)

Miles

“Slowly, however,
if became apparent to him
that he had imagined for them
strange private selves…’’ 
—Colm Tóibín
The Master

It was like something new—
Sleek smooth streamlined
Performance art by James—
Staging a thoughtful and
Rather provocative play— 
A modernist melodrama
Updated for some future
More postmodern time—
With all the twists and turns
Of a Flaubert scandal…

It wasn’t a Novella—
It was more a perverted
Pagan polymorphism—
A many-headed hydra
Each with its own kind
Of perverted dialog—
That after awhile cajoled
James into becoming
Their eyes and ears—
First Quint then Miles
Then Flora…

Then the tale of horror—
The delicious ultimate
Voyeurisme—the horrified
Breach of decorum by
The lovesick governess—
When Deborah Kerr holds
Miles tightly in her arms—
Squeezing the last drop
Of desperate boyhood
Out of him—worse than
Evil Bosie did with his
Nude London hustlers…


Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: pugetopolis on January 11, 2008, 12:46:05 PM
(http://ecx.images-amazon.com/images/I/41VYV1AGEGL._SS500_.jpg)

hoffman nnyhav

One of Charles Demuth's illustrations of Turn of the Screw from
the original Colliers Weekly magazine James's story appeared in
is on the cover of the second edition of the Cambridge Companion
for the novella, entiltled "Miles and the Governess." That's why
I included the Demuth work in the Thread I posted... 


Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: pugetopolis on January 11, 2008, 01:23:44 PM
(http://images.tribe.net/tribe/upload/photo/1a0/c11/1a0c1185-21bf-4215-9592-c898c8f460c2)
John Singer Sargent Portrait of Edouard Pailleron (1881)

While the cover of the Penguin Classic version of Turn of the Screw
and Aspern Papers by John Singer Sargent has "Miles" looking
more mature than the Demuth...







Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: nnyhav on January 11, 2008, 02:13:30 PM
(http://ecx.images-amazon.com/images/I/41CSVW5MAXL._BO2,204,203,200_PIsitb-dp-500-arrow,TopRight,45,-64_OU02_AA240_SH20_.jpg)
Res ipsa loquitur.


Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: Lhoffman on January 11, 2008, 03:36:34 PM
The paintings were most enjoyable.  I like Demuth.  I like his use of color....throughout all of his periods.  His works after his industrial series have a rather wry (self-aware?) quality about them.  See Three Sailors Dancing, 1918, color if you can get hold of it. 


Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: pugetopolis on January 11, 2008, 10:57:28 PM
(http://images.tribe.net/tribe/upload/photo/1a0/c11/1a0c1185-21bf-4215-9592-c898c8f460c2)
John Singer Sargent Portrait of Edouard Pailleron (1881)

People read this novel as a ghost story or as a story about an unreliable narrator.  But, given HJ's closeted homosexuality, perhaps the novel is really about Miles, and really the question becomes "Who is Miles?"

Who is Miles?

Not since Lolita—
has there been so much ink
spilled and spent and wasted
on such a youthful fictional
character…     

It seems like the more
secondaire literature I read—
the more I wonder who
Miles really is or was or
could be?

I’ve never read so many
opinions in my life—literary,
biographical, autobiographical,
Freudian, deconstructive and...
And even other fictional
variations on the ghostly
theme by other writers such
as Edith Wharton’s fascinating
tale “The Eye.”

I’ve even browsed and bungled
 my way through vast tomes of
arcane case studies concerning
hysterical 19th century Edmund
Wilson-esque narratives as well
as astute imaginative MLA papers
going into excruciating all-knowing
details about the abnormal love-life
of pimply-faced adolescent boys
in love with valets, governesses
and their little sisters…

All of which is absolutely
fascinating—the kind of kinky
stuff I’m sure the Master would
find entertaining on cold and
rainy nights like tonight…

The perennial permission that
'supernaturalist' authors such as
Poe, Hawthorne, Wharton and
James usher in with their ghostly
tales never ceases to amaze me—
surely it must be a sort of
odd “readerly” thing to take
advantage of such an invitation
and run like crazy with it…

‘Literary concupiscence’—
as Anthony Curtis calls it in his
Introduction to the Penguin
Classic  Edition of “Screw”
and “Aspern Papers”—is
such an exceptionally
fine phrase for this literary
phenomenon even tho it is
quite a mouthful isn't it?

‘Literary concupiscence’
implies a compulsive urge
to possess  a novel, a tale
or a short story—so much
so that it can become
almost all-consuming like
some kind of overwhelming
erotic desire.

Such ‘literary concupiscence’
seems to afflict so many
readers of “Screw”—literary
critics, biographers, teachers,
psychologists, bored
housewives—but surely
not me!!! 




Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: pugetopolis on January 12, 2008, 01:07:52 AM
(http://images.tribe.net/tribe/upload/photo/1a0/c11/1a0c1185-21bf-4215-9592-c898c8f460c2)
John Singer Sargent Portrait of Edouard Pailleron (1881)

Interview with Miles

“The boy that that hath no music in himself,
Nor is not moved with concord of sweet songs,
Is fit for treasons, stratagems and spoils…”
—Shakespeare, The Merchant of Venice   

Interviewer—Good evening, Miles…

Miles—What’s good about it?

Interviewer—Well, it’s a “dark and
stormy night” as the say…

Miles—Don’t get any ideas, mister,
you’re not my type…

Interviewer—But I was just being coy
and facetious…

Miles—Yeah, right…just like Miss Tóibín
and Miss Edel…

Interviewer—Tell me, Miles, are you
still living at Bly?

Miles—Why would I want-to leave?
Just because I’m dead?

Interviewer—What’s it like to be dead?

Miles—Well, I’m still here aren’t I? You
dumb cluck!?!

Interviewer—Tell me, Miles, is Peter Quint
still your sugar daddy?

Miles—Yeah, I’m pretty much the kept
boy type… But then I’ve always been a
nice little boy here at Bly and everywhere
else. I miss the boys at school, but the
schoolmaster and teachers were  just
jealous that’s all. All the boys wanted
to be my boyfriends—including all the
teacher’s pets…

Interviewer—Do you feel now after
over 100 years has gone by that you’ve
always been somewhat a victim of
literary concupiscence and Jamesian
high camp gossip?

Miles—What’s this? True Confessions
or Soap Opera Time?

Interviewer—I was just wondering
about whether all this literary scholarship
and debate still going on has added
any ironic resonance to the tale at
the expense of any lack of resolution
as to your role in the novella?

Miles—Why not ask Miss James?
She lives over in the Tower.

Interviewer—She’s a ghost here too?

Miles—Oh yes indeed, Miss James
is still quite the omnivorous omniscient
observer type—eavesdropping on
precious conversations that can be
worked into further full-length tales.
A pulp fiction novelist’s work is
never done…

Interviewer—Henry James is still writing?

Miles—Well, sure she is… After all,
Madame James got used to the most
exclusive London drawing-rooms,
the grandest country-houses and
she fit in ever so nicely with the more
cosmopolitan socialites of Europe
back then and she hasn’t changed
much since then… She does
You-Tube endlessly, my dear…

Interviewer—Are you saying
Turn of he Screw is still going on?

Miles—Oh indubitably, my dear sir…
 It’s never stopped… In fact, it’s still
slowly growing beyond the novella
stage…

Interviewer—How far is that?

Miles—Oh, about 6 inches worth…

Interviewer—Thank you, Miles…




Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: pugetopolis on January 12, 2008, 09:13:20 AM
(http://images.tribe.net/tribe/upload/photo/378/28b/37828b7d-18e4-45c9-9a99-17b3571e1ca0)
Charles Demuth, Miles and the Governess, Collier's Weekly 1998
http://snipurl.com/1x8qr

Hoffman nnyhav

This scan of Demuth's "Miles and the Governess"
from the cover of the Norton Critical Second Edition
of James's The Turn of the Screw first appeared in
Collier's Weekly in early 1998. As I mentioned earlier
it shows a more delicate subtle version of Miles
when compared with the John Singer Sargent Portrait
of Edouard Pailleron (1881) on the cover of the
Penguin Classic Turn of the Screw. Representation
of this major Jamesian character has drawn little
critical attention from scholars who have focused
mostly on the unnamed Governess in terms of
literary criticism. The other Collier illustrations by
Demuth would be interesting to look at and the
relationship between James and Demuth might
shed some light on the novella as well. Demuth's
technique intrigues me and I wonder if Collier's
Weekly displayed the color version or simply the
black and white print. The color version of Dancing
Saliors I also scanned and will post later; from
Weinberg's Male Desire: The Homoerotic in American
Art. Male representation in art and literature in the
late 19th and early 20th century... imho they both
go hand in hand as the Collier's Weekly editors
were aware of...



Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: pugetopolis on January 12, 2008, 10:22:30 AM
(http://images.tribe.net/tribe/upload/photo/1a0/c11/1a0c1185-21bf-4215-9592-c898c8f460c2)

Deconstructing Miles

Bruce Robbins, “Recognition: Servant in the Ending,” The Turn of the Screw: Norton Critical Second Edition, New York: Norton, 1999, pages 238-240

1. “As the pro-ghost party has observed, much emphasis is given to the aspect of a fallen Eden, an earthly paradise. Her terms for the innocence of the children are borrowed from the golden age. Miles, as the governess says, has an “innocence describable little air of knowing nothing in the world but love” (p. 13).

“In a sense, all the evil she later finds in this paradise does not dislodge this initial view. Miles has known love, the governess decides—the love between governess and valet. The hypothesis can thus be formulated that if his innocence seems not of this world, it is precisely because he, unlike most earthly children, has known love that triumphs over class in a house without a master.”

[This class distinction in terms of literary criticism is interesting in comparison with the usual Edel-Freudian interpretations from the first Edition. Robbins states his interpretation of The Turn of the Screw and then goes ahead and deconstructs the plot from the servant’s point of view.]

2. “And this hypothesis returns upon the governess herself. One reviewer called The Turn of the Screw “a study of infernal human debauchery.” But this debauchery could better be seen as a sort of deconstruction of the human, as its etymology suggests: “ébaucher” is to lay the foundation, construct the skeleton; to debauch is to remove it, to deconstruct.”

“In expressing its desire, the self exposes an identity or an identification—not upon which it is built, but toward which it is projected. Whether the governess loves the children’s innocence or participates in their debauchery, her desire projects her toward the servant-ghosts.”

[See Alejandro Amenábar’s The Others (2001) in terms of plot development with “ghostly servants.”]

3 “Recall how far the text goes not only to show that evil is defined in class terms but also to remind us that the governess herself is a servant. As one example among many, there is her cross-examination of Mrs. Grose concerning Miles and his intimacy with Quint:

“If Quint—on your remonstrance at the time you speak of—was a base menial, one of the things Miles said to you, I find myself guessing, was that you were another.” Again her admission was so adequate that I continued: “And you forgave him that?”

“Wouldn’t you?”

“Oh yes!” And we exchanged there, in the stillness, a sound of the oddest amusement. (p. 6)

Mrs. Grose’s “Wouldn’t you?” suggests to the governess, in a mode approaching that of stage comedy, what so many critics of The Turn of the Screw have suggested in the mode of scholarly irony: her resemblance to the servant-ghosts, from which we can deduce the fragility of an “evil” that depends for its existence on nothing more than the illusion of otherness. In this sense it can be maintained that The Turn of the Screw projects an unrealized “happy end”: the return of Bly to the (classless) Edenic state in which the governess first found it, the evaporation from her world of the “evil” that she added to it, which would result from her recognition of what so many voices are trying to tell her—her identity with “the others.”

[This identification with “the others” is very much like the slow identification of Nicole Kidman with the ghostly servants in Alejandro Amenábar’s The Others (2001) which develops Robbins’s deconstruction of the text along class lines rather than Wilson’s psychoanalytic view involving female hysteria. The surprise ending to Amenábar’s version of James’s tale seems to represent class as an important subversive factor in the novella’s plot.]




Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: pugetopolis on January 12, 2008, 05:59:47 PM
(http://www.pbs.org/wnet/americannovel/timeline/images/james_pic.jpg)

Deconstructing Poetry

“In James the poet and the
novelist were inseparable...”
—Graham Greene
   The Lost Childhood

The technique is simple—
That it’s a dogma no critic
Can dispute since James was
The first critic of the novel…

What’s merely stated—
Isn’t presented and what
Isn’t presented isn’t vivid—
And what isn’t vivid isn’t
Represented and what
Isn’t represented isn’t 
Worth reading…

Novels and poetry—
They’re like tiered-adders
Coiling themselves
Around the caducean
Wand of the writer’s
Pen racing across
The page…

Mushy Hardy lost—
Inside his melodramatic
Laocoon lagoons—
Clueless to the art of
Fiction while James
Shared his technique
Thru his Prefaces...






Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: pugetopolis on January 12, 2008, 06:37:51 PM
(http://www.pbs.org/wnet/americannovel/timeline/images/james_pic.jpg)

Against Melodrama

“The black and merciless
things that are behind
great possessions”
—Henry James
The Ivory Tower

He was a Puritan—
Prim and proper like
Nathaniel Hawthorne—
With a nose for the Pit
And a New England eye
For prurient Prudes…

According to James—
Novels were dramatic
But they didn’t have to
Be melodramatic—
The problem being
How to admit violence
Without being violent…

Violence oozes—
Subdued, subtle and
Exquisitely slow—
Thru the Narrative of
The Pit which is the
Rotten and mean
Corrupt human heart…

James’s novels—
They’re a lot like
The novels and
Entertainments of 
Graham Greene—
Think Holly Martins
And The Third Man…   




Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: nnyhav on January 12, 2008, 09:06:07 PM
Deconstructing Poetry

“In James the poet and the
novelist were inseparable...”
—Graham Greene
   The Lost Childhood

The technique is simple—
That it’s a dogma no critic
Can dispute since James was
The first critic of the novel…

[...]

Mushy Hardy lost—
Inside his melodramatic
Laocoon lagoons—
Clueless to the art of
Fiction while James
Shared his technique
Thru his Prefaces...

Shared?! Prevaricated. OK, an essential element of his Technique, but still.


Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: pugetopolis on January 12, 2008, 10:32:23 PM
(http://www.pbs.org/wnet/americannovel/timeline/images/james_pic.jpg)

Shared?! Prevaricated. OK, an essential element of his Technique, but still.

“I recall for instance a reproach made me by a reader capable evidently, for the time, of some attention, but not quite capable of enough, who complained that I hadn’t sufficiently “characterized” my young woman engaged in her labyrinth; hadn’t endowed her with signs and marks, features and humors, hadn’t in a word invited her to deal with her own mystery and that of Peter Quint…”

—Henry James, Preface to the New York Edition, The Aspern Papers;
The Turn of the Screw; The Liar; The Two Faces, Volume XII, The Novels and Tales of Henry James, pp. xiv-xxii, 1908, The Turn of the Screw, New York: Norton Critical Edition, 1999, 123-129






Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: pugetopolis on January 12, 2008, 11:30:38 PM
(http://www.pbs.org/wnet/americannovel/timeline/images/james_pic.jpg)

The Art of Fiction

“This is to say, I recognize again,
that Peter Quint and Miss Jessei
are not “ghosts” at all, as we now
know the ghosts.”
—Henry James, Preface to the
New York Edition

I don’t know which is worse—

The Turn of the Screw or the New York Preface…

Both the novella and preface are full of lies…

Lies, lies and more lies…

And I thought Nabokov was bad…

Endless lies, petty prevarications,
maddening meanderings, evasive
detours, unreliable narrative—plus
an equivocating author who lies
up the yin-yang…

This is the lofty art of fiction?

What’s a reader to do?

 


Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: Lhoffman on January 12, 2008, 11:46:45 PM
But to start at the beginning, before the question of the Governess, before the question of Miles, is the narrator reliable?  Is his sordid little Christmas tale simply an attempt at one-upsmanship?  or is he bowing to the social conventions of the day, when people had to make their own entertainments?


Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: Lhoffman on January 12, 2008, 11:52:30 PM
although what I have forgotten is that Douglas had to send his manservant to town to get the manuscript of the tale.  Is Douglas reliable?  He tells us that the governess is quite creditable.


Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: Lhoffman on January 12, 2008, 11:54:54 PM
The manuscript:

"Is in old, faded ink, and in the most beautiful hand." He hung fire again. "A woman's. She has been dead these twenty years. She sent me the pages in question before she died." They were all listening now, and of course there was somebody to be arch, or at any rate to draw the inference. But if he put the inference by without a smile it was also without irritation. "She was a most charming person, but she was ten years older than I. She was my sister's governess," he quietly said. "She was the most agreeable woman I've ever known in her position; she would have been worthy of any whatever. It was long ago, and this episode was long before. I was at Trinity, and I found her at home on my coming down the second summer. I was much there that year--it was a beautiful one; and we had, in her off-hours, some strolls and talks in the garden--talks in which she struck me as awfully clever and nice. Oh yes; don't grin: I liked her extremely and am glad to this day to think she liked me, too. If she hadn't she wouldn't have told me. She had never told anyone. It wasn't simply that she said so, but that I knew she hadn't. I was sure; I could see. You'll easily judge why when you hear."


Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: pugetopolis on January 13, 2008, 05:14:42 AM
But to start at the beginning, before the question of the Governess, before the question of Miles, is the narrator reliable?

So many unreliable narrators... so little time.

But then, let's look at a few of the major ones...


Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: pugetopolis on January 13, 2008, 05:17:35 AM
(http://www.pbs.org/wnet/americannovel/timeline/images/james_pic.jpg)

The Politics of Fiction

“No writer has been the victim—
of more misleading criticism than
Henry James, from the  cruel
Caricature by Mr. Wells to the
Rather snappy sentimentalities
Of Mr. Van Wyck Brooks. A
Great deal of superficiality
And intellectual dishonesty
Has gone to this [tacky]
Misrepresentation…” 
—Graham Greene
   The Lesson of The Master
   The Portable Graham Greene
   London: Penguin, 1994

Some of the worst Lit Crit—
The nagging carping crummy
Kind of literary criticism—
The tacky begrudging kind
That Graham Greene called
“The black and merciless
Things that are behind
Great possessions…”

The bitter vindictive kind—
Luxuriating under rocks
Like snakes over in the
Gay rights forum where
Prevaricating fag-baiting
Pedophile politics is
Raising its ugly head…

Morris Fraser saying—
The “horror” of Quint is
James’s horror of his
Own homosexuality—
His physical attraction
To seraphic boys like
Poor little Miles and—
That Quint is a morbid
Hallucination there
Inside the perverted
Imagination of queer
Henry James the gay
Author himself…

(Please note—The above reference to James’s supposed “boy-love” is mentioned by Alexander Curtis in the Penguin Classic Edition of James’s The Turn of the Screw and The Aspern Papers (Introduction p. 21) taken from “the Northern Ireland Psychiatrist and authority on disturbed children” Morris Fraser’s somewhat outdated and rather romantically entitled tome—The Death of Narcissus (Secker & Warburg, 1976). Doctor Fraser’s Homophobic Lit Crit is another anti-gay example of the “Edmund Wilson” psychiatric faction that dabbles in James Literature—opining that the Governess’s “female hysteria” in James’s The Turn of the Screw is the basis for all the ghosts and fairies and hobgoblins in James’s novella and that surely all the fuss can be reduced to the excesses of Mr. James’s rather over-active queer imagination—an issue now being hotly debated by postmodern literary critics and deconstructionists like Eve Kosofsky Sedgwick with her Epistemology of the Closet and Between Men: English Literature and Male Homosexual Desire.) 
 

 



Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: pugetopolis on January 13, 2008, 07:10:09 AM
(http://www.pbs.org/wnet/americannovel/timeline/images/james_pic.jpg)

The Archbishop of Canterbury

But to start at the beginning, before the question of the Governess, before the question of Miles, is the narrator reliable?  Is his sordid little Christmas tale simply an attempt at one-upsmanship?  or is he bowing to the social conventions of the day, when people had to make their own entertainments?

“Note here the ghost-story
told me at Addington
(evening of Thursday 10th), by
the Archbishop of Canterbury”
—Henry James, Notebook Entry

Even before the sordid Xmas story “framing” of James’s ghostly little tale—the truly astute Reader must surely question the reliability of the Archbishop himself or rather James’s Notebook rendition of conversing with the esteemed Archbishop that “dark and stormy” night around the fire at the Addington Estate near London: 

“Saturday, January 12th, 1895. Note here the ghost-story told me at Addington (evening of Thursday 10th), by the Archbishop of Canterbury: the mere, vague, undetached, faint sketch of it—being all that he had been told (very badly and imperfectly)… It is all obscure and imperfect, the picture, the story, hat there is a suggestion of a strangely gruesome effect in it. The story to be told—tolerably obviously—by an outside spectator, observer.”
—Henry James, Notebook Entry, The Turn of the Screw, New York: Norton Critical Edition, to page 112.     

Sounds kind of fishy doesn’t it?

A suspicious skeptical Reader might even doubt that James actually got the idea for the tale from the Archbishop at all. In fact none of Archbishop Benson’s sons could ever remember their father telling them such an anecdote.

Thus from the very beginning, a typically cautious Reader might already have raised eyebrows about James’s reliability as a narrator. As some critics have suggested, James could have written the Notebook entry just to cover his own tracks—and take advantage of some well-placed “name-dropping” to add some glitter and a little class to his little ghost-story.

After all, “name-dropping” isn’t anything new—it happens all the time here in this Elba forum. Usually for the same reasons that James uses the esteemed Archbishop in his storyline—to add credibility and upper class-consciousness to oneself and one’s storytelling abilities. “Name-droppings” not only add prestige and believability to narrative—it also enhances sales as the editors of Collier’s Weekly knew when they had James add a cheery Xmas frame-job to round out the pot-boiler pulp fiction series nicely…




Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: pugetopolis on January 13, 2008, 08:48:47 AM
(http://www.pbs.org/wnet/americannovel/timeline/images/james_pic.jpg)

More Ghostly Unreliable Narratives

“But her courage is a mask for deep hysteria…”
—Leon Edel, The Life of Henry James, Penguin, 1977.

To make things even more unreliable and complicated—there’s always the usual nefarious sexist mud-slinging ad hominem-dishing garbage-tossing chauvinist-pig queer-bashers—only too willing and able to rat around in the dark recesses of their aroused Freudian basements and feverishly psychoanalyze a writer like James or Nabokov to shreds…

No wonder Vladimir called them shabby charlatans…pimping the libido as a poor excuse for the muse…

These neo-Freudian nincompoops early in the game quickly took the suggestion that the ghosts were the product of the governess’s hysteria or repressed neurosis—suggesting that the tale was actually the acting-out of a drama buried not so much in the psyche of the governess as it was in Henry James himself.

For example, Anthony Curtis is his Penguin Intro to “Screw” says:

“Edel, never at a loss to produce a psychological key to fit the puzzle of one of James’s works, suggests that the tale represents a reenactment of the sibling rivalry that existed between Henry and his more dominant brother William. Bly is the house of childhood and writing about it coincides with James’s move out of the London hurly-burly to Lamb House at the homophonous Rye, a kind of adult reversion to the prime childhood world where its was safer and easier to be girlish.” ???   

Not satisfied with that weird Fabulation—Edel then nonchalantly switches gender roles over to the tale being a punitive fable about “male” assertiveness = Miles’s wish to he a boy among boys and the fact that his expressing such a wish is seen by the governess as evil.   

Edel reminds me of burlesque artist or drag queen—the way he shifts gender narrative at the drop of a hat. As if he’s somehow desperate to cram James’s as well an Miles’s personalities into any old rat-hole he can find so that he can set back and say “See? There’s a rational alpha-male butchy missionary position answer to everything!”

Edel the all-knowing all-seeing omniscient observer Biographer—he even gloms onto James’s Prefaces to buttress his sagging arguments—pointing out the shift in James’s point of view in “Screw” from the governess’s “I perceived” to “I felt” at least twice somehow obviously demonstrates that her somewhat more “female hysteric” feelings were more important manifestations to her character and the plot and action than merely “seeing” what was going on along with other objective perceptions.

How absolutely sexist and male chauvinist can one get?
   


Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: nnyhav on January 13, 2008, 11:34:09 AM
Who ya gonna believe?

Which Henry James? The fiction writer or the revisionist? The Prefaces are a reframing of the artist without due respect for the art, a distancing, not an improvement, a biographical intercession upon the earlier artist. Never trust the biographer for the full story, it's only a story about a story ...

James & Nabokov were more incisive within their art than they were about it. Both retouched after the fact; Nabokov more justified in that he was 'Englishing' past work from Russian. But neither can be relied upon for self-critique, and James was more actively rewriting his biography, and destroying what didn't fit the image he wanted to project -- different from merely not addressing what might not be flattering to future biographers (e.g. Vladimir's neglect of Sergei, interpreted as homophobia by many critics, compounded by stereotypical Kinbote). Both wanted to write stories, not be stories written by others; HJ pre-empted by rewriting himself, not as expertly as his stories, and with more repressed, while VN had Vera as amaneusis to maintain a more flattering image. HJ's essay on the art of fiction says more, and more directly, about his approach than do the Prefaces, which are a fiction of art, not serving the art. Both wrote about misappropriation, but HJ later tried to paper it over.


Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: madupont on January 13, 2008, 05:08:09 PM
Since you have brought up class consciousness, that is a much better diagnosis than "feminine hysteria" in Freudian or Arthur Schnitzler's understanding for Kubrick's eventual,Eyes Wide Shut. Why anyone thought it would do to translate it through HIV/AIDS propensity brought on by  indiscriminate sex instead of leaving it where it was at in the good old days of mental illness resulting from syphilis and gonorhea is anybody's guess.

I took up the matter of class consciousness in the fiction forum of nytimes.com where everybody groaned about having their happy hour ruined, when they just wanted to talk about the nice ladies of Howard's End.  But I find it fascinating to discover the gap of some sixty years between that novel and Edward Morgan Forster's ability to let on about Maurice.   Some people think that James Wilby is the only thing that the films of these two novels have in common.

It's awkward to deal with people who don't have a class consciousness by the 21st. century when explaining that perhaps Morgan wasn't trying that hard to remain in the closet but that he had lived into another time when it became obvious that the relations he discussed in these novels were replete not only with the old Freudian " dominance and submission"
are at the heart of a passing fancy, but that people had become sensitive to taking advantage of a class privilege to have sexual relations with a lower class that expected to make a little on the transaction of trading sexual favors for pocket change or favouritism.

Henry James knew none of this however, or at least could have denied it in good conscience.  His Yankee view from the James' family household,with a Christian Socialist as his father, left something to be desired which he describes as a conversation on the lawn of a beautiful home of a class somewhat above his.   Like many writers, he wrote wish-fulfillment occasionally. Today, mostly Romance writers have done enough of that.  This has nothing whatever to do with sex on the surface or even repressed but it is the same desire of English servants to get on.
Therefore it was absolutely necessary for Henry to do Europe on the grand tour just like the girls of good family.   Henry James hadn't a clue about that. The whys and wherefores.  But he dived right in.

I gather you find yourself a better writer than Thomas Hardy or D.H. Lawrence, enough said. In any case, no sooner had somebody handed you the key of entry to the archived forums then you perused what you could use of earlier James discussions because you once asked me what things had been done in forums and I said we had a pretty good Portrait of a Lady.  Not really. It may be that Colm Toibin has more flatly stated what is problematic with Osmond; but, again as with Forster,and the time between not being long between movies, not at all odd that the character role portrayed by John Malkovich has dealt with what makes Osmond tick in another role five years before with Andie MacDowell,The Object of Beauty.

The idea behind this is that the desire for beautiful objects in themselves prevents a receptive relationship with more human qualities than acquisition.  It is the same old "getting on" to succeed , or selling oneself for some amount to the master.

Sometimes people want to be somebody and they project that. So I am not surprised that first you would decide by making notes from the old archives of the nytimes how to get on, and then baldly say, that I use class conscious uppityness, to denigrate me after using what you scraped off the plate I prepared.

Yes, I agree that Henry James ran into himself with Turn of the Screw, this was the very topic in fact that someone in the nytimes forum did years back before you arrived there,and then he arrived here and left again. Amazing.  But you do go on about it, boringly so. Everybody got this tale when they wanted to read it but your consciousness consists of supposing that nobody got it but you.


Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: pugetopolis on January 13, 2008, 05:51:50 PM
Who ya gonna believe?

Interesting...


Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: Lhoffman on January 13, 2008, 06:16:19 PM
 :D :D  Yes, there's always the Archbishop. 

But as to "who ya gonna believe," isn't that the whole point?  Lit Crit, Literary Theory...What's a poor reader to do when even the "experts" don't agree?  Do we believe what the author has to say about himself, does he speak for his characters, do the characters ever speak for him?

He was not a writer of fictions, but Leibnitz comes to mind.  I would bet that Borges has quite a little bit of fun with his readers, too.


Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: pugetopolis on January 13, 2008, 07:04:23 PM
(http://www.pbs.org/wnet/americannovel/timeline/images/james_pic.jpg)

Portrait of a Lady
—for Henry James

“The art of fiction—
as a cheap raid on the real”
—Frank Tóibín
   The Master

I’ve been thinking about you—
How writers invent themselves
And what they say afterwards
About how they got away
With it again & again…

The cheap tricks, my dear—
All those tacky prevarications
Inventing things like the old
Archbishop of Canterbury
Mumbling about Miles…

And your NY Prefaces—
Preening like some queenly
Self-important Cheshire Cat
Covering your tracks, dear,
Before the critics descend…

Simply shameless—
All those tragic portraits of
Yourself as gay American
Bon vivant swishing thru
Palazzo Barbaro secrets…

Inventing innocence—
Again and again while
Stealing ideas from your
Trusting lady confidants
Like Constance Woolson…

Inventing secret hurts—
Avoiding Civil War duties
And other obligations…
Smirking to yourself
Within portraits of guile…

Inventing love affairs—
Young ambitious men
Like Paul Zhukovski and
Hendrik Anderson who
Only wanted to use you…

The art of fiction—
Tricking there in Paris…
Doing cute gondoliers
In pale fetid Venetian
Moonlit lagoons…

Naturally I’m envious—
So many exquisite and
Deliciously divinely
Excruciatingly poignant
Portraits of a Lady


http://www.gaypoetry.com/design/poetry_dis.asp?dataID=34961


Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: Lhoffman on January 13, 2008, 07:56:22 PM
ah, but when you tell a good story, there is a certain romance about it.  Move a lady's heart and she will forgive just about anything.

I love the visual aspect of your "Portrait of a Lady." 

Preening like some queenly
Self-important Cheshire Cat
Covering your tracks, dear,
Before the critics descend…


(you do know where it is that cats cover their tracks....)

Smirking to yourself
Within portraits of guile


...exquisite and
Deliciously divinely
Excruciatingly poignant
Portraits of a Lady…



Quite the portrait you have drawn, and I too, am envious.




Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: pugetopolis on January 13, 2008, 09:20:07 PM
(http://www.javno.com/slike/slike_3/r1/g2007/m02/x63131931105764147.jpg)

The Dispossessed Boy

“He met Walt Whitman (who
kissed him); he met Henry
James (whom he insulted);
he met Jesse James (‘The
Americans always take their
heroes from the criminal
classes.’)”—Colm Tóibín,
Oscar Wilde: Love in a
Dark Time   

Dispossessed boys—
They’re the worst kinds…
Ghostly adolescents like cute
Miles in Henry James’s
The Turn of the Screw…

Dispossessed youths—
Like John Singer Sargent’s
Portrait of Edouard Pailleron
Or Charles Demuth’s Miles
In Collier’s Weekly (1898)… 

It’s all smoke and mirrors—
Surely writers burn themselves
Out bad when they try to play
Red-hot games with Hericlitean
Hopscotch too many times…   

Language is Las Vegas—
The House always wins…
Writing isn’t that important
Not as important as the force
That dispossesses boys… 

The disco dispossession—
Of cute New Jersey boys
Like Ryan Phillippe at the
Infamous Club Fifty Four
Simply breaks my heart…

Or when Ryan’s posing—
In Gosford Park (2001) as
Kept-boy lower-class valet…
Only to get tea spilled on
His dispossessed crotch…

Or White Squall (1996)—
When tragedy strikes below
Deck and handsome Ryan
Becomes dispossessed in
A fit of young male hysteria…

Or Sebastian Valmont—
In Cruel Intentions (1999)…
When he has a fit of disgust
And kicks goody-goody Reese
Witherspoon out of bed…

Or scary disembodied—
Evil killer dispossession…
As Mr. Parker the hit man
Endlessly gun crazy in
The Way of the Gun (2000).

A favorite movie—
Igby Goes Down (2002)…
With campy cameo by
Superlatively ironic
Gore Vidal so vile…

So cute Phillippe hurts—
Playing evasive sarcastic
Stripped-down Kieran Culkin’s
(Jason ‘Igby’ Slocum) older
Dispossessed brother…

Almost as good as—Gregg
Araki’s Nowhere (1997)
With dispossessed boys like
Handjob, Dark, Shad, Dingbat,
Zero teen alien cockroaches…


http://www.gaypoetry.com/design/poetry_dis.asp?dataID=34964




Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: pugetopolis on January 14, 2008, 06:00:43 AM
(http://i53.photobucket.com/albums/g68/almaxp/graham_greene.jpg)

A Graham Greene / Henry James Tidbit

“An occasional companion on [Greene’s] London excursions was John Hayward, the Rochester scholar. Although confined to a wheelchair by multiple sclerosis, Hayward was a lively friend who enjoyed nothing more than exchanging sexual jokes and gossip with anyone who come near him. On his foreign travels Greene tried to remember to send risqué postcards to Hayward for his collection. A typical example features a doctor addressing a nurse who is holding a pair of scissors: “But nurse, I said remove his spectacles.”

Greene and Hayward also liked to collect suggestive sentences from serious literature, like this one from Francis Parkman: “The effort required to keep the irritated organ quiet was so fatiguing that I occasionally rose and spent hours in the open air.”

After Hayward’s death is the 1960’s, Greene recalled his friend’s excitement when an attractive woman was taken to visit him. More often than not he would like to entertain a new female visitor by reading to her from Rochester’s poem about premature ejaculation, “The Imperfect Enjoyment.” 

T. S. Eliot who shared the flat would make an appearance. Greene, of course, was always in awe of the great man and no doubt valued his friendship with Hayward partly because it brought him in contact with Eliot. An added thrill of any visit to Carlyle Mansions came from the knowledge that Henry James had died in the flat directly above Hayward and Eliot’s.”

—Michael Sheldon, Graham Greene: the Enemy Within, New York: Random House, 1994, 343-344.     




Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: pugetopolis on January 14, 2008, 06:45:42 AM
(http://www.ealasaid.com/fan/rochester/trochester.jpg)

“The Imperfect Enjoyment”
—John Wilmot, Earl of Rochester

Naked she lay, clasped in my longing arms,
I filled with love, and she all over charms
Both equally inspired with eager fire,
Melting through kindness, flaming in desire.
With arms, legs, lips close clinging to embrace,
She clips me to her breast, and sucks me to her face.
Her nimble tongue, Love's lesser lightening, played
Within my mouth, and to my thoughts conveyed
Swift orders that I should prepare to throw
The all-dissolving thunderbolt below.
My fluttering soul, sprung with the painted kiss,
Hangs hovering o'er her balmy brinks of bliss.
But whilst her busy hand would guide that part
Which should convey my soul up to her heart,
In liquid raptures I dissolve all o'er,
Melt into sperm and, and spend at every pore.
A touch from any part of her had done't:
Her hand, her foot, her very look's a cunt.

Smiling, she chides in a kind murmuring noise,
And from her body wipes the clammy joys,
When, with a thousand kisses wandering o'er
My panting bosom, "Is there then no more?"
She cries. "All this to love and rapture's due
Must we not pay a debt to pleasure too?"

But I, the most forlorn, lost man alive,
To show my wished obedience vainly strive:
I sigh, alas! and kiss, but cannot swive.
Eager desires confound my first intent,
Succeeding shame does more success prevent,
And rage at last confirms me impotent.
Ev'n her fair hand, which might bid heat return
To frozen age, and make cold hermits burn,
Applied to my dead cinder, warms no more
Than fire to ashes could past flames restore.
Trembling, confused, despairing, limber, dry,
A wishing, weak, unmoving lump I lie.
This dart of love, whose piercing point, oft tried,
With virgin blood ten thousand maids have dyed
Which nature still directed with such art
That it through every cunt reached every heart -
Stiffly resolved, 'twould carelessly invade
Woman or man, nor aught its fury stayed:
Where'er it pierced, a cunt it found or made -
Now languid lies in this unhappy hour,
Shrunk up and sapless like a withered flower.

Thou treacherous, base deserter of my flame,
False to my passion, fatal to my fame,
Through what mistaken magic dost thou prove
So true to lewdness, so untrue to love?
What oyster-cinder-beggar-common whore
Didst thou e'er fail in all thy life before?
When vice, disease, and scandal lead the way,
With what officious haste dost thou obey!
Like a rude, roaring hector in the streets
Who scuffles, cuffs, and justles all he meets,
But if his king or country claim his aid,
The rakehell villain shrinks and hides his head
Ev'n so thy brutal valour is displayed,
Breaks every stew, does each small whore invade,
But when great Love the onset does command,
Base recreant to thy prince, thou dar'st not stand.
Worst part of me, and henceforth hated most,
Through all the town a common fucking-post,
On whom each whore relieves her tingling cunt
As hogs do rub themselves on gates and grunt,
May'st thou to ravenous chancres be a prey,
Or in consuming weepings waste away
May strangury and stone thy days attend
May'st thou ne'er piss, who did refuse to spend
When all my joys did on false thee depend.
And may ten thousand abler pricks agree
To do the wronged Corinna right for thee
.


http://www.pornokrates.com/rochester.html

John Wilmot, Earl of Rochester (1647-1680)

(2nd Earl of Rochester, b. Ditchley, Oxfordshire, son of the 1st Earl of Rochester; scandalous court wit under Charles II, rake and hooligan; destroyed his health through drink and sex; atheist and misanthropist converted to Christianity before his death, d. London)




Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: pugetopolis on January 14, 2008, 06:52:08 AM
(http://www.ealasaid.com/fan/rochester/trochester2.jpg)

An annotated version, my dears:

http://andromeda.rutgers.edu/~jlynch/Texts/imperfect.html



 


Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: pugetopolis on January 14, 2008, 09:02:15 AM
(http://www.moviegoods.com/Assets/product_images/1020/271216.1020.A.jpg)

Deconstructing the Uncanny

“Much ink has been expended in trying to determine the  precise meaning of Miles’s last words: “Peter Quint—you Devil!” Is he simply implying that Quint is indeed a devil and he knows it? Or is Miles, as Wilsonians affirm, rounding at last upon the governess and saying that she is a devil.’’ The two interpretations clash at this point. Either reading is possible and we shall never know for sure what James intended.”—Anthony Curtis, Introduction, The Turn of the Screw, London: Penguin, 1986, page 25.

It may not be kosher, but I’ve always been rather—how should I put it—obsessed with Martin Stevens as Miles in The Innocents (1961). When I reread James’s The Turn of the Screw—I mentally envision Martin Stevens as Miles. Stevens was born in 1948 which would make him 13-years-old for The Innocents—and a rather precocious young 13-years-old teenager at that.

But it was his role as David Zellaby in Village of the Damned (1960) that intrigued me almost as much as his role as Miles in The Innocents. It was as if weird alien telepathic David Zellaby was the aftermath of being possessed by Quint in The Innocents. If you’ve seen Village of the Damned, then you know it’s a British sci-fi movie about a village of alien children—seemingly possessed rather than abducted by Martian-like intelligences or rather a single telepathic alien intelligence.

Miles in other words in Village moves beyond Screw into a different realm of possession—with Peter Quint powers far beyond what Deborah Kerr or any governess could ever imagine…


(http://www.scifimoviepage.com/images/villageof1.jpg)

“What does seem beyond dispute is the strong hint of the possession of Miles’s soul by an agency it is accurate to call diabolical. His demeanor toward the governess until now has been that of a little angel but his career has been that of a little devil. The exorcism is at last achieved not through faith but awareness, by naming and exposing the evil. James had an aversion to the sentimentalizing of boyhood by writers such as Stevenson, whom he nonetheless admire. He believed that children could in time be possessed by evil, and in this respect would probably have felt  closer to William Golding than J. M. Barrie.”—Anthony Curtis, Introduction, The Turn of the Screw, London: Penguin, 1986, page 25.

When I think of William Golding, I think of certain scenes on TV years ago about boys kidnapped and inducted into various African armies of rebellion everywhere. These boys were called “The Nakeds” because they fought with machine-guns nude in the embattled streets and back alleys of war-torn African towns and cities. There were newsreels and later articles and novels about them. They weren’t exactly Peter Pan punks out of J. M. Barrie…

(http://i.tvspielfilm.de/iimages/5/7/jar-59857-355x240-e.jpg)

For some reason, it makes me wonder about Miles surviving that last  fit of dispossession—and growing up as the newly possessed demonic handsome Master of Bly for many years to come…

But also, there’s the Village of the Damned projection of the possessed / dispossessed young Miles taking the idea of evil beyond Henry James’s somewhat quaint Victorian ghost story dimensions—and taking the concept of the uncanny into something much more supernaturally alien and extraterrestrially fantastic than James even with his incredible imagination could possibly fabulate.

In other words, taking uncanny Adolescence beyond merely Bad Seed—and ratcheting up the Screw into a much tighter dimension of otherworldly evil…




Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: pugetopolis on January 14, 2008, 08:28:32 PM
(http://www.unhmagazine.unh.edu/sp05/images/p14e.jpg)
Constance Fenimore Woolson

http://forums.escapefromelba.com/index.php/topic,35.msg62421.html#msg62421


Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: pugetopolis on January 15, 2008, 06:24:08 AM
(http://i53.photobucket.com/albums/g68/almaxp/t__s__eliot.jpg)

Gay Waste Land
—for Jean Verdenal

“Those are pearls
that were his eyes”
—T. S. Eliot, The Waste Land

1

I wanted love—
I didn’t want love…
So you gave me 
Hyacinths instead…

I fled gay Paris—
But you followed me
Home with your arms
Full of hyacinths…

They called you—
The Hyacinth Girl
And now my dearest
Surely I know why…

Jean Verdenal—
Mort aux Dardanelles
My Hyacinth Girl
Oed' und leer das Meer…
______

(“Oed' und leer das Meer”—
translated as “Desolate and
empty the sea” from Wagner’s
opera Tristan und Isolde…)

http://www.gaypoetry.com/design/poetry_dis.asp?dataID=34973







Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: pugetopolis on January 15, 2008, 07:03:09 AM
(http://i53.photobucket.com/albums/g68/almaxp/t__s__eliot.jpg)

Gay Waste Land
—for Jean Verdenal

“April is the cruellest month”
—T. S. Eliot, The Waste Land

2

Am I alive or dead—
What’s inside my head?
Oh that Shakespearian Rag
So gay and elegant…

Such high-brow rhymes—
Those syncopated lines…
I have to admit, my dear
Ragtime turns me on…

Desdemona’s a guy—
Isn’t that what they say…
When Othello goes down
On cute Romeo?

And London Bridge—
When it’s falling down…
Surely I’m falling too
Down at your feet?
_____

“In 1910 T.S. Eliot, then a graduate student
studying philosophy at Harvard University. 
went to Paris to study a year at the Sorbonne.
He took a room at the Cazaubon family's pension,
Rue St Jacques, where he met Verdenal who had
another room there. When Eliot traveled to Germany
and Italy in the summer of 1911 Verdenal wrote him.
After Eliot returned to Harvard in the autumn of 1911
to continue his work toward a doctorate they carried
on a correspondence at least through 1912.”
—Rickard A. Packard, Exploring The Waste Land

http://world.std.com/~raparker/exploring/thewasteland/exjean.html



Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: pugetopolis on January 15, 2008, 07:53:19 AM
(http://i53.photobucket.com/albums/g68/almaxp/t__s__eliot.jpg)

Gay Waste Land
—for Jean Verdenal

“Here is Belladonna,
the Lady of the Rocks”
—T. S. Eliot, The Waste Land

3

Madame Sosostris—
Famed wise sodomite
Reads my beads…
And then my cards…

Better known as—
The Queen of Venice…
Constance Fenimore
Woolson Miss Grief…

Lady of the Lagoons—
Diving off her balcony
Down into the alley of
The Casa Semitecolo…

The gondolier boy—
And I have difficulty
Getting all her petticoats
To finally sink away…
 




Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: pugetopolis on January 15, 2008, 08:12:13 AM
(http://i53.photobucket.com/albums/g68/almaxp/t__s__eliot.jpg)

Gay Waste Land
—for Jean Verdenal

“Unreal City,
Under the brown fog
of a winter dawn”
—T. S. Eliot, The Waste Land

4

Venice Unreal City—
Grand Canal of Queens…
She of Ca’ Alvisi at Asolo
Descent of Stuart kings…

Caterina Cornaro—
Queen of Cyprus, Rome
Armenia, Jerusalem &
Venetian splendors…

Palazzo Barbaro boyz—
Miss James sleeping in
The elegant library like
Heroine Milly Theale…

Dining with Maupassant—
Greenwich luxuries…
Gallo-Roma palaces
La Villeggiatura eves…





Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: pugetopolis on January 15, 2008, 08:23:16 AM
(http://i53.photobucket.com/albums/g68/almaxp/t__s__eliot.jpg)

Gay Waste Land
—for Jean Verdenal

“That corpse you planted
last year in your garden”
—T. S. Eliot, The Waste Land

5

Sweet Thames run softly—
Your riverbanks with bottles,
Cigarette butts, loitering thugs
Names with no addresses…

Twat twat twiddle de twat—
Jizz jazz so rudely forced…
Under the brown moon of a
Documentary porno flick…

And the violet hours pass—
And Tiresias takes a taxi…
Blowing me a final kiss
Puce and patronizing…

Sweet Thames run softly—
Stygian wharves and docks
Sweet Thames run softly—
Thru my queer wasteland…




Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: pugetopolis on January 16, 2008, 03:49:35 AM
(http://i53.photobucket.com/albums/g68/almaxp/t__s__eliot.jpg)

Portrait of a Lady

—T.S. Eliot
   Prufrock and Other Observations

Thou hast committed—
Fornication: but that was in another country,
And besides, the wench is dead.”
—The Jew of Malta


Among the windings of the violins
And the ariettes
Of cracked cornets
Inside my brain a dull tom-tom begins
Absurdly hammering a prelude of its own,
Capricious monotone
That is at least one definite “false note.”
—Let us take the air, in a tobacco trance,
Admire the monuments,
Discuss the late events,
Correct our watches by the public clocks.
Then sit for half an hour and drink our bocks.

http://www.bartleby.com/198/2.html




Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: pugetopolis on January 16, 2008, 06:17:58 AM
(http://images.tribe.net/tribe/upload/photo/15b/32c/15b32cd8-a9dd-4dc1-913e-dfb8c3e63e95)(http://images.tribe.net/tribe/upload/photo/44a/69c/44a69c44-b852-4895-9cbc-e40a52178faa)
(http://images.tribe.net/tribe/upload/photo/731/b40/731b4048-cd6d-4854-8e2d-98ef802e18a1)(http://images.tribe.net/tribe/upload/photo/865/161/8651610c-3a09-464b-b72f-cc9c045d4e6b)

The Love Song of Brad Renfro
(1982-2008)

“Or puoi la quantitate
Comprender dell' amor ch'a te mi scalda,
Quando dismento nostra vanitate,
Trattando l'ombre come cosa salda.”
—Dante, Purgatorio, Canto XXI, lines 133-136


Now you know, my dear—
How images burned in you…
Incinerating insubstantialities
Shades speaking thru you…

Where should we begin now—
Measuring your so-called life…
All the decisions and revisions
Detours and divagations…

Sitting now in rooms where—
Queens come and go…
Speaking of Mapplethorpe
Rather than Michelangelo…

http://www.gaypoetry.com/design/poetry_dis.asp?dataID=34990




Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: pugetopolis on January 16, 2008, 06:48:59 AM
(http://images.tribe.net/tribe/upload/photo/15b/32c/15b32cd8-a9dd-4dc1-913e-dfb8c3e63e95)(http://images.tribe.net/tribe/upload/photo/44a/69c/44a69c44-b852-4895-9cbc-e40a52178faa)
(http://images.tribe.net/tribe/upload/photo/731/b40/731b4048-cd6d-4854-8e2d-98ef802e18a1)(http://images.tribe.net/tribe/upload/photo/865/161/8651610c-3a09-464b-b72f-cc9c045d4e6b)

The Love Song of Brad Renfro
(1982-2008)

Now you know, my dear—
How it feels to be dead…
Like an etherized patient
Spread out against the sky…

Now you I know, my dear—
How Hollywood works…
Objective correlates and
Los Angeles morgues…

Extinction of your ego—
Pastness and presence of
Hollywood Babylon boyz…
Alive then dead…




Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: pugetopolis on January 16, 2008, 07:00:35 AM

(http://images.tribe.net/tribe/upload/photo/15b/32c/15b32cd8-a9dd-4dc1-913e-dfb8c3e63e95)(http://images.tribe.net/tribe/upload/photo/44a/69c/44a69c44-b852-4895-9cbc-e40a52178faa)
(http://images.tribe.net/tribe/upload/photo/731/b40/731b4048-cd6d-4854-8e2d-98ef802e18a1)(http://images.tribe.net/tribe/upload/photo/865/161/8651610c-3a09-464b-b72f-cc9c045d4e6b)

The Love Song of Brad Renfro
(1982-2008)

Now you’re a pair of claws—
Scuttling across Pacific floors…
Ancient sea beds down deep
Malingering crabmeat boy…

Decadently contemporary—
Knowing how time fragments
Letting it pastiche and parody
You into oblivion…

Letting the lilacs bloom—
Twisting your fingers in it…
Ah, my friend, you didn’t know
You didn’t know…




Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: pugetopolis on January 16, 2008, 11:39:41 AM
Brad Renfro, Former Child Movie Actor, Dies at 25
By MATT ZOLLER SEITZ
Published: January 16, 2008

In the profile published before “The Client,”
opened, the 12-year-old actor was asked how
appearing in the film would change his life.
“I’ll always be Brad Renfro, born on July 25,
1982,” he said. “Nothing’s going to change
that. It won’t be any different.” 

http://www.nytimes.com/2008/01/16/arts/16renfro.html?_r=1&ref=movies&oref=slogin



Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: pugetopolis on January 17, 2008, 04:41:30 AM
(http://3quarksdaily.blogs.com/3quarksdaily/images/2007/08/21/atse_2.jpg)

The New York Times  

“turning wearily,
as one would turn
to nod good-bye
to Rochefoucauld…”
—T. S. Eliot

Cousin Harriet—
Reads her New York Times…

She gave up a long time ago—
The Boston Evening Transcript…

Now she’s more like cute—
Cousin Nancy riding the hills…

Cynically embedded there—
With the hounds of war…

Aunt Helen watches TV—
She’s a shock and awe girl!!!

Propped up on the sofa—
Dead like her caged parrot…

Watching FOX-News—
Such an informed lady…

Meanwhile Prufrock—
Oh my gawd, that’s me!!!

http://www.gaypoetry.com/design/poetry_dis.asp?dataID=35011





Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: pugetopolis on January 17, 2008, 03:56:52 PM
Notes to “The New York Times”

lines 1-4 “turning wearily, / as one would turn / to nod good-bye
to Rochefoucauld…” from “The Boston Evening Transcript,” Prufrock and Other Observations, The Waste Land and Other Writings, New York: Random House, 2001, pp. 16-17.     

lines 6-7 “Cousin Harriet / Reads her New York Times…” from “The Boston Evening Transcript,” p. 17.

line 11 “Cousin Nancy riding the hills…” from “Cousin Nancy,” pp. 17-18.

line 14  “Aunt Helen watches TV…” from “Aunt Helen,” p. 17.

line 20 “Meanwhile Prufrock" from “The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock” pp. 3-7.





Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: pugetopolis on January 17, 2008, 04:29:45 PM
(http://3quarksdaily.blogs.com/3quarksdaily/images/2007/08/21/atse_2.jpg)

Prufrock In San Francisco

“Till human voices
wake us, and we drown”
—T. S. Eliot

Here I am an old queen—
Visiting San Francisco again
My motel-moderne room
With its black velvet portrait
Of Elvis Presley on the wall…

Japantown lurks outside—
The bowling alley long gone
The smell of eucalyptus
Oozing down from ritzy
Pacific Heights condos…

The pizza boy yawns—
I’ve eaten all twelve inches
It’s cocktail hour now and
He’s reading a book to me
From Kinokuniya Bookstore…

I keep saying sushi please—
But he politely ignores me
While the maid makes tea
Poking the changer for a
Better movie on TV…

___________


Madame de Tornquist—
In the dark room next door
Consults the Tarot and
The I Ching with her coins
Clinking into the night…

All of us bored as usual—
Wanting to feel Love again…
Opening up like delicate
Words within words—
Blooming like orchids…

But the boy is peevish—
And the maid a prude…
And the words no longer
Speak the unspeakably
Polymorphosely absurd….

Words get distracted—
Poetry propagates panic…
Tears flow and impudent
Crimes of passion turn
Unnatural and kitschy…

___________

Lyric poetry flees—
Grim gruesome elegies
Mope by my balcony
Sliding door like frumpy
Fräulein von Kulp…

Once upon a time—
I could recite Dante from
Memory Questa fiamma
Staria senza piu scosse
And all that jazz…

But now I’m lucky—
To be able to read the
Fine print on the back
Of a package of Trojan
Prophylactic rubbers…

But I digress, my dear—
You don’t have eyes for me…
Now I measure my life
With coffee spoons and
Music in the next room…

___________

After all, I’ve known—
The mornings, afternoons
And the stolen moments
Of long evenings when
I was once alive…

When my eyes fixed—
On your beauty pinned
Wiggling like a beautiful
Butterfly beneath my
Microscope of love…

I don’t have strength—
To stretch the moment
Into its old familiar ways
Anymore like back then
So very long ago…

My head on a plate—
Salome’s silver platter…
Brought before the mob
With her lurid smirk
Always ready for more…

___________

I’m no prophet—
I leave that swanky racket
Up to Madame Sosostris
Famous comedienne and
Las Vegas clairvoyante…

I’d rather be Proust—
Tea, toast, marmalade…
A cigarette after dinner
A drive in the country with
My young chauffeur…

My chicken chauffeur—
Puzzled piquant pouty…
Young Lazarus always
Cumming back from the
Grave again and again

The Lilacs blooming—
In the doorways who
Needs Whitman when
Lilacs are more real
Than real itself…

___________

The art of Lilacs—
Lavender the living end…
There’s no time for
Interpretation when
Lavender begins…

Even now I’m a Fool—
Hooligan Hamlet prince
Easy tool of the devil…
One foot on a banana
Peel other in the grave…

Watch me slip & slide—
Combing wordy waves
For seaweedy words and
Mermaid whitecapped
Syntaxes of love…

I’m old as the Sea—
Way down twenty dark
Thousand fathoms deep…
Davy Jones & me in our
Condo beneath the sea…

—San Francisco
New Years Eve 2008


http://www.gaypoetry.com/design/poetry_dis.asp?dataID=35010





Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: Lhoffman on January 17, 2008, 10:46:44 PM
July 5, 1863

And still they come
mothers and daughters
disconsolate sisters
lovers condemned by moira
to lives of unbroken spinsterhood
Still they come
carrying armloads of lilacs
burying grief-ravaged faces
in bouquets of hyacinth and fading rosebuds
breathing deeply
as if to obliterate
the stench of death
while the image remains indelible
Still they come
weeping weaving
sleepwalkers in shock
their dreams
lie dead upon the field
yesterday's bride looks on her beloved
covers her womb
hands unconsciously protecting
her unborn son
from the monstrosity
that would have been his father
can even heaven rejoin this unholy mess?
Still they come
ears attuned only to the wind
listening for last words
scattered unheard
blistered hands dig through
pockets and dirt
search for memento mori
a blood-stained letter, “My Dearest”
a comb
a scrap of a hymn “Are You Ready?“
desperate hands
dig into hecatomb
seeking only assurance
that their heroes have died
a good death.



Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: pugetopolis on January 18, 2008, 06:47:51 AM
(http://skyways.lib.ks.us/genweb/lyon/cwvets.jpg)

Very nice, Hoffman.

Your lovely poem reminded me of my GAR grandmother...

Her younger brothers and father were in the Civil War...

Here is a photo of her with the surviving veterans back then...

She's on the far left... in front of the courthouse.

She kept their memory alive by playing the piano...

At church and GAR meetings...

How she pounded the keys so hard...

Playing "John Brown's Body Is Marching from the Grave!"




Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: pugetopolis on January 18, 2008, 06:50:37 AM
(http://www.loydheath.com/media/photos/suzzallo-ext/0306003-013D.jpg)

Prufrock Suzzallo Library

“If endlessness offered itself to me today
I don’t think I’d have done anything
differently”—Mark Doty

Whilst slithering thru Suzzallo—
Worming my way thru the stacks
One fine day beneath the tall gothic
Somber stain-glass windows…

Up the winding staircase—
And thru the woods to grandmother’s
House—Shakespeare’s shack and
Miss James’s Lamb House…

Pausing for a moment briefly—
To pay homage to the queenly
Archbishop of Canterbury there
Gossiping about Miles & Quint…

Feeling that old tug of frisson—
Known only to queer Anglicans
Like Miss Eliot the American poet
Who wanted to be Brit so bad…

Vivienne shrugged knowingly—
Wishing me luck with her husband
And all his fine Ballet Russes
Backstage rendezvoused boyz… 

I shan’t go into the details—
We each have our own personal
Waste Lands to mock ourselves
With so unadorned & adorable…

http://www.gaypoetry.com/design/poetry_dis.asp?dataID=35014





Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: pugetopolis on January 19, 2008, 07:26:50 PM
(http://3quarksdaily.blogs.com/3quarksdaily/images/2007/08/21/atse_2.jpg)

Sweeney Among the Nightingales

Apeboy Sweeney spread your legs—
After all, that’s what you’re paid for…
Your knowing smirk and quivering
Nervous young weaselly nose…

Circles under your bedroom eyes—
Your face lost in cigarette smoke…
You’re the kind I’m attracted to—
Always playing hard to get…

Gloomy Transylvanian queens—
People in Count Dracula capes…
Always swishing around in the
Dumpy dark—are they me?

Such dark stormy nights—
So many Darth Vader types…
Hanging around McDonalds
Looking for the Big Mac…

I slip to my knees—
Overturning my drink then
Reorganizing my face for
The inevitable denouement...   

You’re the tall silent type—
Sprawled out on the sofa…
As I remove the Stillitano 
Grapes from your crotch…

Then apples & oranges—
Big bunches of bananas…
Pomegranates & grinning
Tubs of guacamole…

You pop your neck—
Like young athletes do…
The kind with murderous
Muscles worth dying for…

You yawn as usual—
With your droopy Robert
Mitchum heavy eyelids…
Faking faggy fatigue…

Through the window—
Puget Sound slithers into
My Capitol Hill bedroom…
While you blow smoke-rings…

Nightingales are singing—
Across the dingy street
There in Volunteer Park…
My uncircumcised lips…

How like Philomela—
Spraining my tongue in pain…
Your pearly-white necklace
Staining the stiff sheets…

http://www.gaypoetry.com/design/poetry_dis.asp?dataID=35026




Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: pugetopolis on January 19, 2008, 07:32:25 PM
(http://3quarksdaily.blogs.com/3quarksdaily/images/2007/08/21/atse_2.jpg)

Preludes

“The burnt-out ends
of smoky days…”
—T. S. Eliot

Capitol Hill

Winter noon-hour grim—
Capitol Hill’s really gone downhill…
Returning once again to its drab
Despairing pre-gay days…

Like back in the Seventies—
When I was the only fag hanging
Around Broadway and Volunteer
Park still had virgin bushes…

Please don’t get me wrong—
Some of my best friends are
Homo-homogenized queers…
Assimilated into the masses…

Surly boys with curved lips—
Posing at the bus stop across
From the lewd tattoo shop
Smirk at me as usual…

Which is comforting—
Something reassuringly real…
Compared with the vacant
Eyes of post-gay youth…

Broadway

Once upon a time—
Back when fairies were
Something fairly new…
Before SF arrived…

Before the deluge—
Gangs of disco fags…
Crowding Capitol Hill
Dying for gay lib…

Boutiques bloom—
Parades down Broadway
Dykes on Bikes and…
Even local politicians…

Hippie days long gone—
Goths then gay days too…
Along with bars and discos
Generational changes…

I remember those days—
The Different Drummer and
Shutting down Freeways…
Broadway bores me now.

Sidewalks trampled—
By insistent feet and streets
Full of sullen traffic and
Burnt-out vacant lots…

Twice-Told Tales

Twice-Told Tales—
Ratty little bookstore full
Of ratty used books and
Two old ratty cats…

Bailey-Coy Books—
Not what it used to be…
Even Coy Books on Pine
Closed down shut..

Capitol Hill’s gay
Bookstore Beyond the
Closet closed too—
Out of business…

Like gone beatniks—
Different Drummer Books
Early hippie haven for
Disgruntled outsiders…

Now Capitol Hill—
Full of dingy apartments
People raising dingy
Shades in dingy times…

Crowded like rats—
Beady-eyed patrons…
Peering morosely out
Fast-food dingy windows…

http://www.gaypoetry.com/design/poetry_dis.asp?dataID=35025





Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: pugetopolis on January 19, 2008, 09:57:41 PM
(http://3quarksdaily.blogs.com/3quarksdaily/images/2007/08/21/atse_2.jpg)

Mr. Eliot’s Sunday Morning Service

“Look, look, master—
here comes two
religious caterpillars…
—T. S. Eliot

It was the Third Man—
The 17th century Anglican divine
Lancelot Andrewes himself—
Up there on Broadway
Waiting for me…

The mysterious Other—
The third one always walking
Beside me when I strolled
Down Broadway with my
Latest lover boy…

Lancelot Andrewes—
Thoughtful encounters with
Him there on Capitol Hill
After compline services
On Sunday evenings…

Seattle's Capitol Hill—
St. Mark's Episcopal Cathedral*
I could feel his skeptical presence
So imbued with semiogenesis—
Even there in the Waste Land…

Always there was calmness—
Enjoying the view with whomever
Looking out over Lake Union—
The lights of Queen Anne and
Houseboats down below…

Always in the beginning---
The sapient authors of the Word…
Staining the tall gothic windows
Bluer than transparent blue—
Polyphiloprogenitively purple…
_______

*The Very Reverend John C. Leffler was the dean of St. Mark's Episcopal Cathedral on Seattle's Capitol Hill from 1951 to 1971. He took over a "dirty, grimy, dismal church" (The Seattle Times) that had been lost in foreclosure and transformed it into the center of a thriving religious and social community. St. Mark's gained a nationwide reputation for its liturgical music, which was broadcast weekly on the radio. Dean Leffler was vocal in many controversial issues and was an opponent of the Vietnam War.

http://www.historylink.org/essays/output.cfm?file_id=3342




Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: pugetopolis on January 20, 2008, 01:30:02 AM
(http://3quarksdaily.blogs.com/3quarksdaily/images/2007/08/21/atse_2.jpg)

Sweeney Among the Anglicans

“Sweeney shifts—
from ham to ham”
—T.S. Eliot

Over Sweeney’s head tonight—
Slow semiospheric red skies
Scudding low over Elliott Bay…
University District apartments,
Dingy youthful garrets…
 
Young Nabokovs—
Young Gogols as they really are…
Sweeney like them trying—
To contextually morph
Himself into the moment…

What is it about Sweeney—
That makes his life worth living…
What makes Anglican bishops and
Chessboard bishops both so
Metalingually mauve?

Writing the Word—
Autocommunicating with it…
Everyday Sweeney uses his
English language—his Saxon
Word-hoard bag of tricks…

Sweeney’s boyfriends—
French Canadians, Latinos…
And that African-Samoan kid
He met in Seward Park that day
His girlfriend ditched him…

So much semiogenesis—
Flowing thru Sweeney’s veins…
Offering piaculative relief for
Young hot pustular hustlers
On the avenue of shame…

The Father and the Son—
And not enough Paraclete…
Nimbus of baptized boyz
Painted by Picasso with
Smirky minotaur grins…

Boyz with hairy bellies—
Bees along the garden wall…
Streamlined staminate and
Pistilate poise for gilded
Poets of the epicene…





Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: pugetopolis on January 20, 2008, 09:34:37 AM
(http://3quarksdaily.blogs.com/3quarksdaily/images/2007/08/21/atse_2.jpg)

Vivienne

“I remember a slice of lemon—
and a bitten macaroon…”
—T. S. Eliot 

When Mr. Apollinax visited us—
Vivienne vulgar as usual flirted and
Charmingly put the make on him…
All quite Platonic at first…

It didn’t particularly bother me—
I used Vivienne as a cover like
Sebastian used his wealthy mother
Violet Venable to get the boys…

I used Vivienne like my cousin—
Vivacious Catherine Holly played
By beautiful Elizabeth Taylor in
Suddenly, Last Summer (1959)…

I used Vivienne like the Church—
The young Anglican queens
So desirous to be used like my
Wife lovely vivacious Vivienne…
_________

Please note: While I worked in the study, Vivienne finally ended up in bed with Bertrand Russell. At least that’s what he claimed in a letter to his mistress, Lady Constance Malleson. He’d slipped out of a relationship with Lady Ottoline and had not yet entered into another. He nonchalantly mentioned it to me—for a whole year he’d been looking for a woman to replace his former mistress, but without much success. I nodded knowingly—I liked the way his laughter tinkled among the teacups.  I thought of Fragilion—that shy figure among the birch-trees. Bertrand as Priapus in the shrubbery—gaping at Vivienne the Lady in the Swing. He laughed like an irresponsible fetus—there in the palace of Mrs. Phlaccus. He laughed like Sweeney—with his arms hanging down at his sides. He laughed like a hyena—like  Professor Channing-Cheetah a former professor of mine. A certain Professor William Henry Schofield (1870-1920—such a brilliant Harvard man. Russell became particularly close to us for some reason—I suppose he was somewhat taken with vivacious and attractive Vivienne. The fuck, however, turned out to be rather “hellish and loathsome.” Russell disguised his antipathy—even though Vivienne seemed satisfied. He had awful nightmares that stripped his self-evasions—but Vivienne only shrugged. She’d been brought up a low-class flirt—despising her father’s upper-class pretensions. And as flirts sometimes go too far—both of us sometimes got ourselves into situations we couldn’t get out of. So I parked Vivienne in an asylum—filed for separation but didn’t get a divorce. That way I kept my husbandly cover—and got to mince with my vivacious Anglican boyfriends instead…




Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: pugetopolis on January 21, 2008, 12:48:14 PM
Tradition and the Gay Talent

“A heap of—
broken images…”
—T. S. Eliot

1

In American poetry—
We seldom speak of gay talent…
Though we occasionally
Apply its name in deploring
Its presence…

We cannot refer to it—
This poetic "gay talent”—
Without sounding "queer"
Or at most, we employ the
Adjective saying that the
Poetry of So-and-so is
"Too gay” my dear….

Seldom, I suppose—
Does “gay” appear except
As a phrase of censure or as
Vaguely approbative with the
Usual apology lately being
“I’m not a gay poet, honey—
I’m just a poet who, well,
Happens to be gay…”

Well, Miss Eliot and I—
We’ve got something in
Common, my dear, which
Is we’re both a couple of
Rather fussy old Midwestern
Queens down in the dumps…
Who rather like being tres
Wasted moiling about in this
Great American Waste Land…

2

Certainly the word—
Isn’t likely to appear in
Straight appreciations of
Living or dead gay writers.

Every nation, every race—
Has not only its own gay but
Its own straight turn of mind…
And it’s more than oblivious
What shortcomings & limitations
Certain straight critical habits
Have in regard to the lavender
Mind and its creative genius…

We know, or think we know—
From the enormous mass of
Straight critical writing that has
Appeared in The New York Times
(Such as the bitchy kvetching of
Miss Logan recently dishing the
Collected Poems of Hart Crane
Coming out— with his tacky
Caveats about Brooklyn Bridge
And Mr. Crane tricking with
Young sailors etc)—well,
Nothing has really changed…

3

The critical method—
Or habit of the Straights
(We gays can only conclude
Since we’re such unconscious
Types)—is that they’re somehow
"More critical" than we are—
And sometimes even flaunt
Themselves a little with
That fact as if they were much
More realismo than us….

Perhaps they are, my dear—
But we might remind ourselves
That criticism is as inevitable
As breathing and that we should
Be none the worse for articulating
What passes in our minds when
We read a book or feel an
Emotion about it by criticizing
Our own minds with homosocial
Criticism rather than with the
Usual heterosocial lit crit…

After all, my dears—
May I suggest without appearing
Too bold that there is indeed
More than just straight poetry—
But also tradition and the
Inescapable gay talent…

4

One of the facts—
That might come to light
In this process is our tendency
To insist, when we praise poets—
That poets be embedded deeply
Up to their necks in the shitty
Zeitgeist like the rest us slobs…

Just look at poor Whitman—
Our famous Leaves of Grass
Poet of American optimism—
Endless Western Empire and
Butchy Expansionism all the
Way to the West Coast and
The fucking Andromeda Galaxy…

Whitman collapsed—
He had a nervous breakdown…
After slaving away in the grim
Bloody Beltway strewn with
The maimed young bodies
Of the Civil War Dead…

Are men with night sweats—
The ones still barely living
And the ones now dead—
Any different than the Union
Or Southern dead who were
Once living like you or me—
Embedded in the Now of
This Moment—even as you
And I speak now?

5

What, my dears—
Would Whitman, Crane or
Eliot say now about this new
Apocalyptic Waste Land that’s
Descended on us like a plague
Of Nathanael West locusts?

Would they help us—
Like poor Miss Lonelyhearts—
Giving us fine advice about
Our shitty little pukey lives—
Only to get embedded and
Entangled in our tacky
Broken-hearted mess—
Falling down the stairs—
Bumpity-bump-bump—
Down to the same old
noir denouement?



Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: madupont on January 21, 2008, 12:51:12 PM
Is this the Poem that Maya Angelou wrote for Hillary Clinton?   It's god-awful.
 
State Package for Hillary Clinton

You may write me down in history

With your bitter, twisted lies,

You may tread me in the very dirt

But still, like dust, I'll rise.

This is not the first time you have seen Hillary Clinton seemingly at her wits' end, but she has always risen, always risen, don't forget she has always risen, much to the dismay of her adversaries and the delight of her friends.

Hillary Clinton will not give up on you and all she asks of you is that you do not give up on her.

There is a world of difference between being a woman and being an old female. If you're born a girl, grow up, and live long enough, you can become an old female. But to become a woman is a serious matter. A woman takes responsibility for the time she takes up and the space she occupies. Hillary Clinton is a woman. She has been there and done that and has still risen. She is in this race for the long haul. She intends to make a difference in our country. Hillary Clinton intends to help our country to be what it can become.

She declares she wants to see more smiles in the family, more courtesies between men and women, more honesty in the marketplace. She is the prayer of every woman and man who longs for fair play, healthy families, good schools, and a balanced economy.

She means to rise.

Don't give up on Hillary. In fact, if you help her to rise, you will rise with her and help her make this country the wonderful, wonderful place where every man and every woman can live freely without sanctimonious piety and without crippling fear.

Rise, Hillary.

Rise.



Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: pugetopolis on January 21, 2008, 12:59:18 PM
(http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/en/thumb/2/20/Talisman_-Vayou_-Vaslav_Nijinsky_-1909.JPG/372px-Talisman_-Vayou_-Vaslav_Nijinsky_-1909.JPG)

Vaslav Fomich Nijinsky (1889-1950)

"Daffodil bulbs—
instead of balls"
—T. S. Eliot

Nijinsky is nice—
His Russian bedroom eyes
Underlined to emphasize his
Beauty, his muscular thighs
Give promise of pneumatic bliss.

Couched Russian jaguar—
Turns the scampering minions
Of Les Ballet Russes audiences
With his subtle influences into
Prey about to be devoured…

Nijinsky has the stage—
He masturbates the final tableau
L'après-midi d'un faune for me
With Stavinsky playing piano
Diaghilev pouting backstage…

This sleek Russian animal—
Does not in his arboreal gloom
Distil so rank a faune smell…
As does Nijinsky afterwards
In his crowded dressing-room…

Notes

B. J. Blowthem, following Ezra Pound, identifies Vaslav as Vaslav Fomich Nijinsky (1889-1950), a Russian dancer with the Diaghilev company who opened his own ballet school in London. Pound introduced him to Eliot with the firm intuition that a poem would result and intended that it should. Elsewhere Pound recollected that once “I took Parson Elyot to see the Les Ballet Russes and it evoked "Nijinsky." A Guide to The Selected Poems of T. S. Eliot, 6th edn., London: Harcourt Brace, 1994, 110.




Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: madupont on January 21, 2008, 01:11:55 PM
As you can see he's no Rudi Nureyev. I could tell you some stories....


Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: pugetopolis on January 21, 2008, 01:31:48 PM
(http://artsedge.kennedy-center.org/exploring/ballet/nw/images/nur_paintings/3_300.jpg)
James Wyeth
Double Image, Head, Nureyev
(Study #21), 1977


Please do, my dear...

Btw I'm reading the new Rudolf Nureyev biography now.

Rudi was quite the quite...


 :D :D :D


Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: pugetopolis on January 21, 2008, 10:39:14 PM
(http://www.tate.org.uk/collection/N/N05/N05042_9.jpg)

Chançons ithyphallique
   
"T.S.E. Chançons
ithyphallique"
—Ezra Pound

"Complimenti,
you bitch," Pound
wrote on 24 Dec 1921,
after Eliot had
accepted his suggestions
for the revised version
of The Waste Land…”

“These are the Poems
of Eliot by the Uranian
muse begot; A man
their mother was—
A muse their Sire…”

“Eliot's omnipresent
second man, Pound,
also introduced a
Diaghilev ballet group
dancer Grishkin
(Serafima Astafieva)
to Eliot with the intention
that a poem should result
from that meeting.”

“The poem did indeed
ensue, but the speaker in
"Whispers of Immortality"
rejects the dancer, and
opts for the company
of his male poetic
predecessors. Pound's
attempt to introduce
Eliot to the woman
thus fails. Eliot runs
back to his all-male
literary coterie.”

“When Pound had
sent him his Canto 8,
echoing The Waste Land—
 "These fragments you
have shelved (shored).
 "Slut!" "Bitch!" […]—
 Eliot's reply was:
"I object strongly on
tactical grounds
to yr. 1st line. People
are inclined to think
that we write our
verses in collaboration
as it is, or else that
you write mine and
I write yours."

“Now when they were
three weeks at sea
Columbo grew rooty
He took his cock
in both his hands
And swore it
was a beauty.
The cabin boy
appeared on deck
And scampered
up the mast-o
Columbo grasped
him by the balls
And buggered him
in the ass-o.”

“Grasp hard the
bastards by the short
hair. Not once, or twice,
shalt thou bugger ’em,
in our rough
island story,
But again and again
and again and again,
leaving their arseholes
all glory. And when I say,
again and again, I mean
repeatedly, I mean
continually, I mean
in fact many times.”

Notes

T.S. Eliot, Inventions of the March Hare: Poems 1909-1917 by T.S. Eliot, ed. Christopher Ricks (London: Faber and Faber, 1996).

Carole Seymour-Jones, Painted Shadow: The Life of Vivienne Eliot (London: Robinson, 2002; 1st publ. London: Constable, 2001).

Dennis Brown, Intertextual Dynamics within the Literary Group—
Joyce, Lewis, Pound and Eliot: The Men of 1914 (New York: St. Martin’s Press, 1990).

John Peter, “A New Interpretation of The Waste Land” (1952) with “Postscript” (1969), Essays in Criticism: A Quarterly Journal of Literary Criticism 19 (1969), 173, 165.

James E. Miller, Jr., T.S. Eliot’s Personal Waste Land: Exorcism of the Demons (University Park and London: The Pennsylvania State University Press, 1977).




Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: pugetopolis on January 22, 2008, 01:13:32 AM
The Hippopotamus

“I saw the
‘potamus take wing”
—T. S. Eliot

The broad-backed bishop—
Rested his big belly against
The lectern lecturing to his 
Flock of flesh and blood…

“The lovely mango fruit—
Hanging from the mango tree…
The pomegranate and peach—
God’s gifts to us for lunch…”

Then the bishop took wing—
His enormous gut quivering
As he flew low overhead…
Missing the pews by inches…

Fat little chubby angels—
Well-fed and scrubbed clean...
Ascended with the porcine 
Priest into the choir loft… 

Martyred virgins kvetched—
Blood of Lambchops oozed…   
Saints with harps praising
The art of hippo love…

Hippos farted in church—
Old farts farted in church too 
Sunday school kids farted—
Wrapped in miasmal mists…
 


 


Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: pugetopolis on January 22, 2008, 12:34:01 PM
(http://www.readyourselfraw.com/profiles/crumb/selfportrait_crumb.jpg)

BURNT SWEENEY—
Or How I Learned To Live
With Miss Eliot and her
Personal Wasteland…

1

“He quickly made himself—
into the modernists’ poets’ poet.”
—Peter Gay, Modernism: The Lure
of Heresy from Baudelaire to
Becket and Beyond

Sweeney’s a poet—
Laboring away daily in the
Fruitful vineyards of gay
Misunderstanding….

Sweeney reads LRB—
And The New York Times…
Sweeney is tres de rigueur
Keeping up with poetry & pomo
Lit crit—although certain
Distinctions between pure and
Applied poetics sometimes 
Confuses her—those suave
& sophisticated nuances
Between secondaire lit and
The real thing…

2

“Time present and time past
Are both perhaps present in time future
And time future contained in time past.
If all time is eternally present
All time is unredeemable.”
 —T. S. Eliot, Burnt Norton

New Criticism oozes—
Secreting profusely from
Sweeney’s pen—yet she
Scoffs like ultimate el primo
High Anglican queen bee—
Mocking the very Lit Crit
School she seemingly
Pastiches and parodies
Together from tragic
Tidbits from the past…

3

“The idea was that many of the
significant changes in poetry
have occurred when a writer
who is attempting to imitate
another or others—through
misunderstanding of his
model or models—creates
inadvertently something new.”
—Louis Menand, Discovering
Modernism: T. S. Eliot & Context

It’s all a Big Mistake—
One big fruitful hodgepodge…
The ironic possibility that
Through misunderstanding
Models and literary criticism—
Inadvertently something
New can happen in the
World of epicene poetry…

4

“Immature poets imitate—
mature poets steal…bad poets
deface what they take—good poets
make it into something better or
at least something different…”
—T. S. Eliot

It’s kosher Sweeney says—
After all if Mister Hardy feels
Like opining the way he
Does about Miss Housman—
Then surely I can opine
About Miss Eliot and—
Appropriate from her
Personal Waste Land?

5

“Ridiculous the waste sad time
Stretching before and after….”
—T. S. Eliot, Burnt Norton

Something campy—
Something kitschy & gay…
Disambiguating Eliot’s
Waste Land into her own
Personal Waste Land—
Prufrock Does SF and
Burnt Sweeney USA…

6

“The still point”
—T. S. Eliot, Burnt Norton

The still point—
Sweeney updates
Objective correlates
Just a teense…

She pretends it’s
All just another rather
Excellent fortuitous
Mistake…

http://www.gaypoetry.com/design/poetry_dis.asp?dataID=35051





Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: madupont on January 22, 2008, 05:57:27 PM
]
(http://artsedge.kennedy-center.org/exploring/ballet/nw/images/nur_paintings/3_300.jpg)
James Wyeth
Double Image, Head, Nureyev
(Study #21), 1977


Please do, my dear...

Btw I'm reading the new Rudolf Nureyev biography now.

Rudi was quite the quite...


 :D :D :D


Glad I decided to drop you a note, if you take a look at the artist who did the sketches with apparently some intention of painting because this is obviously the base for layering skin tones, go check your index by the author,and look up same author or better yet see if she refers to him as Jamie Wyeth, son of Andrew Wyeth? The first time that I caught the sketches at a showing of family painting , inter-related by marriage, at the Brandywine Art Museum in Chadds Ford, what was most striking was noticing the stage costume on an upright "dress-makers dummie" sort of arrangement to display it and realizing how tiny it was and that although Rudi appeared on camera for instance to be very well muscled that gives an overall impression that is quite false as to his actual girth and size.  He arrived very much after I had left The Russian Tea Room which also no longer exists in the original context as a place where dancers were welcome to eat after classes,etc. In those days, they were still truly Russian, no longer the case, because they were White Russian emigres whereas now Russians are Post-communist  former Soviets.

Then as I wandered around the displays in the very small rooms, appreciating the many sketches -- Jamie would come to the theatre and sketch frantically,incessantly during Nureyev's preparations and his warm-up exercises each day before rehearsals--he had a real case on Rudi, I realized that I was looking at a photograph attached within a framed glass among other whatevers and was taken aback because it was my first dance partner for a performance of a Greek comedy.  At least, we were required to do a pas de deux at some point, otherwise I was up on a narrow raised cross-walk low enough for visibility beneath the flies, from which I had to bird my way down for that front and center footlights duet with John N. who is now and has been for some time the director of the Hamburg Oper Ballet. He's a little hard to describe, a variation on Robert Downey,jr. perhaps but less likely to break into a joke.

Let me know if the writer gives you the low down      on the Jamie Wyeth infatuation.


Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: pugetopolis on January 22, 2008, 09:41:31 PM
(http://www.tfaoi.com/cm/4cm/4cm164.jpg)

Andy Warhol (1928-1987)
Portrait of James Wyeth (1976)
synthetic polymer paint and
silkscreen ink on canvas
Collection of James Wyeth


Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: pugetopolis on January 22, 2008, 09:46:23 PM
(http://www.tfaoi.com/cm/4cm/4cm165.jpg)

Andy Warhol (1928-1987)
Self Portrait with Skull (1978)
synthetic polymer paint and
silkscreen ink on canvas
Collection of Phyllis Wyeth


Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: pugetopolis on January 22, 2008, 09:53:55 PM
(http://www.tfaoi.com/cm/4cm/4cm163.jpg)

Andy Warhol (1928-1987)
Jean-Michel Basquiat (c. 1982)
acrylic, silkscreen ink on canvas
Collection of the Andy Warhol Museum




Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: pugetopolis on January 23, 2008, 01:05:24 AM
(http://images.tribe.net/tribe/upload/photo/293/3b7/2933b7cc-d671-497f-a56a-53522922f3f8)

http://tinyurl.com/38onpw

Portrait of Heath Ledger (1979-2008)
synthetic polymer paint and
silkscreen ink on canvas
Pugetopolis Collection


Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: pugetopolis on January 23, 2008, 09:19:48 AM
(http://images.tribe.net/tribe/upload/photo/000/90e/00090eec-00a6-4a12-af82-0ce9cef2ea30)

http://tinyurl.com/2fqr58

Heath Ledger (1979-2008)

“Let us go then—
you and I…”
—T. S. Eliot

So moody and quiet—
What is it about them…
Dead movie star boyz?

Brokeback Mountain—
Watching it at the Egyptian...
Later the Academy Awards…

Even when Crash won—
Matt Dillon’s moody cynical
Face up on the screen…

It was still okay—
Because once I had a bad
Crush on him too…

And River Phoenix—
Sitting by the fire telling
Keanu Reeves I love you…

Watching Buñuel—
Roberto Cobo as el Jaibo…
Another moody loser…

And Michael Pitt—
Playing Kurt Cobain
In Van Sant’s Last Days….

Young male movie stars—
Brad Renfro, James Dean—
And now Heath Ledger…

Gone just like that—
Like Jean Verdenal…
Mort aux Dardanelles…

http://www.gaypoetry.com/design/poetry_dis.asp?dataID=35056


Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: madupont on January 23, 2008, 12:53:53 PM

(http://www.tfaoi.com/cm/4cm/4cm164.jpg)

Andy Warhol (1928-1987)
Portrait of James Wyeth (1976)
synthetic polymer paint and
silkscreen ink on canvas
Collection of James Wyeth



This is from the fabulous exchange of portraits between Jamie and Andy (I'll draw you and you draw me.) but young Wyeth no longer is as he was in those days as I noticed in a photo of he and Phyllis attending the Ballet performance.  She was injured while she was quite young, an incident which Jamie memorialized in a painting,And Then into the Deep Gorge (1975),that I saw at the same small showing of family things; it was as if he turned and looked over his shoulder because of hearing the accident and what he saw in a second's flash was imprinted on his vision until he painted it out.

The family has a history in each generation of horrendous events or extreme temptations that they could not resist,whether N.C., Andrew, or James; nor could they keep them secret because of being the artists they were when the events or temptations befell them.

Thought you might like to take a look at these.
Capturing Nureyev: James Wyeth Paints the Dancer.     

http://www.farnsworthmuseum.org/index.html                         

ITEMS 11 AND  40  UNDER PRINTS AND POSTERS

http://www.farnsworthmuseum.org/estore/store.html                 
Capturing Nureyev: Full Face and Partial Chest,Head,Nureyev(Study #10):1977.


http://www.farnsworthmuseum.org/estore/store.html                 
poster for the Coe Gallery, New York

This is a rather lazy web-site for link response which is why I have included the items by number



Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: pugetopolis on January 23, 2008, 01:37:51 PM
(http://artsedge.kennedy-center.org/exploring/ballet/nw/images/photos/JamieMeasuring_300.jpg)

Wyeth and Nureyev: The Artist Meets the Dancer 

When Jamie Wyeth met Rudolf Nureyev in 1974 at a party, he was immediately intrigued by the alluring dancer. He approached him and asked if he could paint his portrait, but Nureyev at first declined. Although Nureyev was constantly photographed, Wyeth felt photography could not capture the dancer's charismatic personality. Three years passed before Nureyev would relent.

Wyeth was given permission to watch Nureyev rehearse and perform and would sketch Nureyev from the wings of the stage. On the night of Nureyev's performance of Pierrot Lunaire on Broadway, Wyeth watched the dancer before the show opened and marveled at his intensity and passion:

He started to go through his movements, and he'd throw off clothing as he got warmer and warmer. He would get into this frenzy. There were times when he looked at me, but he wasn't even seeing. It would build into this pitch. ... The curtain was down and I'd start to hear the house filling, the muted voices through the curtain and the orchestra turning up. And here was this silent figure in his white makeup with his hair flying. He was completely in his own world. 1

These initial sessions resulted in thirty small scale portraits of Nureyev and the beginning of a friendship. Soon after, Nureyev would frequently visit the Wyeths home in Chadds Ford, Pennsylvania, where he was both envious and intrigued by the close relationship of Andrew Wyeth and his son Jamie. When Jamie brought Nureyev to see his father's studio, the dancer was captivated by the many costumes and props used by N.C. Wyeth to create his illustrations.

Andrew and Jamie had already been known to try on these costumes for fun. But now they had a third person to play dress up with—Nureyev! He was particularly enamored of a heavy red coat that Andrew claimed once belonged to Ludwig of Bavaria, a coat that he requested each time he would visit.

Nureyev had also become friends with Jamie Wyth's wife Phyllis, whom he had met in a Manhattan restaurant in 1977. Phyllis, who broke her neck in a car accident early in life, had been confined to using crutches in order to walk. Nureyev admired her strength and enthusiasm and the two immediately became friends.

But the relationship between the two artists was not always jovial. Nureyev was often a difficult model. It was nearly impossible to schedule time for the busy dancer to take time out of his rehearsals and performances to pose for Wyeth. Nureyev was also very sensitive about how his body was portrayed, and he would insist on viewing Jamie's work at every step.

In fact, when Wyeth asked another dancer to pose in Nureyev's place for his initial sketches during a period when Nureyev was hard to pin down, Nureyev was furious. His sensitivity to depictions of his likeness prompted him to schedule sittings with Wyeth on a regular basis.

It was only when Wyeth snapped at Nureyev during one sitting that the two came to an understanding. Wyeth explained that like Nureyev's interpretations of dance, Wyeth would also be interpretive in his portraiture. For example, much to Nureyev's dismay, Wyeth sketched the dancer wearing a fur coat. Although Nureyev would not wear this coat while dancing, Wyeth decided to use it in his Profile, In Fur, Nureyev (Study #9) to emphasize his Russian background.

But despite any setbacks, Wyeth continued to depict Nureyev's portraits. And he would sketch him meticulously. After spending substantial time at a morgue sketching the human body, Wyeth was well-trained in creating accurate depictions of the human form. Still, he would use calipers to measure the dancer's calf, shoulder, and wrists to ensure his accuracy, and Wyeth's sketchbooks reveal his extensive note-taking, indicating Nureyev's measurements and proportions.

Although Nureyev was Wyeth's most difficult model, the painter continued to be inspired by the dancer, not just for his talent but for his personality.

He had a dangerous, feral quality about him, and an infamous temper that could flare, then just as quickly disappear. Yet there was also a sweet, childlike aspect to the dancer that was evident to those who knew him well. 2

Even after Nureyev's death, Wyeth captured Nureyev's likeness on canvas. In some ways, it was easier to paint the dancer without him in the room. Since Nureyev's personality was so captivating, Wyeth would often find it difficult to completely focus on his work.

In 2001, Wyeth painted large-scale works of Nureyev on the stage. Since Wyeth had mastered drawing Nureyev's likeness from years of measuring and sketching the dancer, and because the artist could work without the model looking over his shoulder, these later paintings reveal more of Wyeth's own imagination.

Visual artists have been inspired by dancers for years. The late 19th-century paintings and sculptures of French Impressionist artist Edgar Degas also reveal the beauty of the art of ballet and of the dancers themselves.

Jamie Wyeth's portraits of Rudolf Nureyev, however, depict more than just the beauty of a muscular dancer. They reveal a complex individual, one whose passion for dancing helped him to overcome all obstacles—from his father's disapproval to the Russian government's disdain; an individual whose defection from his home country both launched him into stardom and estranged him from family and friends.

1 Solway, Diane. Nureyev: His Life. New York: William Morrow and Company, Inc., 1998. p. 414.
2 Pamela J. Belanger, ed. Capturing Nureyev: James Wyeth Paints the Dancer. Hanover, New Hampshire: University Press of New England. 2002. p. 45.

http://artsedge.kennedy-center.org/exploring/ballet/nw/exhibit/nureyevandwyeth.html


Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: pugetopolis on January 23, 2008, 02:37:46 PM
(http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/thumb/c/c4/Massine%2C_Leonide_%281895-1979%29_-_1914_-_Ritratto_da_Leon_Bakst.jpg/423px-Massine%2C_Leonide_%281895-1979%29_-_1914_-_Ritratto_da_Leon_Bakst.jpg)

Leonide Massine (1895-1979)

I had a phone conversation with friend of mine well-acquainted with Ballet Russes who suggested instead of Nijinsky as the blind-date Pound imaginatively arranged for Eliot—that Leonide Massine would be more appropriate since Massine fits the time period better…and he was still “sane” unlike poor Nijinsky…

And so, I’ve corrected the little satirical diity to reflect my astute friend’s keen ballet and choreographical advice…


http://forums.escapefromelba.com/index.php/topic,112.msg63981.html#msg63981


Leonide Massine
(1895-1979)

"Daffodil bulbs—
instead of balls"
—T. S. Eliot

Massine is nice—
His Russian bedroom eyes
Underlined to emphasize his
Beauty, his muscular thighs
Give promise of pneumatic bliss.

Couched Russian jaguar—
Turns the scampering minions
Of Les Ballet Russes audiences
With his subtle influences into
Prey about to be devoured…

Massine has the stage—
He masturbates the final tableau
L'après-midi d'un faune for me
With Stravinsky playing piano
Diaghilev pouting backstage…

This sleek Russian animal—
Does not in his arboreal gloom
Distil so rank a faune smell…
As does Massine afterwards
In his crowded dressing-room…

Whether such a blind-date between Massine and Eliot would have worked out and engndered the kind of poetic response mischevious Pound envisioned remains a figment of the imagination—although my friend tells me that Eliot lived in a flat with Robert Sencourt and two other queens all of whom regularly trolled nearby burlesque, vaudeville and theater backstage venues for male companionship and after hours entertainment. See Robert Sencourt, T. S. Eliot: A Memoir, New York: Dodd, Mead and Company, 1971.

(From 1915 to 1921 Massine was the principal choreographer of the Diaghilev's Ballets Russes. Following the departure of Vaslav Nijinsky, the company's first male star, Massine became the preeminent male star and took over Nijinsky's roles. After the death of Diaghilev, and the supposed death of the Ballets Russes, Massine helped revitalize the world of ballet by his involvement with the Ballet Russe de Monte Carlo. Massine appeared in the two Powell and Pressburger ballet films: The Red Shoes (1948) and The Tales of Hoffmann (1951); and in Powell's later Luna de Miel (1959). He also starred in several ballet short subjects, including a color film version of Gaite Parisienne retitled The Gay Parisian in 1942. He died at the age of 82 in Cologne, West Germany.)



Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: madupont on January 23, 2008, 03:58:42 PM
http://www.ncwyeth.org/images/ncwyethyoung.jpg



"N.C. Wyeth died at a railroad crossing in Chadds Ford in 1945, when an oncoming train hit his car."

This is but one-third of what I was referring to  as the Wyeth family "has a history in each generation of horrendous events or extreme temptations that they could not resist,whether N.C., Andrew, or James;"

As with the events of yesterday afternoon which began the guess-work as to whether Heath Ledger died by accident or suicide, that was never determined in the death of N.C. Wyeth. It was supposed that he had a heart attack when his car reached the railway tracks. Unfortunately, at the time, he was out for a ride with his grandson, who died with him, in the car when the train arrived.

There is actually more to the story than that but I will wait until I find the proper author to quote before getting into that verbatim.



Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: pugetopolis on January 23, 2008, 10:48:39 PM
(http://images.tribe.net/tribe/upload/photo/2cf/6cf/2cf6cf57-9da3-4065-8d4e-804278dbcba9)

http://tinyurl.com/2hnlpr

Portrait of Rudolf Nureyev
(1938-1993)
synthetic polymer paint and
silkscreen ink on canvas
Pugetopolis Collection


Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: pugetopolis on January 24, 2008, 05:51:30 PM
(http://www.dancemuseum.org/hall_of_fame/MassineLeonideLaleggendadiGiuseppe1914.jpg)

Young Massine

"Nothing but a
good-looking face—
and poor legs."
— Diaghilev

Miss Eliot knows—
The month of April has
The cruelest hips…

Young Massine—
Returns in mere thongs
as Prodigal Son…

Balanchine—
Choreographs each
Movement of the boy…

Stravinsky—
Adds the music
To the design…

Roualt—
The sets for the
New ballet…

New design/art—
Avant garde music
Modern choreography…

Truly my dear—
A lush veritable queer
Daisy chain…

Unequalled—
Until much later
In the Sixties…

John Cage—
Miss Cunningham
And Rauschenberg…

http://www.gaypoetry.com/design/poetry_dis.asp?dataID=35070


Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: madupont on January 25, 2008, 12:26:06 AM
A Winter Night


1786


Poor naked wretches, wheresoe'er you are,
That bide the pelting of this pitiless storm!
How shall your houseless heads, and unfed sides,
Your loop'd and window'd raggedness, defend you
From seasons such as these?
Shakespeare
When biting Boreas, fell and dour,
Sharp shivers thro' the leafless bow'r;
When Phoebus gies a short-liv'd glow'r,
Far south the lift,
Dim-dark'ning thro' the flaky show'r,
Or whirling drift:

Ae night the storm the steeples rocked,
Poor Labour sweet in sleep was locked,
While burns, wi' snawy wreaths up-choked,
Wild-eddying swirl;
Or, thro' the mining outlet bocked,
Down headlong hurl:

List'ning the doors an' winnocks rattle,
I thought me on the ourie cattle,
Or silly sheep, wha bide this brattle
O' winter war,
And thro' the drift, deep-lairing, sprattle
Beneath a scar.

Ilk happing bird,-wee, helpless thing!
That, in the merry months o' spring,
Delighted me to hear thee sing,
What comes o' thee?
Whare wilt thou cow'r thy chittering wing,
An' close thy e'e?

Ev'n you, on murdering errands toil'd,
Lone from your savage homes exil'd,
The blood-stain'd roost, and sheep-cote spoil'd
My heart forgets,
While pityless the tempest wild
Sore on you beats!

Now Phoebe in her midnight reign,
Dark-muff'd, view'd the dreary plain;
Still crowding thoughts, a pensive train,
Rose in my soul,
When on my ear this plantive strain,
Slow, solemn, stole:-

"Blow, blow, ye winds, with heavier gust!
And freeze, thou bitter-biting frost!
Descend, ye chilly, smothering snows!
Not all your rage, as now united, shows
More hard unkindness unrelenting,
Vengeful malice unrepenting.
Than heaven-illumin'd Man on brother Man bestows!

"See stern Oppression's iron grip,
Or mad Ambition's gory hand,
Sending, like blood-hounds from the slip,
Woe, Want, and Murder o'er a land!
Ev'n in the peaceful rural vale,
Truth, weeping, tells the mournful tale,
How pamper'd Luxury, Flatt'ry by her side,
The parasite empoisoning her ear,
With all the servile wretches in the rear,
Looks o'er proud Property, extended wide;
And eyes the simple, rustic hind,
Whose toil upholds the glitt'ring show-
A creature of another kind,
Some coarser substance, unrefin'd-
Plac'd for her lordly use thus far, thus vile, below!

"Where, where is Love's fond, tender throe,
With lordly Honour's lofty brow,
The pow'rs you proudly own?
Is there, beneath Love's noble name,
Can harbour, dark, the selfish aim,
To bless himself alone?
Mark maiden-innocence a prey
To love-pretending snares:
This boasted Honour turns away,
Shunning soft Pity's rising sway,
Regardless of the tears and unavailing pray'rs!
Perhaps this hour, in Misery's squalid nest,
She strains your infant to her joyless breast,
And with a mother's fears shrinks at the rocking blast!

"Oh ye! who, sunk in beds of down,
Feel not a want but what yourselves create,
Think, for a moment, on his wretched fate,
Whom friends and fortune quite disown!
Ill-satisfy'd keen nature's clamorous call,
Stretch'd on his straw, he lays himself to sleep;
While through the ragged roof and chinky wall,
Chill, o'er his slumbers, piles the drifty heap!
Think on the dungeon's grim confine,
Where Guilt and poor Misfortune pine!
Guilt, erring man, relenting view,
But shall thy legal rage pursue
The wretch, already crushed low
By cruel Fortune's undeserved blow?
Affliction's sons are brothers in distress;
A brother to relieve, how exquisite the bliss!"

I heard nae mair, for Chanticleer
Shook off the pouthery snaw,
And hail'd the morning with a cheer,
A cottage-rousing craw.
But deep this truth impress'd my mind-
Thro' all His works abroad,
The heart benevolent and kind
The most resembles God. 



Robert Burns, for Robert Burns' Day,2008


Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: pugetopolis on January 25, 2008, 11:40:24 AM
(http://img2.timeinc.net/ew/dynamic/imgs/060713/14235__supremes_l.jpg)

The Late Show
by David Trinidad

 Over the years, 
many of the gowns 
worn by The Supremes 
were given descriptive 
names by the group 
and their fans. For 
ease of identification, 
all the gowns in this 
exhibit are titled.   

 Black Swirls 
White De Mink 
Purple Fantasy 
Turquoise Freeze 
Pink Feathers 
Crème de Menthe 
Carousel 
Yellow Wool 
Tropical Lilac 
Black Diamonds 
Pink Lollipops 
Feathered Bronze 
Goldie  Black Butterfly 
Green Valley Fringe 
Cotton Candy 
Blue Icicles 
Orange Freeze 
Green Petals 
Red Hot 
Sunburst

There was even a dress
called Sophisticated Lady,
like Barbie’s biggest and
pinkest outfit from the
mid-sixties: Romantic old
rose taffeta ball gown with
silver filigree lacetrim on
bodice and drape of skirt.

Silver tiara, long white
gloves, pink pearls and
evening slippers. Fitted
American Beauty Rose
velveteen evening coat,
lined to match gown,
has dainty silver buttons.
This was Barbie’s most
expensive ensemble at
the time: $5.00.

Her wedding set, Brides’
Dream,cost $3.50; the doll
itself (with red jersey swimsuit,
pearl earrings, shoes, and
“special wire stand to keep
Barbie on her feet for all
Fashion Shows”) cost $3.00.

Confession: I recently
purchased Sophisticated Lady
from a Barbie dealer for $150.00—
“NM/C” (near mint/complete);
“Crisp gown with glitter version tiara”
(Mattel produced the outfit with two
kinds of headbands: clear plastic
with molded-in silver glitter and
solid gray plastic with no glitter;
I’m sure most Barbie collectors
prefer the former)—one of several
Christmas presents to myself.

Confession: this is not the first
time I’ve purchased Sophisticated
Lady. My collecting: a saga I doubt
I’ll ever fully understand.Let’s just
say that—like many collectors—I’ve
bought and purged, only to buy again.
Confession: last Monday (February 21)
at Columbia College, I gave my poetry
workshopa writing assignment (Joe’s I
Remember) and went to my office to
bid on Bride’s Dreamon ebay.

A gorgeous example, NRFB
(never removed from box).
I got it for $430.00(a decent price),
placing my bid nine seconds
before the end of the auction.
How the heart races, bid sniping
on ebay, waiting until seconds
before the auction closesto click
“Confirm Bid.” Confession:
this is not the first time I’ve
purchased Bride’s Dream—
loose or NRFB. It’s ironic,
I said to my therapist, that at
this particular moment
(over Ira/ready and willing
to date/feeling like there’s
room for a relationship in
my life)I should find myself
buying (again) Barbie’s wedding
dress. I did, after all, sell the
previous NRFB Bride’s Dream
I owned on ebay right after Ira
and I broke up.“I wouldn’t mind
having a wedding ring,” I said
to Bob not too long ago, idly
twisting a flattened straw
wrapper around my ring finger.
“You might want to find a
boyfriendfirst,” he said drolly.

Ira always wanted rings;
I resisted. Instead, we bought
St. Christopher medals at
Tiffany’s. Had them engraved
with each other’s name and
wrapped, with white ribbon,
in little boxes—my first taste
of Tiffany blue. December, 1992.
One of the most romantic gifts:
it’s what the narrator of Breakfast
at Tiffany’sgives Holly Golightly
as a Christmas present. For years
I wouldn’t get on an airplane
withoutthat St. Christopher
around my neck. Holly was
not a girl who could keep
anything, and surely by now
she has lost that medal, left
it in a suitcase or some hotel
drawer.  Unlike Holly,
I’ve held onto mine. 

 :D :D :D


Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: pugetopolis on January 26, 2008, 11:40:37 PM
The family has a history in each generation of horrendous events or extreme temptations that they could not resist, whether N.C., Andrew, or James; nor could they keep them secret because of being the artists they were when the events or temptations befell them.

This interests me, Maddy—it’s probably one of the most intriguing tunings of the piano you’ve made. You know about artists and how they think and feel.

The Wyeth artists and their art—the need of artists to do what they do and say what say or don’t say. It seems to go beyond mere confessing something like St. Augustine did—although I see nothing wrong with that style or Narrative mode.

That’s the way I read Ginsberg’s Howl and that’s the way I listen to his reading Howl on cd’s & dvd’s. It’s more like “confessional” performance art—the way he reads Howl early in SF almost as if he’s performing for Kerouac and Neil Cassady his lovers. But it goes beyond that—the way Ginsberg assiduously assembled and published Cassady’s letters and autobiographical writings. Later even revisiting the gone Denver neighborhoods of Cassady’s boyhood—and teaching in Boulder at Naropa. And publishing all this—unabashedly and unashamedly for all of us to read.

Almost as if Ginsberg couldn’t help it…

The same with James Wyeth—although it’s a different medium. Wyeth working with Warhol and Nureyev—especially the “I draw you—you draw me” paintings. Seeing them was very liberating for me. And then “doing” my own versions like with the Heath Ledger series…that was even more liberating.

What’s going there? Or does it matter to know why? 

I see it with Eliot too—so much about him that goes beyond New Criticism. The theatricality of him reading The Waste Land—the camp vernacular British bar scene dialog and the way he captures Vivien’s voice in the “A Game of Chess” section. 
   


Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: pugetopolis on January 27, 2008, 09:56:28 PM
(http://thames.me.uk/s02410_files/image028.jpg)

Vivienne

"Eliot was Felix, of course:
fussy, clerkish, conservative
in both politics and religion,
so somber that as a young
man he sometimes dabbed
his face with powder to make
himself look even grayer."
—Charles McGrath
   NYTimes 1/27/2008
 
Hardly, my dear—
Try lavender or chartreuse...
As in drag makeup...

If anything—
The powder-room was
For looking young & gay…

It’s difficult, my dear—
Being “bi” like Tiresias
Living in 2 worlds…

Yes, even me—
I who’ve sat by the walls
Of Thebes and wept…

Vivienne on the sofa—
With her young man
Carbuncular svelte…

I give her a final kiss—
Patronizingly then grope
My way up the unlit stairs…

She looks away—
Hardly aware I’ve departed…
She turns to the young man…

“Well now that’s done—
And I’m glad it’s over…”
Allowing the thought to pass…

The young man—
Flushed and indifferent
Assaults her at once…

His exploring hands—
Get no resistance from her…
My wife is bored as usual…

No need for caresses—
His vanity requires no
Response from her…

His bold stare—
A young selfish guest…
Vivienne goes down…

Later pacing her room—
Alone smoothing her hair…
She turns on the radio…

http://www.gaypoetry.com/design/poetry_dis.asp?dataID=35089

http://www.nytimes.com/2008/01/27/books/review/McGrath-t.html?_r=1&ref=books&oref=slogin




Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: pugetopolis on January 28, 2008, 11:14:11 AM
(http://images.tribe.net/tribe/upload/photo/db9/f66/db9f66e8-b11c-4026-a18c-82dafc20bb34)

http://tinyurl.com/2ymklh

The Harvard Poems
(1907-1910)

Ode to Harvard

“while thy presence dispels—
our vain hesitations”
—T. S. Eliot, “Ode,”
   Harvard Poems

For the hour that is left us—
Dearest fair Harvard our home…
Bastion of our importunate years
Our vain hesitations and fears…

Let us wait in the shadows—
Where your ivy-league presence…
Gives us wisdom and strength
Turning us from sons into lovers…

Bestow your hopes and blessings—
Let youthful ambitions spring erect…
May our thoughts of the past be
With us as we go into the future…

All these years that blessed us—
So much of Harvard we take away…
Those boys will always be mine
Past, present and future…



Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: pugetopolis on January 28, 2008, 11:17:43 AM
(http://images.tribe.net/tribe/upload/photo/db9/f66/db9f66e8-b11c-4026-a18c-82dafc20bb34)

The Harvard Poems
(1907-1910)

Palace of Panthers

“Panthers rising from lairs—
In forests thinkening below”
—T. S. Eliot, “Circe’s Palace”
   Harvard Advocate Poems

Forever hurrying—
Up and down the stairs…
She ends up in the evening
In her room alone…

Under the stairs—
Sluggish pythons sleep…
The parrot, the penis
And all those lies…

Pensive above it all—
Pretending to be calm…
Cool collected goddess
The Harvard queen…




Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: pugetopolis on January 28, 2008, 11:20:49 AM
(http://images.tribe.net/tribe/upload/photo/db9/f66/db9f66e8-b11c-4026-a18c-82dafc20bb34)

The Harvard Poems
(1907-1910)

Mode Oblique

“in my best mode oblique”
—T. S. Eliot, “Nocturne”
   Harvard Poems

Oh Romeo Romeo—
Would it be too rude—
Too importune to ask
You to fuck me?

Fuck me to death—
While the servants
Wait outside to clean up
The mess afterwards?

Banal, out of pity—
Pretend I’m Juliet…
Let conversations fail
Let me swoon sink…

Forget forever—
The moon’s frenzied
Eyeball ogling thru
The iced-over window…

The perfect climax—
For me is yours…
Your male oblique
Uncourteously mine…




Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: pugetopolis on January 28, 2008, 11:24:59 AM
(http://images.tribe.net/tribe/upload/photo/db9/f66/db9f66e8-b11c-4026-a18c-82dafc20bb34)

The Harvard Poems
(1907-1910)

Humoresque
—after J. Laforgue

“One of my
marionettes is dead”
—T. S. Eliot, “Humoresque,”
   Harvard Poems

Far from being dead—
Your manly marionette…
It jumps like a twisted
Jack in the Box…

I like it when—
Your face is pinched in a
Comic, dull grimace rather
Like a common rapist…
 
The kind of face—
That I’ll never forget…
Half bullying, half imploring
Mouth twisted in pain…

A devil-may-care face—
Translated, maybe, by love…
And Limbo's other useless things
Without saying goodbye…

Handsome Harvard men—
The snappiest fashion plates…
Since last time I was in Paris
The sexiest style, I swear…
 
Why don't you people—
Get some class like Harvard?
Why be contemptuous of hot
Young Boston Brahmins?




Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: pugetopolis on January 29, 2008, 02:06:39 PM
(http://images.tribe.net/tribe/upload/photo/db9/f66/db9f66e8-b11c-4026-a18c-82dafc20bb34)

Ash Wednesday

“Who walked between—
 the violet and the violet”
—T. S. Eliot, Ash Wednesday

1

Our lady of costco—olga baclanova—cadillac suv queen—calm & overweight—unperturbed wholesome—double-chinned jowls—rose of tummy tuck—ancient lascaux goddess—fertility in repose—suburban brunhilde—nibelungen sister—queen of the mall—valkyrie virgin—this is your garden—where all loves end—southcenter mall—copulating coupons—weekend specials—lingerie cults—credit card romances—tormenting bargains—guilty pleasures—nordstrom lusts unsatisfied—no greater joy tho—than a happy shopper—shopping without end—into hearts of darkness—without the mall—and costco my dear—where would we go—who would we be?

2

These wings of mine—they no longer help me fly…they only beat the air…i’m the lost lady—in white leotards waiting in the costco parking lot…i don’t hope anymore—and because i don’t hope i no longer mourn for love…i no longer strive—toward crude earthy things… aged baclanova am i…once way above—ballerina of the sky—queen of trapeze…but now look at me—the chicken woman show—clucking in the sawdust…the freaks did me in—but i really deserved it and so did young hercules…i renounce the big top—i despise the three rings… todd browning i hate you!!!

3

I don’t hope anymore—i’ll never be human again only cluck exists for me now…why should i fight it—an aged eagle stretching her tired old wings? blind carbuncular—clucking in front of rubes vanquished by creeps…where trees flowered—where springs once flowed there is nothing there for me…time is always now—place is always here in hell…same time same place forever…surely this is purgatory—where hope to be human again is lost and never will return…there’s too much to explain—let these words answer for me—may they answer for what i’ve done…judgment is heavy upon me—i pretended to be in love with him that little fucking freak…midget man my husband—i married him for his money but the freaks got me instead…these wings no longer fly—these limbs no longer soar high above the gasping crowds…pray for me you sinners—haunted hen of darkest hell…observe how purgatory works…

4

Chicken lady divine—lovely carney virgin bride…does your lovely wishbone throb? inside that hollow roundness—that once graced the platinum blonde beauty of your skull…do you still think, my dear—is that brain of yours still alive…do you feel the loneliness? lovely carnival lady—chicken queen of the night…circus diva in meditation…sitting there in your suv—contemplating your indigestion…that pizza was just too rich…southcenter shopping mall—temple of troubled tiresias…leotards can be so revealing…how can she do it, my dears—getting her big fat ass in that car…squeezing into her leotards? i’m parked next to her—we nod knowingly—knowing all that’s needed to be known…she & i gluttons for fast food—just like poor dante’s lost souls—suffering agonies of hell…we shine in brightness—our sinful deeds of obvious oblivion—including pizza booze pies ice cream…

5

Under a ratty palm tree—forgetting ourselves & each other after a long hot saturday of shopping…in the quiet of the food circus—beneath the smudgy skylights—where fast food gets gulped and worshipped—where cholesterol clogs our clogged veins… this is the mall—this is what matters the most…this is our sacred purgatorial inheritance…passing by abercrombie and fitch—i turn around and see behind me the same shape twisting there…trailing me as usual—my dreadful shopper’s doppelganger shadow—the evil vapors and fetid fast food smells—mixing with the perfumed & poisoned air—emanating from the entrance to the bon… the devil in the blue dress waiting for me and bill—always mincing behind me there in front of the leering mirrors…my own deceitful face of hope and despair… down the upscale escalator—up the elevator to hell—blank shopper’s faces and lovely staring eyeballs…these agèd sharks are such serious shoppers…they’d cut your throat to get the last deal—then cruising spencer’s fun shop—boys bellied like fat plump figs— exquisite genital-stuffed bluejeans…flirting with their ho-hum bored girlfriends…and beyond them the parking lot—hawthorn blossoms pale pink in spring… where broad-backed boys with donkey faces go down… enchanting the maytime meaty mayhem—accompanied by antique flutes so pale—so pale and fricassee in the backseat… those brown-haired boyz so sweet—brown-haired peach-fuzzed strip mall chicken…blown by lavender-lipped lolitas…lordy, i’m surely not worthy—lordy, lordy, i’m not a worthy man…surely i’ll end up like olga baclanova—there in front of Nordstrom—wallowing in the sawdust—the bug-eyed ogling chicken man…

6

Olga Baclanova—she shops the violet—she shops the violet & lavender boyz…she shops till she’s blue in the face…she shops the puce cute ones—all the varied shades of chartreuse and emerald-green—all the while talking to herself of trivial things… the stream of ignorant self-consciousness—the eternal dolor of the shopping moment—she walks with the walking dead… just as the walking dead walk with her…all the wasted years shopping—“sovegna vos a temps de ma dolor”….poi s'ascose nel foco che gli affina….(“be mindful in due time of my pain”—then diving back into the refining strip mall flames… ) down thru the bright mall of tears and joy—years and years of shopping for those exquisite perfect things…white jeweled unicorns & gilded hearses... while her silent sisters veiled in white—nod knowingly there in the sacred precincts and tearooms…like that one next to baskin & robbins…breathless, her bent head admiring young male beauty—in the roomy handicapped stall—fit for a queen and cute consort—oh the hundreds of dollars spent every lost weekend…trying to redeem time, redeem the dream… but quickies just don’t last…

7

The token of the word unspoken—the unspoken word supremely buyable…the word for sale like everything else—the proposition so old and ancient—the now or never stooping to conquer…the unspent word that’s spent quickly—the filthy rich word unstoppably divine—unshoppable unshakeable yet cheap…the word whispered every lost weekend—the lovely lost words that seem to last forever and ever…unheard of shameless yet ho-hum—the oozing rotten yogurt of the young cheesy unmenschlichkeit… yawning behind locked metal doors—holding onto handles meant for cripples—instead helping spastic pinheads do their thing—surely this is the purgatory of the damned—world without words of kindness—only cruel passions far from being pretty—she pretends she’s olga baclanova—going down on some local hercules punk—there in one of the carnival trailers where unspeakable things are done—the wordless world without tears or pity—yet the world within every mall that’s worth it’s salt—the salty snotty world of serious shoppers who know what they want—from coast to coast the cumliness of the basement bargain shoppers—the crisp twenty dollar bill or two—a c-note for take-out thai food back home—wrongful world within tacky worlds of evil sin…no light shines in infernal dante darkness—except perhaps shooting stars when a cute one sprains his neck…

8

My dearest sisters, what have we done—what have we done to deserve such happiness and buying power—no capitalist closet cases are we—we who shop both day and night—we serious shoppers in the dreary day time & in the night time that’s the right time—the right time & the right place for doing what needs to be done…no place of grace for bleary-eyed unbelievers—no time to rejoice for those among us who deny the oozing carbuncular caress of the good deal…yes my veiled sisters praying for it—praying like preying mantises—we who walk in darkness of lonely midnight shopping malls…even tho surely it will catch up with us—we who will have to pay sooner or later…robbed and rolled perhaps by suburban rough trade—we like them who are addicted to darkness—season after season, time after time again…hour after hour, inch after inch, paying dearly for our presence in the purgatory of the gods… my poor praying veiled sisters who wait on bent knees—we who want to get away—but yet can’t help ourselves and must stay…i pray for all of us who must shop till we drop…fainting in lonely cubicles of restless shopping mall lust—yes o my sisters, what have we done—we both affirm the world & yet deny it…spitting from our mouths the withered apple-seeds of the waste land…we who’ve lost hope of ever turning back again—we who are doomed to be olga baclanova clones—we the tacky chicken ladies of the midnight mall—the chicken queens of the night of a thousand tears—we the mall queens here at southcenter—this  is our purgatory of choice… we wear profit and loss on our stained lapels—in this brief transit where bargains are brief and life so cheap…where the dreamcrossed twilight meets again and again…between birth and dying—down to the last drop—then back to shopping again—cruising the lovely wide Abercrombie & Fitch models—leering down from the leaning walls—all the window displays so lasciviously inviting…saying at last goodbye to tacky bargain basement tearooms… passing once again through grand faux-granite columns—gracing the outside of our lady of nordstrom temple… where virgin sacrifices are made in the usual backroom manner…passing out through the ancient aisles & corridors—back to our cars in the parking lots beneath neon lamps—we lucky shoppers who rejoice—our spirits quickened in capitalist joy…the cry of quail and the whirling plover… and the blind eye of baclanova who sees all—and the deaf ear hears the lovely footsteps—and the fingers clutch the beads—the runny beads of perfection and distinction—sliding down our nelly throats—yes feeling happy once again…

http://www.gaypoetry.com/design/poetry_dis.asp?dataID=35100




Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: pugetopolis on January 30, 2008, 09:22:33 PM
(http://images.tribe.net/tribe/upload/photo/db9/f66/db9f66e8-b11c-4026-a18c-82dafc20bb34)

Dante’s Inferno

“e io senti' chiavar l'uscio di sotto
a l'orribile torre”
—Dante, Inferno, XXXIII, 46

Meandering—
"... what branches grow
out of this stony rubbish?"

Meandering—
Difficulties & allusions…
All the ways to hyperlink…

Labyrinthine—
I have heard the key
Turn in the door once…

To Elba I came—
A cauldron of unholy
Loves sang in my ears…




Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: Lhoffman on January 30, 2008, 10:19:38 PM
Meandering—
"... what branches grow
out of this stony rubbish?"



Early spring and
I  stumbled upon
the palest pink blossom
bent near
breathed its pristine sweetness
a small bee intruded
a small  buzzing and busywork
more bees
a muzzle
amuzzabuzz of bees
a droning over pink.

one pale pink blossom
such optimists….


Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: pugetopolis on January 31, 2008, 01:44:37 AM
(http://www.bloglifetime.com/images/blogs/5-2007/urbanites-encouraged-to-keep-bees.jpg)

“Like bees poets hymenoptera plunk themselves deep inside wild and domesticated flowers of life, flowers of evil, flowers of beneficence, cramming poet bee stomachs and bee leg pollen bags with fluids and aromatic dusts for digesting into poem. A volume of verse is not unlike a honeycomb, each cell stuffed with a poem, or with a verse for a multi-celled poem. Bees, like poets, arrange themselves into strata. An elite suck substances from rare orchids, trailing arbutus, century plants, and flashy yuccas. Their queen insists on quality…”

—Robert Peters, Where the Bee Sucks: Workers, Drones and Queens of Contemporary American Poetry (1994)


Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: Lhoffman on January 31, 2008, 10:30:56 AM
Where the Bee Sucks....Have you got this book in your collection?  What do you think of it?


Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: pugetopolis on January 31, 2008, 03:02:57 PM
Where the Bee Sucks....Have you got this book in your collection?  What do you think of it?

It’s a key book—in terms of GLBT lit crit. He’s the best kind of gay critic—he publishes poetry and has an eye for sham. He’s here on my nightstand—next to Eliot and Vlad. For example, his review of Sharon Doubiago’s Hard Country had special meaning for me this past weekend: her line “reading through the dozen books” I used in a couple of poems I published in The Emporia Gazette. The Tyson meatpacking plant is closing down in that little Kansas college hometown of mine—with the loss of 2000+ jobs. Not just the locals—but the Hispanics & Somali as well. Using Doubiago’s image—I shared with them my angst too. Two short ones—then a longer one.


Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: pugetopolis on January 31, 2008, 03:11:07 PM
(http://www.emporia.edu/cgps/images/panoramic_000.jpg)
Greensburg KS Panoramic, May 2007

Letters Home

“Now that the problem with
the Somalis has been resolved,
Emporia can now focus on the
real problems at hand. Dogs
riding in the back of trucks,
the Mexicans, and continue
to save the fairgrounds.”
—madpoet

dear emporia poet—
reading thru dozens of posts
wading thru stories of 
dislocation and angst 
stories town people
I feel like billy budd…
mute before the obvious
kansas hard stoic—
a killer…

Posted by prairiepoet (anonymous) on January 31, 2008 at 6:59 a.m.
http://www.emporiagazette.com/news/2008/jan/30/tyson_ending_second_shift_slaughter_today/#comments



Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: pugetopolis on January 31, 2008, 03:18:08 PM
(http://www.emporia.edu/cgps/images/Raugrainelevator.jpg)

Tyson

The drive on west sixth—
is on an artery of blood & guts
pumped by the meatpacking plant…
lots of fast food joints along
the way thru that little town
plus new pickup trucks…
dead cattle at the end of the trail
waiting like us to be seated
in dante’s inferno next to the
old roller-rink long gone…
my friend slipped in the gore and
shot himself in the head screaming
all the way to the topeka hospital….
sluggish polluted muddy cottonwood
river south of the tracks where
my hispanic girlfriend lived but I
was long gone how it stunk my last
visit there in my hometown the smell
of dead carcasses & burning hide…
so bad I couldn’t breathe but my
stepfather said that’s the smell of money…
so I shrugged and nodded because
by then I was long gone…

Posted by prairiepoet (anonymous) on January 31, 2008 at 9:36 a.m.
http://www.emporiagazette.com/news/2008/jan/30/tyson_ending_second_shift_slaughter_today/#comments




Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: pugetopolis on January 31, 2008, 03:21:29 PM
(http://images.tribe.net/tribe/upload/photo/db9/f66/db9f66e8-b11c-4026-a18c-82dafc20bb34)

The Dry Salvages

“The river—
is a strong brown god”
—T. S. Eliot

I don’t know much about gods—
But I think the Cottonwood River
Is a strong brown god—
Sullen untamed intractable…

Patient as the prairie is long 
From horizon to horizon—
Cutting thru the Flint Hills…
Thru stormy tornado nights

Over my head down from
Strong City builder of bridges—
Ancient Inner Sea limestone
Unhonored unappropriated…

Dwellers of Emporia sleep—
All the banks curbs churches
Sidewalks streets even their 
Own rank bones and bodies…

Seabed winter nursery tale—
Cretaceous and still alive
After millions of years this
River keeper of floods…

Almost forgotten—
The river inside us and
The sea the starfish the
Giant garfish backbone…

That runs up and down
Our spine hints of earlier
More savage times rivers
Anemone pools dark…

Delicate algae fog in the
Ferns tall as fir trees…
Mausoleums full of
Prehistoric menace…

Pterodactyls low overhead—
Caress of sleek smooth
Silent granite teeth between
Midnight and dawn…
 
Estrangement from sea—
River howl and yelp…
The prairie calling us
Back homeward again… 

http://www.gaypoetry.com/design/poetry_dis.asp?dataID=35115






Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: Lhoffman on January 31, 2008, 04:33:47 PM
Coming to a dystopia near you....
Tyson: Kansas
General Motors: Flint, Saginaw, Detroit.....
and the dream goes on


Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: pugetopolis on January 31, 2008, 10:31:02 PM
(http://images.tribe.net/tribe/upload/photo/db9/f66/db9f66e8-b11c-4026-a18c-82dafc20bb34)

WPA Lit

“Few things are sadder—
than the truly monstrous…”
—Nathanael West,
   The Day of the Locust

I'm beginning to feel...
like a WPA poet...

Thirties dustbowls...
and Depression blues...

here it comes, baby...
hang on tight...




Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: pugetopolis on February 01, 2008, 01:03:26 PM
(http://images.tribe.net/tribe/upload/photo/db9/f66/db9f66e8-b11c-4026-a18c-82dafc20bb34)

Burnt Norton

“Old enchantments”
—T. S. Eliot

1

Burlington Road

Don’t drive too fast—or you’ll lose your way…these country roads have many twists and turns…the headlights are bare—the windows are down and you’re back home tonight for a visit…don’t glance too long—let the old spells sleep…let the roads dip into the hollows but not too deep…keep your eyes open—let the damp smells of the creek seep into you again as you drive by…let the prairie night—rise up to meet the hot sun of august as the wheatfields flow by…long drives at night—down the dirt roads are good for the old memories… flow…but don’t stay too long—you’ll end up a hermit in that old stone farmhouse surrounded by snow…

2

Wilson Park

A WPA creation—like the football stadium across the parking lot from the hill…the hill was high—northeast of campus not far from the fast smooth neosho river…and in the hill—embedded for millions of years writhing twisting crinoid stems there…they lived there—cretaceous cliffs still lazy in the languorous fetid inland sea afternoon…who would notice—other than an amateur like me interested in local paleontology…fossils still living in the oozy skull island mud—at least in my imagination—wiggling living things in ancient limestone sidewalks…they’d tilt with age—undermined and uplifted by elm tree roots—long before penny’s redi-mix replaced them all with smooth cold cement… but i remember—walking moonlit nights when the sidewalks were alive & squishy… not just dead slabs—limestone blocks cut from strong city’s quarry in chase county…but alive like wilson park—listlessness of longtime hanging around in the prehistoric prairie silences before I was born… local history so short and quick—maybe 3 generations going back to the 1850s—some civil war heroes—the grand army of the republic—gaunt veterans on the county courthouse steps—but the hill that was wilson park going back millions of years… hundreds of millions of years…so that I could still feel it—the depression thirties and the way the limestone wpa stadium walls were built—the way the park was walled by artisan crafted stonemasons enclosing the old island that was the park—how the hill ached along the northern side—where the erosion exposed a fossil toothache—making me wonder about eras, ages and old genealogies—standing there between the ancient cliffs and the old sky above…was there any time left for me too?

3

The YMCA

A vacant lot now—why do vacant lots look so much smaller than the real thing? the real thing—that used to be so much bigger than it seems like today? at least that’s how it looks—how it seems to me anyway this little lot once the huge ymca building… how could all that stuff—all those memories and things that happened back then in the fifties? how could it all get squeezed into—this shitty little grassy weedy corner lot left here by the street… funny how things work out—well, maybe not so funny—how things maybe don’t work out the right way… if i’d stayed here—maybe i could have saved the ymca and the hood mansion and the church? but it’s too late now—they’ll stick a ticky-tacky cheap apartment in here for the tyson folks… across the street—the junior high school still there… talk about tacky ‘50s chicken bildungsroman schmaltz… puppy love central—then peyton place took over and things got serious that’s for sure…the ymca pool—the locker room and showers and basketball courts and jukebox…the funky elvis vibes—saturday night dances…the young wrestling coach always sneering at me…making me be the towel boy all the time… all those after school workouts—the lopez brothers worth dying for…and the two evil minister’s sons driving me straight down into hell…

4

William Allen White Library

Temples come & go—rome had plenty and so did athens and all those european cities…the carnegie library—down on east sixth street across from the art deco civic auditorium…it was an old temple—with lots of books and a glass-floored second floor that would shock you…an old-fashioned temple—with cork-lined walls fit for miss proust and where silence was golden…it’s the county historical society center now—a whole building to itself—rather that being stuffed down there inside the basement of the civic auditorium…

Funny how things work out—in that little college town where midwestern regionalism was so gothic and gaunt…the real temple tho—was up on twelfth avenue there on the college campus where time seemed stopped still… it was still pretty new—william allen white library built in the fifties…inside it still smelled like eisenhower and stevenson…plus it was air-conditioned—what every decent temple needs during those long hot kansas summers when blacktop melts…

The pale pine furniture—the fifties style architecture the tall windows looking north at the old gym… tomes of sacred texts—vast thick encyclopedias lining the reference room walls—a long cathedral-like high-ceilinged room—books with ancient greek nude god photos… perplexing me why—why and how did the greeks know what i knew—and the romans too all about that svelte male beauty… why was there nothing—in my life and all the books i read—about the midwest realism that should have been there—as real as greek art?

All i had was—a crummy short story or two by willa cather called paul’s case about suicide… and henry james—with her scary jolly corner ghost story and turn of the century screw job nightmare… something was missing—midwestern regional lit had left something out of the picture for me… it wasn’t just that—it was something else like lost knowledge—not something new but something buried deep inside the statues…

The lopez boys—they tried to help me by posing nude before and after practice…in the ymca locker room it’s amazing how—greek-like those two mexican boys could get—with all their streamlined male athletic beauty…twin bronze santa fe gods—both of them hating books and school and reading and all that kind of stuff… and yet they were closer—closer to the greeks and the parthenon and olympus than any book could be…

But i’d always come back to the temple—to the huge reference room at the waw library to make sure i wasn’t dreaming…bookworming my way back into time again and again—back into ancient athens rome time… sitting there long afternoons meditating not just browsing… meditating on them and checking out the gods—the nude zeus types and moody neptunes—the dionysus ones posing with fauns & satyrs…

The greek gods were showoffs—like the lopez brothers—they knew i loved to admire and feel them up—their biceps flexing in the gym—their hard stomachs in the back of the cadillac …here were the real greeks back again—alive and well and hiding out in kansas—just for me and some high camp archeology… young male beauty redux—beyond old statues and classic friezes and manmade marble mumbo-jumbo …it was the living greek thing—with an index of living history to back it up—better than any photos or gone greek coins…midwestern greek male mythology—taking on a special kind of realism for me—morphing into more gothic americana greek thing…it was there hidden—not blatantly out there in the open coliseum roman and greek way of posing gods…but something based on more human models…like the drop-dead kind of kansas gothic nudes—mixed with a dab of bible-belt guilt—and a smooth latino six course meal of exquisitely cosmopolitan catholicity…

Knowing what i knew—that the greeks were all queer for it just like me maybe even worse…i worshipped it as much as I could—not particularly deifying it or building temples to it—not getting all carried away with it…but rather doing it right—with a certain amount of republican poise and calm kansas decorum… the lopez boys living gods south of the tracks—living in the our lady of guadalupe trailer park back then… their parents never home and gone most of the time—their father working for the santa fe railroad …how that plastic crucifix on the bedroom wall—tilted back and forth like a cuckoo clock…how that purple lava lamp oozed and bubbled—how their irritated girlfriends pounded on the front door—when the lopez boys got serious about it—me worshipping the gods and all that greek art appreciation stuff…

http://www.gaypoetry.com/design/poetry_dis.asp?dataID=35126





Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: pugetopolis on February 01, 2008, 03:31:45 PM
(http://images.tribe.net/tribe/upload/photo/db9/f66/db9f66e8-b11c-4026-a18c-82dafc20bb34)

Little Gidding

“The seas of experience
So immediate and steep
Are suddenly still…”
—T. S. Eliot, “Silence,”

Gliding down State Street—
Down from Tenth Avenue
To 711 West Seventh…

A mission of mercy—
Some cigarettes, Kotexes
For Mommy Dearest…

My fast sleek Swinn—
Munching on my reward
A crunchy Heath bar…

Letting the bike glide—
No hands on handlebars
Just the gliding & me…

Then for a whole block—
The weirdest sensation
Of movement reversed…

As if I were motionless—
Standing still and the
Houses moving instead…

Pivoting like a top—
Spinning around me
The whole town…

It was so weird—
And otherworldly
But familiar too…

Everything ancient—
And immediate for
The very first time…

From then on—
I flew by the seat
Of my pants…

The illusion—
Of movement while
I was secretly still…

Standing still—
Even going 100mph
In my dad’s Corvette…

____________

Please note: I had no idea then—or even now—what this experience meant other than the feeling of uncanny yet pleasant reversal of time & space—State Street and all the old mansions gliding past me while I didn’t move at all. In fact, it was as if I’d never moved since I was born—a truly weird déjà vu sensation I’d never experienced before.

It was only after reading the below unpublished poem by Eliot at Harvard that I realized that my own version of the timeless moment back in the ‘50s wasn’t unique at all:

Along the city streets 
It is still high title,
Yet the garrulous waves of life
Shrink and divide 
With a thousand incidents
Vexed and debated—
This is the hour for which we waited—

This is the ultimate hour
When life is justified.
The seas of experience
That were so broad and deep
So immediate and steep,
And suddenly still.
You may say what you will,
At such peace I am terrified.
There is nothing else beside,   

—T. S. Eliot, “Silence,” Lyndall Gordon, T. S. Eliot: An Imperfect Life, New York: Norton, 19xx, 290.

Later sitting in a train compartment waiting in Kansas City—I had that same weird sensation of “the still moment.” It was my first trip down to Shreveport to visit my divorced father—for what would end up being my Deep South bildungsroman coming-out period at LSU when I first starting publishing poetry…

My train was almost ready to leave—while this other train was moving past us. Something clicked inside me—and it felt like my train was moving instead. I knew it was an illusion—but still it was so real I did a double-take. There I was sitting still—yet I was moving at the same time. The “still moment” = moving & standing still….

But here’s another weird thing—the “still moment” isn’t just a horizontal motion-motionless thing. It works vertically too—in fact maybe vertical falling—yet being still—is even more veridical and frightening than the other way. It gets rather Dante-esque fast—but then that’s another story…

http://www.gaypoetry.com/design/poetry_dis.asp?dataID=35127


 


Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: pugetopolis on February 04, 2008, 06:06:23 PM
(http://famouspoetsandpoems.com/pictures/walt_whitman.jpg)

Ode to Ralph's Pretty Good Grocery

Oh dear, how time flies—
Ralph's Pretty Good Grocery
Next to the Princeton campus…

Ah, sweet New Jersey!!!
Abode of the gawds—
WCW and Miss Ginsberg…

Old wise Walt Whitman—
There by Timber Creek
With his cute farmboys…

Recuperating after—
His Beltway Civil War
Mental breakdown…
   
It all brings back—
So many fond memories…
And now Baghdad…

http://www.gaypoetry.com/design/poetry_dis.asp?dataID=35153





Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: pugetopolis on February 04, 2008, 07:31:24 PM
(http://images.tribe.net/tribe/upload/photo/db9/f66/db9f66e8-b11c-4026-a18c-82dafc20bb34)

F.O. Matthiessen

“I have measured out—
my life with coffee spoons”
—T. S. Eliot

Personal wastelands—
F.O. Matthiessen jumping to his
Death from a twelfth-story window
Of the Boston Hotel Manger…

It was April Fools Day 1950—
The shock waves reverberated
All the way from Harvard to
The haughty HUAC Beltway…

So much for the Renaisance—
The American Lit Renaissance
Envisioned by Matthiessen
From Whitman to the ‘50s…

The best minds, my dear—
Of how many generations
Squelched and smothered
By the fucking Waste Land…

Personal wastelands—
The kind we’ve all lived thru
Day-to-day hour-to-hour
Slinking our way thru life…

http://www.gaypoetry.com/design/poetry_dis.asp?dataID=35158




Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: pugetopolis on February 05, 2008, 02:26:18 PM
(http://www.foxnews.com/projects/misc_images/020408_Abercrombie.jpg)

Beyond Madame Prufrock

“Eliot compresses his descriptions—
so tightly that you have to give them
time to unfold in your mind…” 
—F. O. Matthiessen

A gay locus classicus—
Miss Eliot’s objective correlate…
Her struggle getting beyond
Madame Prufrock…

Milton did it elegantly—
With her Samson Agonistes
As did Miss Dante with
Her dramatic Inferno…

Externalizing her angst—
And all that queer weltschmertz…
That’s the name of the game, dears,
Avoiding the vague & vaporous…

Mocking herself mercilessly—
All that supercilious cultivated
Ersatz fastidiousness replaced
By immediate articulateness…

She wasn’t bashful or shy—
Projecting herself thru herself
Like Ezra Pound & Personae
Thru her own Sweeney…

She lived her own Life—
Her Waste Land tres unique…
Repulsed by the vulgarity
And allure of London nights…

Didn’t let it dry up, my dears—
Her gift for queer loquaciousness
Didn’t let Harvard guilt trips
Disillusion her into silence…

Dramatic lyric intensity—
Requires the hard precision of
A diamond tiara, honey, plus the
Steely edge of Fräulein von Kulp…

There’s a word inside words—
Swaddled with darkness & the
Depraved juvescense of the 
Year of the Rat…

Ask Madame de Tornquist—
She and Madame Sosostris
Are waiting in the next room
To read your beads so nicely…

It’s all quite legit, my dears—
It’s all done with smoke & mirrors
This “queer objective correlate”
That Miss Eliot promulgates…

Pick an exact queer detail—
Let that picture carry its own
Gay connotations and make it as
Consciously concrete as possible…

If you do it right, my dears—
Clearly clicking your ruby slippers…
Then surely “consciously concrete”
Will become “unconsciously general.”

Forget the hocus-pocus—
Of William Morris and her tacky
“The Nymph’s Song to Hylas”
That’s all Wizard of Oz baloney…

Something as simple as—
Marvell’s concrete little ditty
“The Nymph and the Fawn”
Doing the trick rather neatly…

Be specific and distinct—
Go to Costco and the Mall…
Wallow in the purgatorial
Elegance of the Moment…

Let Enchantment rule—
Let the sensuous human Welt
Of greedy images seduce you
Into costly beauty & luxury…

Don’t be vague about it—
Pick something nice like that
Huge leering Abercrombie boy
With his butt-crack hanging out…

The definiteness of Image—
Matched with the way you say it…
Will produce the indefiniteness
Of suggestion necessary…

Why just the other day—
The cops in Virginia confiscated
That exact butt-crack poster
Image from Abercrombie Fitch…

That’s how suggestion works—
The very likeness of an obsession
Creating bonds of identity and
Terrifying escapelessness…
 
After all, my dears—
The boy with the butt-crack is
Totally real and beautiful with all
The class & style of Abercrombie…

For Virginia Beach straights—
It’s truly Fundamentalist hell…
Seeing that adolescent youth
Flaunt his body so lewdly…

Whether in the A&F catalog—
Or up there in the window of the
Lynnhaven shopping mall such
Brazen male bare-ass beauty!

Bare-ass youngmale beauty—
Plump like fig’s plump fruit
Up we wind our way Miss Eliot’s
Dramatic stairway to Dante…

What could be more dramatic—
Than the mere hint of divine male
Innocence and mystery suggested
By Abercrombiesque anatomy?

Cute teenage Saint Sebastian—
For sale in the A&F catalog and
Up there on the walls sacrificed
To the minions of the malls?

This is precisely the image—
Miss Eliot is discussing my dears
Incorporating the crepuscular
Spirit of American capitalism…

Like Marilyn Monroe’s big tits—
And those stylish garish fins so
Shamelessly sharky back then
With those 1959 Cadillacs…

Stylishly immediate & greedy—
For the American moment
That’s the dramatic correlate
Between us and consumerism…

The gay sensibility—
Going beyond the merely
Journalistic conception of Miss
Pound’s ho-hum so-so Cantos…

Beyond Miss Swinburne—
And Miss Spencer to Donne…
Beyond Shakespeare and
Those lovely Dark Lady sonnets…
 
Making gay sensibility—
More than just trivial & accidental
Making our Waste Land just as
Authentic and tragic as theirs…

Fuck facile idealization—
Make that butt-crack real, baby…
Think in terms of images that
Fuse emotion and thought…

Describing action, my dears—
Rémy de Gourmont discussing
Symbolism & Miss James opining
About The Art of Fiction…

Princess Volupine stretching—
Her meager blue-nailed philistine
Hand and The Aspern Papers
A place made real thru action…

Jean Verdenal Hyacinth Boy—
Standing nude at the top of the
Staircase with fugitive resentment
His Sebastianesque blue eyes…

Cutting thru baroque décor—
Realizing that single impression…
That brief gesture that perceives
Single details acutely revelatory…

James, Eliot & Hawthorne—
Concerned with catching that
Finely-tuned gesture—sensing
Action deeply subtextual…

The value of action—
Beyond mere Prufrockian
Rankling inability to live
Life beyond the Lie…

The value of sympathy—
And male tenderness like Walt
Whitman when lilacs last in
The dooryard bloomed…

The value of renunciation—
And lesbian tenderness like
Emily Dickinson there in
Her Amherst garden…

The value of specificity—
For concrete images like
Dante in the Sixteenth
Canto of the Purgatorio…

The running stags—
Around a silver tray…
Confounding the actual
And the fanciful…

The playing-cards—
The kings and queens
And jacks & the games
People play, my dears…

And the fairies—
What the servants say…
And what the fairies
Actually do…

http://www.gaypoetry.com/design/poetry_dis.asp?dataID=35169

Notes

F. O. Matthiessen, The Achievement of T. S. Eliot, New York: Oxford University Press, 1959, 57.

“What he means by that is the prime importance of concrete presentation of carefully observed details. (It shouldn’t be forgotten that the title of his first book was Prufrock and Other Observations.) He is therein close to Hulme’s conviction that ‘the great aim is accurate, precise and definite description, close to Ezra Pound’s preoccupation in finding the exact fresh word, related also to the sharp visual discoveries of modern painting from Cézanne to Picasso. Eliot compresses his descriptions so tightly that you have to give them time to unfold in your mind…” 

http://www.foxnews.com/story/0,2933,328227,00.html

http://www.abercrombie.com/anf/lifestyles/html/photogallery.html

VIRGINIA BEACH, Va.  —  Abercrombie & Fitch said Monday that city police overreacted by confiscating two display photos of scantily clad men and a woman from one of its stores and citing the manager on a misdemeanor obscenity charge. Police issued the summons Saturday after Abercrombie management did not heed warnings to remove the images from the Lynnhaven Mall store after some customers complained, police spokesman Adam Bernstein said. One photograph showed three shirtless young men, with one man's upper buttocks showing. The other image was of a woman whose breast was mostly exposed, authorities said.




Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: pugetopolis on February 06, 2008, 06:11:34 AM
(http://images.tribe.net/tribe/upload/photo/401/52b/40152b30-91e9-4c3a-9962-ce3514582350)

http://snipurl.com/1z3a9

Free Fall

“Madame Sosostris—
famous clairvoyante…”
—T. S. Eliot, The Waste Land

I just hate it—
When he loses it…
Channeling his way into
Never—Never—Land…

Standing me up, baby—
But he can’t help it I guess…
He’s in love with himself…
Sebastian Sosostris…

Son of Clairvoyante—
Badboy Prince of Darkness…
I stop at nothing to be around
Him when he falls…

Cross-eyed Telepath—
How he faints all the time…
Hiding his face in the pillow
Speaking in Tongues…

Spastic Falling Angel—
Falling down thru the Night Sky…
Down thru my condo skylights
Imitation of Life sapphires…

I tell him I want a Ring—
A wedding ring for my Finger…
He just smirks at me and says…
Better get a Boyfriend first…

http://www.gaypoetry.com/design/poetry_dis.asp?dataID=35174





Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: pugetopolis on February 08, 2008, 03:30:34 AM
(http://images.tribe.net/tribe/upload/photo/b9b/f8f/b9bf8fd4-8ddd-4dc8-a89d-3a52c67eb339)

http://tinyurl.com/yuy74x

Tombeau de Louella Parsons
(1881-1972)

“The fans were titillated by reports
from Louella Parsons, Hollywood’s
oafish gossip-monger-In-residence”
—Kenneth Anger, Hollywood Babylon
 
The Cult of the Diva—
With its tacky homoerotic impulses
Became central to the ethos of the
Hollywood Decadent Fifties…

Most Divas were beautiful—
Maria Montez the Cobra Woman
And Bette Davis the Bitch…
“What a fucking dump!!!”

But some Divas were ugly—
Truly Snakes in the grass…
Interchangeable for queers
With The Inquisition…

These infamous Divas—
The West Coast Witch Hunters…
While McCarthy and Miss Cohen
Did the faggy Beltway…

Louella hid behind the scenes—
The Gossip Queen of LA smut…
Evil Witch of Hollywood Babylon
How she cracked her Whip…

“Hello, Louella…” he said—
“Why Rock, what a surprise?
What prompts this call out
Of the Blue, my dear?”

Rock was pious—
“Well, Louella, that story…
That story about my, well,
You know, my Love Life?”

Louella was catty—
“Oh Rock—it’s just gossip…
Don’t worry about it one
Little bit, sweetheart…”

Rock was abject—
“Oh Louella, if they
Found out I’d be washed
Up as a Movie Star…”

Louella was shrewd—
“Don’t worry, Rock…
I’m doing a story on
Tab Hunter instead…”

In the Babylon wings—
The Hollywood Reporter
Variety and Photoplay
Had no mercy, my dears…

http://www.gaypoetry.com/design/poetry_dis.asp?dataID=35194





Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: pugetopolis on February 08, 2008, 06:48:19 AM
(http://images.tribe.net/tribe/upload/photo/293/3b7/2933b7cc-d671-497f-a56a-53522922f3f8)

A Knight’s Tale (2001)
—for Heath Ledger

I am William Thatcher—
Ulrich von Lichtenstein
Of Long Lost Gelderland…
I am the Moody Knight…

I was moody back then—
And I’m moody now…
I was moody in the tent
There on the Mountain…

Brokeback Mountain—
That was my best movie…
That’s where I am now
Riding the darkness…

http://www.gaypoetry.com/design/poetry_dis.asp?dataID=35195






Title: Bukowski Online Poetics—Ten Points
Post by: pugetopolis on February 10, 2008, 01:43:53 PM
(http://images.tribe.net/tribe/upload/photo/b06/b9d/b06b9dfd-540a-4fbf-b88c-e173440c5daf)
Bukowski Multiplex
http://snipurl.com/1zdo3


Bukowski Online Poetics—Ten Points

1.

“Most successful commercial writers know what to attack and when. And even the Artsy-Fartsies who are touched upon with the Nobel and Pulitzer prizes, they too are screened for any dangerous signals of individuality. “—Charles Bukowski, Selected Letters—Volume 4 (1987-1994), London: Virgin, 1999, p.

The Blogosphere—and especially You-tube—have changed things. What began as samizdat lit and desktop publishing (DTP)—has morphed into a slithering online monster with a million medusa heads. They say hundreds of new Blogettes are being spawned everyday on the I-net—obviously an important media development.

Broadband and bigger memory chips have morphed the Blogosphere into the You-tube venue—accelerating the death of books and bookstores and publishing as we know it. Online publishing is now derigeur—as the old system of submission, editors, galley proofs, printing, cutting, binding and distribution morph and fold into new venues.

2.

“Well, the electrician hooked up the computer… I’m still getting the feel of this thing but I think all in all, it should make the work luckier. Of course, the computer can’t create but I like the look of the line as I go along and I think it all aids in the way the words flow and play around.” —Charles Bukowski, Selected Letters—Volume 4 (1987-1994), London: Virgin, 1999, p. 64.

What does computing mean for poets? Bukowski got into computers early in the game in 1990 when his wife got him a Macintosh, some MacWrite software and a laser printer. It didn’t take long for him to get into it. What Bukowski got into—was a different way to write. He traced the way he moved from typewriter to computer in his correspondence with John Martin his Black Sparrow Press publisher and his various writer friends. Following this thread in his Selected Letters is interesting. It retraces what many of us already know—except Bukowski was doing it in the early ‘90s.

3.

“The computer still seems like a new toy and I can’t stay away from it. I’m sure it will get to be old stuff after a while and we’ll get back to normal. You know, I can get an addition to this thing and if you have this other thing up there I can send the stuff up to you at the moment I type it. But we don’t need that unless the mails fall apart. The world gets stranger.”—Charles Bukowski, Selected Letters—Volume 4 (1987-1994), London: Virgin, 1999, p. 65.

During the early ‘90s  Bukowski adapted himself to the electronic Word very quickly—working his way thru the early glitches and hardware-software problems of those days. Rather than Mac, I personally went thru the Windows software changes( 3.1, 95, 98, 2000, etc) and into the laptop stage from desktop clunky cathode-ray screens. Now I use a tablet and Vista…a long ways from the days of floppies and flipping out.

4.

“I was just clowning. I’m sure you know. A computer is nothing but an instrument. It has no idea how to write a poem, a novel, etc. And most people with computers are at a hazard, most computer people have been gulped away by something awful. I resisted a computer for a long time for fear of going with this death gang. In fact, I didn’t get the computer myself. It was an Xmas gift. Blame Santa Claus.”—Charles Bukowski, Selected Letters—Volume 4 (1987-1994), London: Virgin, 1999, p. 69.

This “death gang” thing Bukowski mentions. What is it? Or what was it? This resistance to digital technology—was it a kind of Luddite metaphysical angst and fear of computer virtual reality as opposed to IBM Selectric typewriters smashing ink onto the dead skins of trees?

5.

“I have a small smile and the words leap onto the computer screen and I’m as young as I was then. There’s no vanity attached, no wish for fame, just my guts pumping with the Word, on more, some more, the way I want it, the way it should be. Anyhow, a computer easily beats a typer in spite of the accidents. You just jump back in and let it roll again. I love this thing. It’s a mad, magic fountain. As time goes on, computer errors will decrease to an extent which will be almost non-existent.” —Charles Bukowski, Selected Letters—Volume 4 (1987-1994), London: Virgin, 1999, p. 89-90.

As the letters progress, Bukowski moves further into the Word—the digital Word as opposed to the analogue Word. The former is an interactive screen—the latter is a Guttenberg antique.

6.

“I use a Macintosh IIsi. MacWrite II. Software 6.0.7. I don’t know anything about computers. My wife got me one for Xmas ’90 and I used it basically as a typewriter. Have gone to computer class, read some manuals, still an amateur. What the computer has done is to allow me to write more. Now, “more” isn’t any good if the quality doesn’t hold but with me (forgive this) it has not only held but increased. It’s a bigger party now, more fun, more fire. I used to get drunk one night to write the stuff then get drunk the next night to correct it. Carbons, cross-out ink, new ribbons, new erasing tape, etc. Now, I do it all in one night, correct the shit tight on the screen, run it off, store it for god damned eternity and mail it out somewhere. The keyboard sizzles and sings and laughs and there’s even different typefaces to fit one’s god damned mood. Chicago is best when you’re burned out and thinking of the razor against the throat or the car off of the bridge. I generally prefer “Palatino” because it makes me look like a better typist.—Charles Bukowski, Selected Letters—Volume 4 (1987-1994), London: Virgin, 1999, p. 127-128.

Bukowski works his way thru the digital Word—learning to sidestep the glitches and ditching the old print technology of carbons, ribbons and paper.

7.

“For a guy who used to hand-print his stuff I’ve gotten pretty frigging fancy. But I measure the total work and how I feel about it. I never worry about editors or readers. Never have. I get out to keep what sanity I have. There is something about seeing your words on a screen before you that makes you send the word with a better bite, sighted in closer to the target. I know a computer can’t make a writer but I think it makes a writer better. Simplicity in writing and simplicity in getting it down, hot and real.” —Charles Bukowski, Selected Letters—Volume 4 (1987-1994), London: Virgin, 1999, p. 128.

I went thru this stage too—getting interested in zines. The technology was there—Microsoft Publisher and Word. So I used it to publish my own samizdat GLBT lit. It was quicker than print publication—like waiting for galley-proofs and Gay Sunshine Press handling the production and distribution of Chicken (1979) and Size Queen (1981). My cut was a standard 10% royalty. The samizdat chapbooks ended up in many university rare book rooms.

8.

“When this computer is in the shop and I go back to the electric, it’s like trying to break rock with a hammer. Of course, the essence of the writing is there but you have to wait on it, it doesn’t leap from the gut as quickly, you begin to trail your thoughts—your thoughts are way ahead of your fingers which are trying to catch up. It causes a block of sorts. Indeed.” —Charles Bukowski, Selected Letters—Volume 4 (1987-1994), London: Virgin, 1999, p. 129

It was a very liberating thing for me—holding in my hands a book conceived and put together for myself. It was quick—it gave me an immediate sense of satisfaction. Immediate gratification—in the Freudian sense. I look back on the chapbooks of many writers like Herman Hesse and the zine-revolution poets—there are magazines and books that trace the history as well as the appearance of such samizdat lit. Bukowski was lucky to have Black Sparrow Press—the story of how that lucky break happened is told in Barry Miles’ biography of Bukowski

9.

“He found that if he stayed away from the track then he got nervous and depressed, he became irritable and when he came to sit before the Macintosh, there were no juices there to fuel the writing. He needed to look at humanity: “and when you look at Humanity you’ve GOT to react. It’s all too much, a continuous horror show.” He was bored at the track, he was terrorized by the people there, he genuinely hated crowds, but he was a student: “a student of hell.” And so he continued to point the Acura Legend towards Hollywood Par and its seething masses.”—Barry Miles, Charles Bukowski, London: Virgin, 2005, p. 261.

Being a student of hell—there’s a long history to that. Last night I was reading Rimbaud’s A Season In Hell—a sort of X-ray analysis of Rimbaud’s relationship with Paul Verlaine. I was reading Rimbaud because of his connection with the French Symbolists and how they influenced T. S. Eliot and his The Waste Land. The new POMO lit crit about Eliot (Miller, Peter, Seymour-Jones, Koestenbaum) has opened the “personal” Waste Land of Eliot into homosocial areas of poetics more relevant to gay writers. The Waste Land isn’t just a straight or closeted Waste Land—it’s a “personal” Waste Land that has homosocial dimensions as well.

10.

“When I sit down at the machine, I have no idea what I am going to write. I never liked hard work. Planning is hard work. I’d rather it came out of the air or some place behind my left ear. I have found that I am in a trance like state when I write.” —Barry Miles, Charles Bukowski, London: Virgin, 2005, p. 261.

Without all the paraphernalia (paper, ribbons, correction inks, etc.)—it’s easy to see how a writer like Bukowski can concentrate on his writing more intently and let the “trance” between himself and poem be more real and immediate. Does Bukowski’s poetry during the early ‘90s reflect any computer influences? According to Barry Miles his biographer, Bukowski’s poems become more like those of the Chinese poet Li Po—about “overheard conversations, observed situations, little events, his cats playing, words spoken, words heard, subtle nuances and fleeting shadows.”

“I am fed words by things that I am hardly aware of. This is good. I write a different kind of crap now. Some have noticed. The words have gotten simpler yet warmer, darker. I am being fed from different sources. Being near death is energizing.” (261-262)

“I am not sure that I explain anything in my writing but I do feel better for having written it. To me, creation is just a reaction to existence. It’s almost, in a sense, a second look at life. Something happens, then there is a space, then often, if you are a writer, you rework that happening out in words. It doesn’t change or explain anything but in the trance of writing it down, a rather elated feeling occurs, or a warmth, or a healing process, or all three, and maybe some more things, depending. Mostly when I write something that works for me, I get a very high feeling of good luck. And even in purely inventive work, ultra fiction, it is all taken from basic factuality; something you saw, dreamt, thought or should have thought. Creation is one hell of a marvelous miracle, as long as it lasts.” (262-263)




Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: Lhoffman on February 10, 2008, 04:38:17 PM
Lot of ideas here and I suspect this is in response to the goings-on over in movies and trivia etc.   But an interesting iteration of your philosophy via Bukowski. 

There was a discussion about these sorts of problems when political blogging began to be popular.  Journalists questioned who had the right to express opinions, along with the idea that if these pajama writers were any good then they would have been offered jobs in the industry. 

There is a loss, though.  What happens to the original thoughts, editions?  Think of Plath's Ariel...the restored edition where we were treated to her work in progress.  It sounds as if Bukowski uses a different sort of editing on the computer than he would on the typewriter.  Instead of cross-outs, deletion.  Is this a good or a bad thing?  that we can no longer observe a master's mind at work?



Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: pugetopolis on February 10, 2008, 05:52:04 PM

There is a loss, though.  What happens to the original thoughts, editions?  Think of Plath's Ariel...the restored edition where we were treated to her work in progress.  It sounds as if Bukowski uses a different sort of editing on the computer than he would on the typewriter.  Instead of cross-outs, deletion.  Is this a good or a bad thing?  that we can no longer observe a master's mind at work?


Same thing with the Bishop book...

Pro and con issues—about publishing her various drafts & mss.

Similar to the recent Nabokov-Laura manuscript discussion.

In both cases, I sense some voyeurism vs political correctness
issues… on the part of academics, publishers, etc.

Bukowski’s post-Mac poetry didn’t leave a paper-trail…

But then perhaps various versions exist on disk…

It’s like the Paglia BBB Forum—it exists on disk…

Should it be published—and what are the copyright issues?




Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: pugetopolis on February 10, 2008, 05:58:36 PM

Lot of ideas here and I suspect this is in response to the goings-on over in movies and trivia etc.   But an interesting iteration of your philosophy via Bukowski. 


They're not interested in theory........I am.


Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: Lhoffman on February 10, 2008, 07:12:35 PM
I had a sense that the NYT owned the copyright on their forums.


Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: pugetopolis on February 10, 2008, 07:22:31 PM
That's one of the issues involved...


Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: pugetopolis on February 10, 2008, 08:21:03 PM

Splooge,

Now, stop being such a queer.




He can no more stop being queer, than you can stop being a doltish freak

committed to becoming a corporate slave.





Uretha_Fran and MrUtley are not fag-baiting anybody!

You'd lie about anything where fear of discovery gets
the better of your faculties of projection. 



 ??? ??? ??? ??? ??? ???




Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: pugetopolis on February 10, 2008, 08:23:41 PM
(http://www.laughterlog.com/Personalities/pic/martyfeldman.jpg)


Puget, you're not sound.


I know—and it’s getting worse…

I thought it was the loony-tune Election at first…

But now I think it’s genetic…

It’s definitely BAD SEED…

I thought of getting a sex-change operation…

That way I wouldn’t have to butch it up so much…

But fuck me—Transsexuals get it worse than Fags!!!

I wrote Anne Landers for help—she just shrugged…

I wrote Miss Lonelyhearts—she said get a life…

Now they’re after me in the Film Trivia Forum!!!

Oh Lordy, Lordy—what’s a gay boy to do??? 




Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: pugetopolis on February 10, 2008, 09:56:46 PM
(http://www.benturner.com/robinhood/pic_foodlabel.jpg)

In the days of old there were robbers bold—
        Who lived in a forest deep;
Their lives were free as a bumble bee—
        How I melted in their arms…


Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: pugetopolis on February 11, 2008, 09:16:48 PM
(http://www.morion.com/morion/wood/wood_images/bauer_jatte.jpg)

The Literary Shadow
—for Arthur Rimbaud

Once upon a time I had this Shadow—
He would follow me around and Tattle…
Inventing foul tacky Fabulations—
Pricking  prurient Imaginations…

He told them I was a Borgesian Fake—
Just another Magic Realist Snake…
Au contraire I said slamming the door—
I’m not some elite Argentine whore!!!

I’m much more the Arthur Rimbaud type—
Just ask my sugar-daddy Miss Verlaine…
A noir, E blanc, I rouge, U vert, O bleu—
These are the vowels of Innocence…
_________

I looked around and what did I find—
Old fossils dead in the Parnassian Sea…
Lettres du Voyant came to me quickly—
A Season in Hell later kinda prickly…

Izambard was my Shadow back then—
The first Art Poétique critic I knew then…
Magic Illuminations thru attic windows—
London later looming over Paul & me…

The Romantics mere automatons—
The Unknown flowing like diarrhea…
Le dérèglement of bourgeois mindsets—
But they had no control of it…
_________

Illuminist and occultist poetics—
Ancient channels cabalaesque…
The young Poet as New Adam—
That’s who I wanted to be…

To illuminate the darkness—
To enjoy and possess the light…
Thru homoerotic eradication of
Poshlust philistine vulgarities…

The Illuminist I thought—
Would end-up enjoying the light…
But it turned out differently—
Paul Verlaine failed me…
_________

The Voyant ended up—
Hiding from the light…
The blue ray, the noir ray—
Blanc ray, rouge & vert…

Aesthetics failed me—
Subordinated by taste…
The taste of the moment—
The caprice of darkness…

Poetry wasn’t the subject—
Or form of the composition…
It was the “un état d’âme”—
As the Symbolists called it…
_________

Only the Shadow knows—
And finally then I knew too…
No wonder Plato wanted to
Ban us from the Republic…

The voyant poems came later—
Including La Chasse Spirituelle…
But before that Le Bateau Ivre—
The last poem of my youth…





Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: pugetopolis on February 13, 2008, 04:18:33 PM
(http://images.tribe.net/tribe/upload/photo/172/315/17231558-9e46-40ed-93fc-4d78f6288c6c)

Vowels
—for Arthur Rimbaud

A negro E whitey I samoan
U thai O Japanese—vowels…
Someday I will recount your
Latent births—A sleek black
African stud in seward park
Overhead savage hungry gulls—
E pale truant delinquent white
Kid skipping school for me
White gold quivering jackoff—
I mulatto-samoan ecstasy
Back of the bus polynesian
Lips huge Zimba prick—
U take-out thighs laid bare
Hiding his face in the pillow
All night long so shy—
O Japantown motel  kid
Pacific heights exquisite
Eucalyptus thru window—
O—sushi octopus lips!!!

http://www.gaypoetry.com/design/poetry_dis.asp?dataID=35225




Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: pugetopolis on February 13, 2008, 04:31:43 PM
(http://images.tribe.net/tribe/upload/photo/172/315/17231558-9e46-40ed-93fc-4d78f6288c6c)

A Season in Hell—
The Other Half of the Story

—for Paul Verlaine

These Anecdotes—
Quickie koan master tales
Tell the story better than me
About my newfound freedom
And sudden new slavery…

Monsieur de Maute—
My bourgeois father-in-law
Threw Rimbaud out and
Wasn’t’ pleased with me
Finding out I was a Fag…

My wife Mathilde—
Hated young cute Rimbaud
With his long hair and slovenly
Appearance, his pants too
Short, his Ardennais patois…
____________________________

She was jealous—
His blue eyes handsome
And much too knowing for
A schoolboy, fit more for
A ruffian or hustler…

They nicknamed him—
“Boy Baptist” at Chez Baltur…
The Rat Mort, Café an Deltá,
Café an Gaz, Café an Suíde,
Discussing poetry, absinthe…

The artless nature—
Of this Ardennais youth…
His rustic uncouthness, his
Big hands and big feet and
Total lack of Innocence…
____________________________

And his clairvoyance—
So animal and exquisitely
Depraved, knowing that
I craved him and his dirty
Adolescent ways…

His voice just changing—
Breaking now and then from
Boyish joking to violent
Manly swearing, nostrils
Erect and quivering…

He sought to displease—
A reverse method that
Worked on me, forcing
Me to be his slave in
Forbidden love…
____________________________

The Babylon barracks—
Fucked during the Commune…
Loosing his virginity with
Soldiers and revolution in
The Paris streets…

The premiere of Le Bots—
Hadn’t we put our arms
Around each other in bravado
With me gazing like a bride
Into the kid’s angelic eyes?

I show him off—
This strange Ardennais kid…
To Velade, Aicard, Merat,
Jean Forain, Camille Pelletan,
My poetic partners in crime…
____________________________

A longtime gossipy friend—
Edmund Lepelleter wrote in
Le Peuple souverain that
I was mincing around Paris
With a Mademoiselle Rimbaud…

I brought him to Banville—
Had him read Le Bateau ivre…
But when the master asked
Why have a boat talk?
Rimbaud said “Old Fart!”

He bullied me—
Took advantage of my
Closeted homosexuality
And need for sex since
Matilda was pregnant…
____________________________

I was proud of Rimbaud—
He was my discovery and
Paris was alive with gossip
About our gauche friendship
And the way it flew…

It didn’t go well tho—
Not with the Parnassians…
They were prissy queens who
Saw poetry as chatting with
Other bourgeois queens…

Valains Bonshommes—
Meeting at the Hôtel Camonsë
Or Les Mille-Colonnes under
Arcades of Palais-Royal
On rue Montpensier…
____________________________

Léon Valade aghast—
“Verlaine’s latest protégé,
A most outrageous poet…
Barely 18 with big hands and
Big feet and big whatever…

“The kid a Terror—
John the Baptist of the
Left Bank, full of obscene
Unheard of powers and
Strange corruptions…”

“He’s either a young god—
The incarnation of some
Chicken Orpheus or he’s
The strange ragamuffin
Harbinger of doom…”
____________________________

Francois Coppér—
“He’s an illusionist con-man
a smooth hustler, failed
Romantic, skilled amateur
Full of rackets and daydreams.”

Mallarmé’s recollection—
Obsessed with the boy’s huge
Hands, fragments fallen from
Some Orphic statue, proudly
Foully sprouting into view…

But more that that—
Proudly foully sprouting
From Rimbaud’s loins the
New French poetry…
A terrible responsibility…
____________________________

Huge red rough hands—
Enormous doltish feet…
More animal than amiable
Locus of youthful indiscretions
And dubious innocence…

I got Arthur—
A place to stay with
Charles Cros the poet…
In his bachelor pad studio
At 13 rue Séguiler…

But Cros was too ho-hum—
For my young misanthrope
Master who used Cros’
Copies of L’Artise for
Mere toilet paper…
____________________________

Cabanes was different—
Composing songs for Arthur…
“Le Sonnet des sept nombres”
Refrains like “Angel, what
Are you doing on Earth?”

Album zutique—
Parodic, scatological,
There at Hôtel des Etrangers
The Zutistes episodic camp
Like future Dadaists…

Thighs, hands, pimples—
And more than a thimble
When it came to satin-smooth
Mauve-streaked immodest
Oozing pale opal jizz…
____________________________

His asshole was different—
The heavy praline carnal
Crack spread-apart to reveal
What his buttocks concealed…
A manly sullen hole…




Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: pugetopolis on February 13, 2008, 10:05:52 PM
(http://images.tribe.net/tribe/upload/photo/172/315/17231558-9e46-40ed-93fc-4d78f6288c6c)

The City Without Tears

“The rain falls gently on
the town”—Arthur Rimbaud

The city rains and rains—
More rain than the rains of
Ranchipur…Lana has this
Languorous gentle hurt
Aching sound of rain…

What pierces her heart—
A faithless lover’s lie?
Gentle the sound of rain—
Parisian roofs dripping
Down during a deluge…

Now in London—
The city without tears…
How it rains and rains
All the time when Arthur
Isn’t next to me…




Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: pugetopolis on February 13, 2008, 10:43:33 PM
(http://images.tribe.net/tribe/upload/photo/172/315/17231558-9e46-40ed-93fc-4d78f6288c6c)

For Rimbaud

“I do not know you now”
—Paul Verlaine

I knew Rimbaud then—
I knew him as Eve knew Adam…
An innocent Ardennais youth
In Paris the Forbidden City of
Nightlife cafes and poetry…

Many poets back then—
Took the Muse seriously
But none more than me…
Anointed, kissed and
Fucked to death by the
Baptist of the Left Bank…

I was a whore for Beauty—
I fell for Language because
It was the only way I could
Cure my thirst and hunger…
It gave me hope…

And so I like many—
Prayed and yearned and
Swooned for it until the day
Rimbaud entered my life—
And restored Death…

Now I can admit it—
Even thru the hijacked
Lips of another voyant…
The Torture I went thru
When Rimbaud smirked…

Arthur nailed me, my dear—
Hard against the cross
Everytime we made love…
Contorting me the way he did—
Reinventing Calvary…

Resurrecting himself—
As only an Ardennais youth
Can do in the face of all the
Darkness of Old Chartres…
Glaring down at us…

I knew Rimbaud then—
What more can I say about
Him other than I was magically
Polished and made new—
Like a diamond Wormhole?




Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: pugetopolis on February 13, 2008, 11:26:34 PM
(http://images.tribe.net/tribe/upload/photo/172/315/17231558-9e46-40ed-93fc-4d78f6288c6c)

Poètes maudits

“Slender jet-fountains”
—Paul Verlaine

Slender jet-fountains—
Streaming in the moonlight…
The calm pale Parisian moonlight
Where he grew up as a man—
Young sullen voyant…

Calm pale moonlight—
Reluctant to give him away…
But I had to put him on the train
And send him back briefly to
Dismal boring Charleville…

I had to get serious—
About finances and security…
In the face of Mathilde and
Her Family abandoning me—
Because of Rimbaud…

Nothing sucks more—
Than destitute littérateurs…
Dead-broke with no money
For the usual cosmopolitan
Poètes maudits accoutrements…





Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: pugetopolis on February 14, 2008, 12:00:29 AM
(http://images.tribe.net/tribe/upload/photo/172/315/17231558-9e46-40ed-93fc-4d78f6288c6c)

The Young Fools (Les Ingénues)

“High-heels were struggling”
—Paul Verlaine

Miss High Heels struggling—
With her full-length dress in
All that wind beneath frightful
Arcades Palais-Royal there
On rue Montpensier…

So shocking, my dear—
Yet a delicate feast for young
Fool’s hearts suddenly seeing
Dark pubes flashing beneath
Billowing blown petticoats…

Miss High Heels falls down—
Young Rimbaud lying there…
Whispering in his low voice
What he always whispers—
What a little male whore…

In the evening when—
Foolishness reigns in the
Café an Deltá and The Rat Mort…
That’s when Rimbaud plays
Hide and seek with me…

Arthur Rimbaud—
Nothing can be more alluring…
Than a young stud in drag
Doing burlesque that male way—
That’s more Fem than Venus…




Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: pugetopolis on February 14, 2008, 02:34:35 AM
(http://images.tribe.net/tribe/upload/photo/172/315/17231558-9e46-40ed-93fc-4d78f6288c6c)

The Ardennes

“We were alone”
—Paul Verlaine, Poèmes
   Saturniens: Mélancholia

Memory, memory—
What do you want of me?
Autumn’s monotonous sky…
Ardennais glare of yellowing
Woods in the colorless air…

We were alone—
Walking thru the woods with
The north wind blowing thru
His long hair in streams—
Shedding gold behind him…

Suddenly Arthur stopped—
Looked at me and asked me
“Your loveliest day?”—out of
Nowhere in that angelic tone
That always meant trouble…

Before he could ruin it—
Like he always tried to do…
I bend down and kissed his
Pale white hand with the most
Sincere devotion possible…

And looked up at his face—
Those slanted eyes and the
Haughty high cheekbones of
A stranger more than lover…
An interloper from Hades…

It was autumn then too—
But the woods were different…
And the sky and air and the
Thrushes flying down and
Around us were different…

My infernal bridegroom—
He gave me his answer to my
Troubling gaze and querulous
Voice with the usual shrug—
Leaning back against a tree…




Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: pugetopolis on February 14, 2008, 04:01:38 AM
(http://images.tribe.net/tribe/upload/photo/172/315/17231558-9e46-40ed-93fc-4d78f6288c6c)

Poètes maudits
(After Belgium)


“Give me your hand”
—Paul Verlaine
Jadis Et Naguère

The owls brush my hair—
As I lie here near the river
Where he ditched me…
But I don’t blame him—
Nor really one little bit…

It was two years later—
The breeze had died down…
The poplars were leaning
In the quiet moonlight…
Telling me to be silent…

I couldn’t help myself—
But that was always my
Problem—not being able
To say no to myself when
It came to being indiscrete…

I’ll leave him alone—
It was wrong of me to
Follow him here and
Lay the same trip on him—
Even more hypocritical…

Silent peaceful nocturne—
I had my chance with the
Young fierce taciturn god…
And I failed him and myself—
What more can I say?

Love got tired of me—
Always dreaming about it…
And not doing something
About it other then running
Away with it like to London…




Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: pugetopolis on February 14, 2008, 04:51:08 AM
(http://images.tribe.net/tribe/upload/photo/172/315/17231558-9e46-40ed-93fc-4d78f6288c6c)

Langueur

“I am the Empire—
in the last of its decline”
—Paul Verlaine
Jadis et Naguère

The tall fair-haired Barbarians—
They bore me and always have…
Give me an indolent Ardennais thug…
With the languid sunshine falling
Down thru the venetian blinds…

My solitary soul is heart-sick—
Strangled by a vile ennui that will
Never go away they say once it
Resigns itself to a fainter will…
No more brave adventures…

Not that I’m lagging in desire—
Who knows more about laughing…
Praying, getting drunk, making love…
Writing vapid verses slave to time—
But there’s nothing more to say…

Rimbaud in North Africa—
His mother and sister won’t tell me…
Anything other than they pray for him—
They pray for the vagabond prince…
And so do I but he’ll never return…



Title: To the Murdered Larry King
Post by: pugetopolis on February 17, 2008, 03:57:35 AM
(http://gallery.venturacountystar.com/Images/12899.jpg)

To the murdered Larry King, Oxnard, Calif.

by Christopher Hennessy

http://areyououtsidethelines.blogspot.com/2008/02/to-murdered-larry-king-oxnard-calif.html

(Tuesday, Feb. 13, 2008, 15-year-old Larry King
was shot in the head in his computer classroom in
Oxnard, Calif. He was later pronounced brain dead.
This poem was written on Feb. 15, 2008, as Larry's
killer faced hate crime charges for allegedly targeting
the eighth-grader for wearing makeup, jewelry and
high heels and telling people he was gay.)

You selected lilac
fingernail polish,
a touch of peach
blush, and deep
purple eyeliner
the day before
you were murdered.

I am making this up,
the make-up colors.
For all I know, you
wore makeup so little,
so rarely, no one noticed
but the boys afraid
of how their skin pricked,

their pricks tensed
when you cast
your eyes down
as you past them
in the halls.
In the news photo
you could be coy,

shy...or maybe
you know something --
your smirk worthy
of Mona Lisa,
but with your full lips
and eyes like saucers
full of sweet, spilt coffee.

Tell them to sing
"Long Time Gone"
at your funeral, Larry.
I know you prefer the trio --
Nothing against Mister Young
I can hear you say -- but
we all need an elegy these days.

When you shot hoops,
I hope your earrings jangled.
caught the sunlight
and spun rays of color
as if from a prism.
I hope a pretty bracelet
warms your wrist.

Even though we are
a nation of little boys
with clenched fists,
you wanted to sing
The Star-Spangled
Banner at your little bro's
baseball games.

Your diabetic mamma
is asking the blank-faced
reporter, Who
will remind me
to take my shots? Who
is going to feed Jasmine?
The name you gave the stray

dog who would only come
for you. Did you prefer
the canary or cream petals?
'Poet's Jasmine' for the perfume?
Or Arabic for the tea?
Why can't I stop
wishing you'd shot first?

During the days
your gone mind hummed
in your living body --
its gifts waiting to be 'harvested'
(the heart, a tiny gourd,
the kidney, summer beans?) --

I would, if I could,
give your purgatory
this one memory:
losing yourself
in the black glisten
of anise licorice sticks
hooked and dangling

in Bubbling Springs,
(Snagging crawdads!
For real!) -- and conjuring
a boy, his eyes wet, oil-black,
his skin scented with jasmine,
his voice whispering,
I wish I had your smile.




Title: To the Murdered Larry King II
Post by: pugetopolis on February 17, 2008, 04:17:15 AM
To the murdered Larry King

If I may, I’d like to discuss briefly this poem and what happened down in Oxnard. Here is a snippet from the Ventura County Star newspaper article. There’s a slideshow that goes with it showing the grief and disbelief over this gay hate crime involving the murder of a gay teenager in a computer classroom.

Nobody is talking about gay rights during this Election—since the war and the economy seem to trump everything. But hate crimes like this happen—and focus attention on GLBT issues. My poet friend Christopher Hennessy alerted me to this tragedy and shared with me his elegy to Larry King the victim. I thought it was an excellent poem and I wanted to share it with my fellow Elbanians…

Poetry is just as relevant to reporting what’s going on as journalism—perhaps even better because Poetry can go beyond the discursive dimensions of shock and horror. And into areas of the psyche that Literature has always tapped—to reveal human nature as it is in all its complexity and tragedy.

Please find below the newspaper article. In the next message I want to share with you—as Christopher Hennessy did—something that we poets do. We publish Elegies…we’re used to it. If it isn’t the Plague—it’s Hate Crimes. We poets are activists—not because we enjoy it. But because we are defending our community—and trying to make the rest of you aware of what’s going on here.

Victim's family members say they will donate teen's organs
By Adam Foxman
Friday, February 15, 2008

The family of an eighth-grader shot this week at an Oxnard middle school clarified details about his death and remembered him Thursday as a talented, caring young man.

Larry King, 15, was shot in the head Tuesday morning in a classroom at E.O. Green School. He was pronounced brain-dead Wednesday. Doctors at St. John's Regional Medical Center in Oxnard planned to remove some of his organs for donation late Thursday, his family said. He was taken off life support Thursday night, hospital nursing supervisor Sue Crews confirmed.

http://www.venturacountystar.com/news/2008/feb/15/no-headline---na1fcvictimfamily15/




Title: To the Murdered Larry King III
Post by: pugetopolis on February 17, 2008, 04:23:56 AM
(http://gallery.venturacountystar.com/Images/12899.jpg)

Too Gay
 
   —for Larry King

There was this flap—
Here in Seattle about
The phrase “too gay”—
Used by the kids in
High school—it made
The papers and TV…

Things in class—
On the computer
Screen or in movies—
They were “too gay”
And soon it became
Designer deriguer—
Day-to-day lingo
Acceptable to say—
“Too gay”…

Most people—
They just pooh-poohed
The issue as that’s
Just the way kids
Talk now—at most
It was just a tempest
In a politically-incorrect
Teapot thing…

But language—
It’s important much
More important than
We think sometimes—
Words like “too gay”
Can kill especially—
When hate-crimes
Aren’t explained to
These young minds…

Who’s job—
To do that and
Take up the slack
From rap gone bad—
Other than us
Gay poets who’ve
Been there & done
That, my dears?

Note: Larry King, 15, was shot in
the head Tuesday morning in a
classroom at E.O. Green School,
Oxnard, CA. He was pronounced
brain-dead Wednesday. Several
students said King was openly
gay and other students often
teased him because of his
nonconformist behavior and
style of dress.

http://www.gaypoetry.com/design/poetry_dis.asp?xa=GPO&dataID=35261
 
Poetry - denise kelly
Recorded at Gay Poetry Online? - All Rights Reserved 
Print Date: 2/17/2008 4:20:02 AM




Title: To the Murdered Larry King IV
Post by: pugetopolis on February 17, 2008, 06:07:37 AM
(http://choralicious.com/YRMblog/wp-content/uploads/2007/06/matthew_shepard.jpg)

Haiku
—for Matthew Shepard

a fag on a fence—

under the Wyoming stars

pleading for his life…

Denise Kelly, “Haiku,” Japantown, Seattle:
Pugetopolis Press, 1998.




Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: Dzimas on February 17, 2008, 06:44:27 AM
Very sorry to hear about Larry King.  One would think we could grow beyond such prejudices, even more devastating to see it happening in middle schools.


Title: To the Murdered Larry King V
Post by: pugetopolis on February 17, 2008, 06:49:36 AM
(http://www.safran-arts.com/art/picture-Tennessee-Williams.jpg)

Letter to Christopher
—for Larry King and Matthew Shepard
 
Your poem is beautiful—
Much better than mine…
Mine is just "quick reportage"—
The way I react to news immediately
Like a knee-jerk reaction…
 
I took the liberty—
To share with my fellow
Elba Blogettes your poem.
Let's see how the Elba Group—
The former NYTimes Book Group
Discussion Forum reacts to this
Tragic development…
 
Do you think this tragedy—
Will get GLBT rights on the election
Radar screen pronto?
This event is just as bad—
Or worse than the Shepard murder
In dismal Laramie Wyoming…
 
Judging from what happened—
After that cold-blooded gay
Hate-crime murder in Laramie...
What should we expect?
 
More awareness—
Or just more Elegies, baby?
I wish that kid’s smile was on my
Face too—but it isn’t…

Breakback Mountain (2005)—
It should’ve got the Academy Award…
What does it take to get a little
Social change going, hmmm?

Another dozen In Memoriams—
O O O that old Tennyson rag?
“Immortal Love whom we have…
Not seen thy face” blah blah blah?

By mainstreaming ourselves—
Have we reverted back into the closet…
Relaxing in our newfound 2008
Politically-correct luxury, my dears?

Obama, Hillary & McCain—
Start a little dialoging on Larry…
C’mon I know you can do it—
Or is it just “too gay?"

http://www.gaypoetry.com/design/poetry_dis.asp?dataID=35277




Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: pugetopolis on February 17, 2008, 10:05:40 AM
(http://gallery.venturacountystar.com/Images/12899.jpg)

Oxnard California Elegy

—for Larry King

Oh lonely boy—
The long, long rope of
Blood that you swung from
Your mother’s belly…

Your heart and eyes—
Your kidneys and liver…
Your flesh going out on
The dark trapeze…

Into the living ones—
Grateful to take you in…
Be gentle with them and
Keep them alive…

Don’t look back now—
Long embrace with time…
Let yourself move into
The deathless embrace…

http://www.gaypoetry.com/design/poetry_dis.asp?dataID=35278




Title: Re: To the Murdered Larry King IV
Post by: Urethra_Franklin on February 17, 2008, 11:59:50 AM
(http://choralicious.com/YRMblog/wp-content/uploads/2007/06/matthew_shepard.jpg)

Haiku
—for Matthew Shepard

a fag on a fence—

under the Wyoming stars

pleading for his life…

Denise Kelly, “Haiku,” Japantown, Seattle:
Pugetopolis Press, 1998.





What can one say?

It simply does not pay

To go the gay way


Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: thecap0 on February 17, 2008, 04:46:10 PM
U-F,

HOW DARE YOU!!

This is a dead child, killed for no reason except that he was different.


Title: The American Archipelago
Post by: pugetopolis on February 17, 2008, 04:49:11 PM
(http://gallery.venturacountystar.com/Images/12899.jpg)

The American Archipelago
—for Larry King

I have this samizdat lit
Boyfriend—he lives inside
The American Archipelago…

He’s smart as Solzhenitsyn—
Each day he wakes up
Like Franz Kafka in bed…

He used to live in Oxnard—
Until they shot him in the
Head—now he’s everywhere…

His transplanted organs—
Harvested like Osiris again
Young Androgyne mon amour…

Samizdat Literature—
This is how the gay muse
Moves into straight zeitgeist…

http://www.gaypoetry.com/design/poetry_dis.asp?dataID=35289



Title: How to Write an Elegy
Post by: pugetopolis on February 17, 2008, 05:55:33 PM
(http://images.tribe.net/tribe/upload/photo/fad/f20/fadf2029-855b-478f-8af2-10f4519bfb02)

How to Write an Elegy

Pretend you’re T. S. Eliot—
Fall in love with a young
Handsome Frenchman…

Call him Hyacinth Boy—
Let him die in World War I
Name him Jean Verdenal…

Pretend you’re Verlaine—
Fall in love with a young
Handsome Frenchman…

Call him Left Bank Boy—
Let him be the Voyant
Of French Literature…

Pretend you’re Genet—
Fall in love with a young
Handsome Frenchman…

Call him Stillitano—
Write A Thief’s Journal
Immortalize the Thug…

Pretend you’re Proust—
Fall in love with a young
Handsome Frenchmen…

Call him Albertine—
Stop time with some
Tea, toast & marmalade…

Pretend you’re Gide—
Fall in love with a young
Handsome Frenchmen…

Write L'immoraliste—
Live The Counterfeiters
Be Littérature engagée…

Pretend you’re Cocteau—
Fall in love with a young
Handsome Frenchmen…

Call him Raymond Radiguet—
Call him young Jean Marais
Let Orphée speak…

http://www.gaypoetry.com/design/poetry_dis.asp?dataID=35293




Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: Lhoffman on February 17, 2008, 06:11:08 PM
Very nice, evocative.  (Makes me miss Monsieur Proust, whom I suspect you don't love quite as much as I do, mais ce que...) And I like the image, too.  Where does it come from?


Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: Lhoffman on February 17, 2008, 06:32:59 PM
(http://www.businessinteractif.fr/images/general/clients/visuel_amor.jpg)


Amour,
d'abord il se repose ici,
puis il dort là,
se réveille enfin,
ouvre sa bouche,
parle doucement au coeur
parle dans les chuchotements et les murmure,
les mots qui ont la puissance
d'inciter les hommes forts à pleurer
.


Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: pugetopolis on February 17, 2008, 06:36:33 PM
(http://images.tribe.net/tribe/upload/photo/fad/f20/fadf2029-855b-478f-8af2-10f4519bfb02)

It comes from inside my heart...

C'est la vie, ma chérie...


:D :D :D :D :D :D


Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: Lhoffman on February 17, 2008, 06:41:43 PM
So...I sent you one to...if you take a look at the modified above.


 ;)


Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: pugetopolis on February 17, 2008, 06:50:24 PM
(http://www.businessinteractif.fr/images/general/clients/visuel_amor.jpg)

Ooooooo-La-La!!!!!!!

Love,
first it rests here,
then it sleeps there,
awakens at last,
opens his mouth,
speaks gently to the heart
speaks in murmurs and the murmur,
the words that have the power
to incite the strong men to cry. 




Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: Lhoffman on February 17, 2008, 06:52:19 PM
Drats...I messed up the verbs.

"speaks in whispers and murmurs"

(My French stinks.)


Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: pugetopolis on February 17, 2008, 07:03:44 PM
(http://images.tribe.net/tribe/upload/photo/172/315/17231558-9e46-40ed-93fc-4d78f6288c6c)
Arthur Rimbaud the Voyant

Promontory

“Golden dawn and
shivering evening”
—Arthur Rimbaud,
   Illuminations

London shivers—
And sticks out into the
Fog like Peloponnesus…
Opposite our villa where
My bateau ivre docks…

Up and down—
The coast full of breezes…
Travelers nobles drinks
Tarantellas in the rustic
Valleys of Art…

Illustrious illuminations—
Windows overlooking the
Terraces and facades of
Promontory Palace where
Things are elegant…

Railways flank us—
Down below tall poplars
Wave like palm trees in
Lovely oasis strewn with
Arabian sloping dunes…

Brooklyn bridges—
Venice sinking into dark
Watery ghettos full of
Lovers and sinking
Gone gondolas…

(Hoffman—am working my way thru Rimbaud…
in the original French…such male beauty and
turn of phrase…it drives me mad…a slight
detour from Eliot’s The Waste Land…in order
to update the Decadent Symbolists for my
own nefarious purposes…)




Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: pugetopolis on February 17, 2008, 07:32:24 PM
(http://images.tribe.net/tribe/upload/photo/172/315/17231558-9e46-40ed-93fc-4d78f6288c6c)
Arthur Rimbaud the Voyant

Vagabonds

“Impatient to find the
place and the formula”
—Arthur Rimbaud
   Illuminations

Pitiful Paul Verlaine—
Perhaps I failed him…
He blames me for being
Unlucky and possessing
A strange innocence…

He blames me for—
Exile and losing his
Lovely wife Mathilde
And now his slavery
To Disquietude…

I jeer at him as usual—
Going over to the window
Creating my own nocturnal
Extravaganzas to entertain
Me here in dreary London…

Bitter old queens—
Exiled like us from Paris…
The failed Commune and
All that failed bourgeois
French poetry beached…

Paul and I are exiles—
Even from our own poets
Who take one look at us
And throw us out of their
Hovels of shame…

Hortense enjoys it—
Such scenes between
Poor Paul and me such
Vaguely disquieting
Episodes of lassitude…

Never have I met—
A supposed voyant that
Was such a pain in the
Fucking ass as whiney
Imbecilic Verlaine…

Surely I’ve failed—
After promising to restore
His status as Child of the
Sun and fair Maiden
Of the Mooning Moon…

Absinthe isn’t enough—
To drown his sorrow and
Feeling sorry for himself…
If only I’d picked a better
Lover to wander with…




Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: pugetopolis on February 17, 2008, 07:45:20 PM
(http://images.tribe.net/tribe/upload/photo/172/315/17231558-9e46-40ed-93fc-4d78f6288c6c)
Arthur Rimbaud the Voyant

Vulgar Nocturne

“the Sodoms and Solymas”
—Arthur Rimbaud
   Illuminations

A very deep chartreuse—
Tinged with a bluish tint…
Invaded the Picaresque…
It’s Hortense arriving—
With me her coachman…

We’d been for a ride—
The vehicle veering into
Ditches along obliterated
Highways pivoting past
Crumbling operatic ruins…

It was a classy hearse—
With comfortable cushioned
Interiors and bulging panels—
Dark with ebony inlays and
Fragrant cedar coffin smells…

Old-fashioned yet elegant—
With convex panes of glass
Contorting the moonlight…
The coach rambling past
Quaint abandoned churches…

One of the windowpanes—
With a slight defect in the
Upper right-hand corner…
Pale eerie lunar figures—
Revolving in the dark…




Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: pugetopolis on February 17, 2008, 07:56:28 PM
(http://images.tribe.net/tribe/upload/photo/172/315/17231558-9e46-40ed-93fc-4d78f6288c6c)
Arthur Rimbaud the Voyant

Side Show

Very sturdy studs—
That’s what she liked and
Several exploited my world
Just for her in no hurry to
Exhaust her ripe twat…

Hortense liked them dumb—
With the vacant eyes of cute
Dark carnival runaways…
Making them pout—
Burlesque hoarsenesses…

You know the kind—
Without any guilt or sense
Of conscience—the cruel
Strut of young nude males
Easy and well-endowed…

I was sent into town—
To trick my way into the
Most nauseating luxuries—
These young men with
Deep voices and muscles…

Hortense was demanding—
The most demanding kind of
Taskmistress with her whip
And black leather and those
Awful tit-clamps so tight…

The most violent ones—
They were Paradise to her…
Furious grimace of the
Young Fakirs with their
Theatrical buffooneries…

The things I had to do—
To please Hortense with
All her improvised satin
Costumes and drag-acts—
Such Embarrassments…

Heroics turned her on—
Romantic warring demigods
Down thru history hyenas
Molochs dementias gypsies
Gimps harelips Hottentots…

She alone had the keys—
To this savage sideshow…
Bestial poses and caresses
Made her magnetic comedy
A first class clown act…




Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: pugetopolis on February 17, 2008, 08:30:45 PM
(http://images.tribe.net/tribe/upload/photo/172/315/17231558-9e46-40ed-93fc-4d78f6288c6c)
Arthur Rimbaud the Voyant

Scenes

“Operatic scenes”
—Arthur Rimbaud,
   Illuminations

Ancient comedies—
She finds entertaining…
Hortense loves harmonies
And idylls but mostly—
She prefers elegiac meat…

The opèra-comique—
Opens up like a deck of cards
With the stage divided into
Partitions between the
Players and the footlights…

It’s a shocking spectacle—
Laocoön-esque strugglings
And strangulations around
Twisting torsos and tense
Nude youths in death throes…

These operatic scenes—
Accompanied by flutes and
Tambourines down thru
Slanting recesses both
Modern and Romanesque…

Seagulls swoop down—
Over the temporary sheltered
Archipelago of spectators
And their boats while the
Masonry bobs on pontoons…

In long lost corridors—
Barbarous crowds once again
Move beneath denuded trees…
Promenading with their lanterns
Down the stinking boulevards…




Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: pugetopolis on February 18, 2008, 06:04:14 AM
(http://images.tribe.net/tribe/upload/photo/fad/f20/fadf2029-855b-478f-8af2-10f4519bfb02)

Death by Lipstick
—for Matthew Shepard & Larry King

Hey Dude—
Like I’m not here to praise
Matthew Shepard that guy 
In Laramie Wyoming—
Who got murdered…

To me Shepard—
Like going to college 
There in that Wyoming
Town was a big mistake…
Like totally stupid…

Why not Denver—
Or better yet SF or…
Some West Coast city
Where Brokeback Mt.
Wasn’t such a big deal?

But then even worse—
Getting drunk one night…
And having your fag-hag   
Drop you off at some
Cowboy straight bar…

That’s like bad news—
That’s like asking for
Trouble that’s like…
Fucking walking into
The Lion’s Den…

And even worst—
The worst thing a fag
Could possibly do—
Cruise two guys with
Their girlfriends there…

That’s like being—
At the wrong place at
The wrong time bigtime…
Just plain asking for
Trouble to happen…

That was in 1998—
Ten long years ago…
That was then and like
This is now but not
Much has changed…

The kid in Oxnard—
Should he have been
More in the closet and…
Not worn Revlon puce
Lipstick or makeup?

Was Larry’s mistake—
Being too flamboyant…
Not hiding his lifestyle
Enough and that’s why
He got shot in the head?

How does a kid learn—
To stay in the closet…
After TV sitcoms and
You-Tube rap-stars and
Hollywood movies?

Shepard was 21—
Larry King was just
Fifteen years old…
And they’re both dead—
Deader than doornails…

“Closet-cases”—
They used to be a
Dime a dozen and
How many lives got
Fucked up that way?

But young kids today—
Why should they want
To live fucked up lives
The way my generation
Stayed in the closet?

“Don’t ask don’t tell—
Keep it in the closet…
Be discrete my dear—
Don’t let anybody know
You’re a gay boy?”

Being discrete—
Not being “too-gay”…
How does a young
Gay teenager learn—
To be himself?

By getting murdered—
Shot to death by your
Fucking peer-group…
Is that how it works—
Death by Lipstick???

http://www.gaypoetry.com/design/poetry_dis.asp?dataID=35302


Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: pugetopolis on February 18, 2008, 07:36:04 AM
(http://www.safran-arts.com/art/picture-Tennessee-Williams.jpg)

Brief Note on Online Gay Poetics

1. I go thru this routine—

2. When confronted with a gay issue like the tragic Oxnard Hate Crime incident with Larry King—I write poetry.

3. Poetry is how I think and feel—it’s “self-reflexive reportage.”

4. Usually I do a Jack Spicer “serial poetry” routine with the subject…

5. Looking at it from different angles like a Monet haystack…

6. Or a series of snapshots—it’s an old poetics routine…

7. Like Joe Brainard’s book of “I Remember” anecdotes… 

8. For example, here are two poems about the Larry King tragedy…

9. I wrote a half a dozen poems—but these two are the best.

10. I published them online in 2 places—

11. The Gay Poetry Online page (140 poems posted there) and…

12. The Elba Blog (formerly The NYTimes Book Discussion Group)

13. Aesthetically, the font style and page layout is different…

14. Giving the poet and reader an additional angle of the Text…

15. The “Verdana” font on the Elba blog is light/sleek…

16. While the “Arial” 12-point font of Gay Poetry Online is smaller and tighter…

17. Different fonts give the reader different views of the poem…

18. Images combined with the online text = Aesthetics with a plus…

19. Here are the 2 versions of “How to Write an Elegy”—

20. Notice how they—compare & contrast with each other…

21. “How to Write an Elegy”

http://www.gaypoetry.com/design/poetry_dis.asp?xa=GPO&dataID=35293

http://forums.escapefromelba.com/index.php/topic,112.msg70806.html#msg70806

22. The same with the concluding Larry King poem: 2 versions.

23. “Death by Lipstick”

http://www.gaypoetry.com/design/poetry_dis.asp?dataID=35302 

http://forums.escapefromelba.com/index.php/topic,112.msg70870.html#msg70870

24. One of the advantages of online poetics is managing the layout and appearance of a poem…as well as a book…

25. The end-result being—various online publishing venues for poetry books:  http://lulu.com/  and http://createspace.com/  and http://blurb.com/
 
http://seattlepi.nwsource.com/business/345704_selfpublish02.html?source=mypi

26. Designing online poems—part of the new Blogosphere approach to gay poetics… 


Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: pugetopolis on February 19, 2008, 02:58:25 AM
(http://deevad.itsartmag.com/uploads/zombie-revoy.jpg)

Zombie Love
—for Stephen Merritt

“Let them rent me this
whitewashed tomb…”
—Arthur Rimbaud
     Illuminations

My skin is blue—
My coiffure zombie white…
I live in a Voodoo Vault
And come out at night—
The insolent moonlight…

At the cemetery gate—
Shades in drag traverse
The wrought iron fence…
Old ancient verdigris
Moss-covered green…

Ladies stroll the graves—
Tombstones leaning into
Shade and weeds for both
The Rich and Famous—
The dearly departed…

Nightly pilgrimages—
Tyrannical old queens…
Still cruising for it—
Only to end up bored…
Disappointed as usual.

The crypt door creaks—
It’s my creepy lover again…
The necromantic nympho
Who can never get enough
Of my big dead salami…

Swarms of vampire bats—
Surround my vault of tears…
My little château without
Shutters, an empty inn—
Uninhabited now my dears…

Some guys like it hot—
My lover likes it dead cold…
Colder than cold-cuts and
More frigid than the sea—
Full of sunken ships…

The tall poplars at night—
Lean into the wind like
Dead and forgotten ruined
Windmills gaunt with time—
Elegant as Eternity…

Magic bones sing a tune—
The thigh bones and the
Knee bones and the back
Bones and the most dead
Bone of all—my Boner…

My lover’s hot tears—
Bring me back to Life…
Or least part of my dead
Anatomy making me blush
With dead purple blood…

I have this hollow spot—
Inside my chest where
Chartres used to be…
My heart a cathedral going
Down as the lake goes up…

Big black hearses—
Cadillacs and Lincolns…
Always driving back and forth
Thru the forest driveway—
To the Land of the Dead…

There is a troupe—
A bunch of little winged
Angels perched on some
Rotting tombstones by
The evil Columbarium…

Sometimes at night—
I sit here in the Chapel…
Darkness listening to the
Rain falling against the
Melancholy skylight…

Dead meat mausoleums—
They console me knowing
That all the sacred urns—
Are full of cremated cock
In the precious niches…

The gravel road—
It’s the highroad by the
Way of the dwarf woods…
The setting sun is always
Motionless for me…

All of us here are dead—
Far ahead of everybody
Else in the slow realization
That the world is dead too—
Just as dead as we are…

Monstrous city—
Ancient City of the Dead…
Night without End full of
Subterranean distances
Rooted deep in the Earth…

Where people take root—
Where rotting fingers reach
Out for Love only to find
Whitewashed dark walls
Far down below…

Sewers high above—
Twisted gutters up there…
While down here moons,
Fables, comets meet—
Inside my rotting brain…

In moments of bitterness—
I imagine myself as the
Master of Silence deaf
To the screams coming
Under my vault door…

http://www.gaypoetry.com/design/poetry_dis.asp?dataID=35313




Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: Lhoffman on February 19, 2008, 11:16:09 AM
Your words are far more visual than the image.  Quite frightening, the images of death, loneliness, bitterness.  As you say, SSDD...even after death. 

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qFH3l7uIaXg



Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: pugetopolis on February 20, 2008, 07:53:46 AM
(http://images.tribe.net/tribe/upload/photo/172/315/17231558-9e46-40ed-93fc-4d78f6288c6c)

Secret Sonnet

“swooning conch”
—Arthur Rimbaud

Verlaine spreads my cheeks—
To appreciate more fully my
Tight proud Ardennais asshole…
The one the Commune soldiers
Loved to fuck all night long…

How humbly he descends—
Crouched there in bed with
My legs around his neck…
His gentle tongue-tip—
Working its way inside me…

Into my dark wrinkled Anus—
Pink carnation cocooned in
Muggy Parisian evenings…
Still moist still embroidered
My farmboy’s pouty pubes…

Fondling my Family Jewels—
Stroking pale praline drops
From my sobbing reluctant
Conch, crotch & penis—
Tonguing into me deeper…

How envious Verlaine is—
His idea of the ultimate most
Intimate dream-suck is to
Fuck me with his nefarious
Tongue while getting me off…

Making me squirt pearls—
Long weeping necklaces...
My lost Marie Antoinette head…
Deep-sea spastic milky tears
Manhandled and pulled out
Of me like saltwater taffy…

Paul Verlaine’s cruel lips—
The killer lips of a ruthless
Strangler bent on murdering
Me down to the last sobbing
Snotty insolent drop…

http://www.gaypoetry.com/design/poetry_dis.asp?dataID=35325



Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: Urethra_Franklin on February 20, 2008, 08:49:41 AM
Disgusting



I think that merits a "warning"


Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: madupont on February 20, 2008, 02:58:06 PM
"24. One of the advantages of online poetics is managing the layout and appearance of a poem…as well as a book…"

I found that quite comfortable on the Selectric typewriter (as lhoffman knows, I played piano), when you had your rhythm going, you automatically laid out the page for the appearance that was intrinsic to the rhythm.  I don't find that to be true of the computer and therefore don't conceive of the poetry in that medium but resort to pen and pencil.

In the method of a more controlled medium such as poetry for Selectric typewriter. You then pass your pages directly to he or she who manages your book.  I'd been aware of that factor for years, since seeing my first poems on the published page of the underground press in the Sixties. I hadn't thought about it when writing Jazz poetry at the Five Spot in 1958 which is how and when I started with the rhythm section and peer review from the musicians while listening to and getting to know some really great musicians like Max Roach,Ornette Coleman, other bassists since Charlie Mingus wasn't there but at The Blue Note, and I already knew "Sam" David Bailey, percussionist with Gerry Mulligan's quartet. I recall clearly the night that I was introduced to famed manager of musicians Ivan Black and shared his table in the back as he did business with the talent approaching him, crowding  on to the banquette. Ivan was extremely impressive and fashionable in those days, becoming wealthy by managing class acts of musicianship.  But that's another story;

the point being, that I made it my business to attach a printer, and groom printers for what I wanted to get out there.  A photo that you posted recently, somewhere, perhaps in  god knows what forum, of Capote as the young man, his hair still in the same over the forehead arrangement but showing the obvious signs (I don't know if you doctored this) of decrepitude more like a forty year plus perhaps but at least forty on a 21 year old person according to the hair (and the usual portraiture that was available from  photographers like Avedon) snapped me to attention (as you had it posted fairly large scale) because it was exactly what the printer looked liked in my household for the following decade from age of 21 to 31.  We churned out broadsides on occasion during the so-called revival of feminist literature, so that each participant became accustomed to responsibility for editorial judgement. That's what a commune is for, I should think.

And yes, the meter is different according to the writing instrument. The "blogosphere" is however doomed unless the politics change because they have , past tense, decided on how to ration internet service to you.  the personal computer may end up as a writing instrument, producing like the diaries of women who read the romance lit of history fiction, while the chats have to be sent around by snail-mail. That's my guess but I'm all for the politicizing that will effect the continuance of free exchange of information for everyone equally.  One problem, the practical alternatives for the costs, the presently increasing expenses since our economy is in the red you might say as the result of redstate support for the enrichment of autocrats advancing their favorite projects to secure their interests, their income and the interest on it.




Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: Lhoffman on February 20, 2008, 04:22:34 PM
Madupont...quite fascinating.  Creating rhythm through format is difficult on most blog sites.  I find on my own blog, that this is quite limiting and the stuff that gets posted is quite different than the stuff that is written by hand or word processed.  And I did notice the difference in Pugetopolis' work on this forum vs other stuff of his I've seen.  But what difference do you find between the word processor and the Selectric?  Is it the editing? Formatting?  (because formatting is quite simple on word processor, and typing requires much less effort.)  Or is it the physical effort of using a typewriter vs. word processor that changes the way you put words together?   Being over fifty, does arthritis or rheumatism have any effect on your writing fluency with pen and paper, or even typewriter...not as in how well you can physically write, but as in how the words flow from the brain?  Then of course, with writing and typing, there is the edit factor...

Perhaps poetry written on blogs or word processors takes its natural rhythm more from alliteration than poetry written by hand or typed.



Title: Online Poetics
Post by: pugetopolis on February 20, 2008, 05:52:27 PM
(http://images.tribe.net/tribe/upload/photo/172/315/17231558-9e46-40ed-93fc-4d78f6288c6c)

Online Poetics

“Books and Blogs, if they’re
doing their jobs properly, are
as different as two kinds of
published text can be...”
—Thomas Jones, “Short Cuts,”
London Review of Books,
24 January 2008

Books take time and money…

A Blogger poet has to be quick…

The Blogosphere is a vast Sea of Forking Paths…

Pretend you’re Rimbaud—

Back again with his new Le Bateau ivre

Books aren’t obsolete… they’re simply being reborn…

YouTube, MySpace & Wikipedia—

They are the New Bohemian Odéon

Zutiste communal albums…

Online poetics now—

Sarcastic or obscene—

Preferably both




Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: Lhoffman on February 20, 2008, 07:01:10 PM
But why must they be obscene or sarcastic?   Audience?  Attention span? 

Is the audience who reads books as a rule different than the audience that reads at the computer?


Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: pugetopolis on February 20, 2008, 07:50:24 PM
(http://images.tribe.net/tribe/upload/photo/172/315/17231558-9e46-40ed-93fc-4d78f6288c6c)

Zutiste Etiquette


But why must they be obscene or
sarcastic? Audience? Attention span? 


It’s an old and honorable Poetic tradition…

Allen Ginsberg—like Rimbaud—was Zutiste.

“Howl” is a perfect example of Zutiste Lit.

Obscenity and the best sarcasm…

(“The best minds of my generation etc”)

See Morgan and Peters’ Howl On Trial—The Battle
For Free Expression
, San Francisco: City Lights
Press, 2006 for the literary and legal history…

Besides, Hoffman…how else can I get
Urethra_Franklin to read Poetry?


 ;D ;D ;D



Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: pugetopolis on February 20, 2008, 08:29:14 PM
(http://images.tribe.net/tribe/upload/photo/172/315/17231558-9e46-40ed-93fc-4d78f6288c6c)

Zutiste Literature


Is the audience who reads books as a rule
different than the audience that reads at the computer?


The London Review of Books essay (Thomas Jones, “Short Cuts,”
London Review of Books, 24 January 2008) gets into the difference
between Books and Blogs. In fact, the essay is a brief review of a
book on blogs—which sounds oxymoronic since blogs are totally
open-ended and a book is just the opposite. The blogs that the
author chooses since they’re stable and closed—aren’t really blogs
anymore since they’ve lost that open-ended hyperlinked quality
that characterizes the Blogosphere. It’s a short review—perhaps
I’ll post it here from the online version.




Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: pugetopolis on February 20, 2008, 08:36:11 PM
(http://images.tribe.net/tribe/upload/photo/172/315/17231558-9e46-40ed-93fc-4d78f6288c6c)

Zutiste Poetry

But there is also a historical precedent for the blog-book differences. And that is the Zutistes’ communal album that was rediscovered in 1936—probably one of the luckiest events of modern literary history. Without it, as the Rimbaud scholar Graham Robb says, Rimbaud would appear to have written almost nothing after arriving in Paris:

“The intellectual havoc wreaked by Rimbaud’s sonnet is insignificant compared to its effect on the rest of his work. While “Voyelles” appears with “Le Bateau ivre” as one of the pinnacles of his career, rising over a vast pilgrim city of critical commentary, his other Zutiste productions have been banished to the suburbs of appendices and “Oeuvres diverses,” and sometimes banished altogether.”

“Zutiste etiquette suited him perfectly: it required contributions to be either sarcastic or obscene, preferably both. The usual victim was the poet Francois Coppee, who was thought to have sailed off into the sunset of respectability and government funding. Rimbaud and Verlaine had noticed that Coppee’s odes to the trivial delights of modern life lent themselves beautifully to lewd interpretations. In later terms, Coppee was an unwitting master of the Freudian slip.”

“Rimbaud’s parodies are dazzling little cameos of street life in their own right, with gorgeous, mouth-filling constructions reminiscent of Baudelaire’s early poems.”

I’ll let you in on a little trade secret—yours truly is doing the same thing. For example, the Family. As Robb says: “This concise encyclopedia of neuroses” which were his Zutiste poems = Rimbaud’s view of the Family. “This quasi-military unit that was supposed to save France from anarchy and moral decay is shown to be a claustrophobic enclave of mismatched human beings, beset by stale sexual fantasies and racked with pointless guilt.”

“In contrast to this festering hive of incest, homosexuality was free and untamed. It had not been a signatory to the social contract. There wasn’t even a word for it in the language. In 1871, the love that dare not speak its name had no name to speak. For Rimbaud, this blank space on the social map was a powerful invitation. Perhaps, by now, he had no choice but to explore.”

—Graham Robb, Rimbaud: A Biography, New York: Norton, 2000




Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: Lhoffman on February 20, 2008, 10:19:49 PM
I will look up that LRB article. I got my copy in the mail and so can type in my customer number and read on-line.


Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: pugetopolis on February 20, 2008, 10:24:44 PM
Short Cuts
Thomas Jones, “Short Cuts,”
London Review of Books, 24 January 2008

Books and blogs, if they’re doing their jobs properly, are as different as two kinds of published text can be. For one thing, creating a book takes many months, not to say years, and the process requires the participation of a whole chain of people besides the writer: commissioning editors, copy-editors, typesetters, proofreaders, printers, distributors, booksellers etc. A blogger can have an unedited post up on the web and available to readers within minutes of the idea popping into his head. A blog is non-linear, always unfinished, ever open. It can be indefinitely added to, rewritten, cut from, commented on. But more than that, a blog should be dense with hyperlinks, sending the reader off into the blogosphere and the rest of the internet along a chain of endlessly forking paths. That may well sound like your idea of a nightmare, which is just one of the many reasons the internet isn’t going to make books obsolete anytime soon.

Publishing an anthology of blogs in book form, then, would appear to make about as much sense as broadcasting Singin’ in the Rain on the wireless: you’d still get to hear Donald O’Connor singing ‘Make ’em Laugh’, but it’s not quite the same if you can’t see him walking along the piano keys, dancing with the headless dummy and running up the walls. But that hasn’t stopped Sarah Boxer, a former New York Times reporter, from putting together a collection called Ultimate Blogs: Masterworks from the Wild Web (Vintage, $14.95) – on the face of it, an early contender for most pointless book of the year.

Boxer isn’t unaware of the potential contradictions in her project: ‘The thing you are now holding in your hand is a book, not a computer,’ she writes. No arguing with that. ‘You cannot click on a link in a printed book. And a book looks weird when its pages are littered with website addresses and very long quotes and quotes within quotes. So, no links here, folks.’ She also says she hasn’t included any blogs about gadgets, sport, gossip or politics (though, in fact, she has), because ‘their posts get stale.’ ‘Where then,’ she asks, ‘does that leave an anthology of blogs?’ Where indeed? ‘If the blogs in here were not going to be timely . . . they had better well be timeless, and if they were not going to be linky, they had better well be self-contained.’

In other words, for an anthology of blogs to work, the blogs it contains have to be as unbloglike – as booklike – as possible. Boxer retreats behind an argument about style: all the pieces she’s chosen are ‘distinctly bloggy’, by which she means ‘conversational and reckless, composed on the fly for anonymous intimates’. And they are, on the whole, a diverting enough bunch. The best of the lot, though, is the diary of Samuel Pepys, which a web designer called Phil Gyford has been posting in daily instalments since 2003, using the text already online at Project Gutenberg. It doesn’t exactly not fit in here, which rather puts paid to the whole idea that there’s something ‘distinctly bloggy’ about the style of blogs.

Andrew Keen, however, would not be so sanguine. The founder of an internet start-up in the late 1990s that didn’t make him a millionaire, Keen is now a self-declared apostate. In The Cult of the Amateur: How Today’s Internet Is Killing Our Culture and Assaulting Our Economy (Nicholas Brealey, £12.99), Keen argues that websites such as YouTube, MySpace and Wikipedia are killing someone or other’s culture and assaulting their economy. As is so often the case with conservative polemic, Keen takes it for granted that he and his readers know who ‘we’ are. Keen’s worry, essentially, is that hundreds of millions of talentless know-nothings are so busy uploading videos of themselves falling over or writing spurious and inaccurate Wikipedia entries that they have neither the time nor the inclination to spend money on CDs or newspapers. ‘Amateur hour has arrived,’ he announces, ‘and the audience is now running the show.’

His damascene conversion took place during a camping trip in September 2004 with a couple of hundred other Silicon Valley insiders. Nauseated by the orgy of self-congratulation (I’ve no doubt the occasion was at least as ghastly as he makes it sound), Keen fled in horror. He had thought the internet was about ‘using technology to bring more culture to the masses’, but the cry on the lips of the other happy campers was ‘democratisation’: the future of the web lay in user-generated content. Keen is right that most of this stuff is a load of crap, but he seems to have been taken in by the hype that he’s so repelled by. Yes, the web is full of rubbish uploaded by anyone and everyone. But 99.999 per cent of it is completely ignored by everyone else. A home video is still just a home video, and a teenager’s diary is still just a teenager’s diary, whether it’s collecting dust in a desk drawer or stored on a server farm somewhere in Arizona. Meanwhile, Singin’ in the Rain is available on DVD from Amazon for a fiver, and will almost certainly soon be downloadable from iTunes for a similar price. Keen ought not to be so concerned: I’m sure the behemoths of entertainment capitalism will find a way to muddle through.

Thomas Jones, one of the LRB’s contributing editors, lives in Italy.




Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: Lhoffman on February 20, 2008, 10:25:46 PM
If you are interested in presentation, here is an interesting rendition of "Le Bateau Ivre"....on Youtube of all places.


Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: Lhoffman on February 20, 2008, 10:26:49 PM
I suppose a link would help  :D

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0sA178dB-tQ


Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: pugetopolis on February 20, 2008, 11:10:54 PM
(http://images.tribe.net/tribe/upload/photo/172/315/17231558-9e46-40ed-93fc-4d78f6288c6c)

"J'ai vu des archipels sidéraux ! et des îles
Dont les cieux délirants sont ouverts au vogueur :
- Est-ce en ces nuits sans fonds que tu dors et t'exiles,
Million d'oiseaux d'or, ô future Vigueur?"

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0sA178dB-tQ

No wonder Verlaine fell in love with him...


 ;) ;) ;)


Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: pugetopolis on February 21, 2008, 02:33:26 PM
Books and Blogs

“Books and blogs, if they’re doing
their jobs properly, are as different
as two kinds of published text can be.”
—Thomas Jones LRB 24 January 2008

I thought Thomas Jones’ essay above was pretty good in terms of defining some differences between books and blogs—what we’re doing when we read books and what we’re doing now commenting on literary matters thru the Blogosphere. Thomas raises some points I’d like to briefly discuss in regard to writing and publishing on Blogs as opposed to Books.

1. Publishing an anthology of blogs in book form, then, would appear to be contradictory, according to Jones. For an anthology of blogs to work, the blogs it contains have to be as unbloglike—as booklike as possible. It reminds me of the early I-net days when large tomes of websites were published—soon to be outdated and irrelevant.

2. The best of the lot, according to Jones, is the diary of Samuel Pepys, which web designer Phil Gyford has been posting in daily installments since 2003—using the text already online at Project Gutenberg. There’s something “distinctly bloggy” about the style of Pepys diary blog—yet it stays close to being a traditional diary. So it exists in both worlds—the world of books and the world of blogs.

3. Something caught my eye above the Jones article and that was the Terry Eagleton essay “Coruscating on Thin Ice” reviewing Peter Conrad’s Creation: Artists, Gods and Origins. I thought that what Eagleton said in his last sentence about Conrad’s book applies to blogs and books as well:

“Self-authorship is the bourgeois fantasy par excellence; and even though the bourgeoisie as Freud knew it has almost vanished from Europe, this middle-class myth is alive and well in the rugged individualism of the United States. The American Dream acknowledges no limits. When the ancient Greeks heard talk of such infinite striving, they looked fearfully to the sky.”

4. Self-authorship of blogs seems to end up with mostly isolated blogs—at least at this stage of Blogosphere development. Blogs seem to be coming together in multi-blog websites like Daily Kos—with various constellations of political diaries joined together with moderators and search engines. http://www.dailykos.com/

5. But as I mentioned earlier—the Zutistes’ communal album that was rediscovered in 1936—probably one of the luckiest events of modern literary history—is also an example of a literary blog as Rimbaud scholar Graham Robb suggests in his Rimbaud biography. I’d like to take a look at these Zutiste productions in terms of early literary blog publishing—not only with Rimbaud and Verlaine but with the other Zutiste poets as well…



Title: IBM Selectric Haiku
Post by: pugetopolis on February 21, 2008, 07:18:54 PM
(http://w.tf/~fool/cs/sts331/image008.jpg)

IBM Selectric Haiku
—for Hoffman and Madupont

How many poems—
Typed late during midnight hours…
No novels but then…


(There it is in the closet after so many years—
My faithful companion with the written lonely
Word—back when the only Thing between me
And the World was a thin sheet of paper—and
The satinwood electric hum of your calm and
Courteous smacking away at the ink-thirsty   
Prize—that each page was zooming toward… )

http://w.tf/~fool/cs/sts331/keyboard.html




Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: Lhoffman on February 21, 2008, 07:43:55 PM
I can see why Jones like the Gilford/Pepys....hyperlink upon hyperlink.  Great blog. 

But books vs blogs...suppose Dickens or Dumas had been able to blog rather than publishing serials.  Would they have gotten the readership that some of the big boys out in the blogosphere get?  Or is it only politics that sells?  (Wish Gilford had a publice sitemeter.  It would be interesting to see how many hits he gets.)


Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: Lhoffman on February 21, 2008, 07:45:01 PM
Do you know, I was going to donate my two typewriters, one a basic electric and the other a more complex word processor, to the Salvation Army, but they don't take typewriters.


Title: Bye Bye Baby Boomers
Post by: pugetopolis on February 21, 2008, 08:29:55 PM
(http://www.michaelfurman.com/images/gal_cadillac_tail.jpg)

Bye Bye Baby Boomers

—sung to the tune of Stephin Merritt’s
   “Drive On Driver” Distortion (2008)

Bye Bye Boomers—
There’s no one home…
We had a good time
It was great fun…

Those Drive-In movies
Weren’t they fun…
But that was then
And this is now…
Drive on…

Drive on driver—
Now don’t you cry…
We got everything
Money could buy…

They always said we’d
Deserved the whole
Wide world—
Drive on, baby…

America so good
To us—but now it’s
Bye bye baby boomers…
Time to say goodbye…

Drive on, baby—
It’s all gone wrong…
Wish I knew why
Wish I knew how..

But nothing’s
Forever baby boys
And girls—
Drive on, drive on
Driver…



Title: A Rhyme for Utley and Robert
Post by: weezo on February 22, 2008, 04:26:38 PM
A Rhyme for Utley and Robert

I'm a little weazo,
Ain't I gross,
One, two three four,
I can roast!

I have got a keyboard
and a host.
Send your blather-
Read my posts!

For the children's version see: http://www.educationalsynthesis.org/music/LittleComputer.html

Puge: Open to editing.


Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: Lhoffman on February 22, 2008, 11:17:04 PM
re: LRB Short Cuts

I saw Keen in an interview on BookTelevision a few months back.  Thought he was interesting then, still do.  On Wikipedia...he is right.  It is unreliable.  The plus side of the thing is that its unreliability makes it easy for teachers to catch out plagiarists.  Quite often, teachers themselves (not me so stow away the tomatoes) put misinformation on this site when they assign a topic to see who will quote it.  But, I do wonder if eventually Wikipedia will become a self-policeing community. 

..."He (Keen) had thought the internet was about 'using technology to bring more culture to the masses....' "   Wasn't that also the hope for early radio and television? 

Of course if the internet is about "democratisation", what does that say about the culture that relies on it?


Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: pugetopolis on February 23, 2008, 12:09:44 AM
(http://images.tribe.net/tribe/upload/photo/172/315/17231558-9e46-40ed-93fc-4d78f6288c6c)

Album Zutique

An album of 48 pages—
Poems by Verlaine and his friends.
They met at the “Hotel Des Etrangers—
Boulevard Saint-Michel on the corner…
Racine and Ecole-de-Médecine
In a room on the Third Floor
To smoke, drink, recite verse
And play the piano…

The Vilains Bonhommes group—
They were such Naughty Fellows…
But not as naughty as Rimbaud—
The child idiot lover of Verlaine…
When he recited Bateau ivre—
They were somewhat stunned…
But young Rimbaud didn’t stop…

The Zutist Circle had fun—
Parodying themselves…
Especially the Parnassiens—
Preferably in an obscene way…
With Verlaine and Rimbaud
Writing exquisite parodies
Like “Sonnet to an Asshole”—
A parody of Albert Mérat’s poem
The Idol detailing the beauties
Of a lady—Sonnet of the Forehead
Sonnet of the Eyes etc.




Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: pugetopolis on February 23, 2008, 12:16:13 AM
(http://images.tribe.net/tribe/upload/photo/172/315/17231558-9e46-40ed-93fc-4d78f6288c6c)

Album Zutique

Young Greedy Guts
—Arthur Rimbaud

Cap
Of silk moiré
Little wand
Of ivory

Clothes
Very dark,
Paul watches
The cupboard

Sticks out
Little tongue
At pear

Prepares
Gives a poke
And squitters

Jeune Goinfre parody
“connerie: French slang for bullshit
“wand”: willy Quéquette in French slang

__________________________   


Drunk Coachman

Unwashed
Drinks
Mother-of-pearl
Sees:

Bitter
Law,
Carriage
Falls!

Woman
Tumbles:
Loin

Bleeds:
Whimpers!
Outcry…

Cocher Ivre parody

_______________________


The Accursed Cherub

Bluish roofs and white doors
As on nocturnal Sundays

At the town’s end, the road without
Sound is white, and it is night.

The street has strange houses
With shutters of angels.

But look how he runs towards a
Boundary-stone, evil and shivering…

A dark cherub who staggers,
Having eaten too many jujubes.

He does a cack: then disappears:
But his cursed cack appears,
Under the holy empty moon,
A slight cesspool of dirty blood.

--Louis Ratisbonne (Arthur Rimbaud)

L’Angelot Maudit parody





Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: pugetopolis on February 23, 2008, 12:36:12 AM
(http://images.tribe.net/tribe/upload/photo/172/315/17231558-9e46-40ed-93fc-4d78f6288c6c)


...what does that say about the culture that relies on it?


________________________________________

What does it say about the poet?

What was Rimbaud and the The Zutist Circle doing?

Just parodying themselves… and the the Parnassiens?

Album Zutique... what was it? 

A French Proto-Blog Littérateur?

Any Zeitgeist... when you set out to parody it...

Isn't the parody style the more important thing...

Rather than the specific Zeitgeist itself?

Rimbaud's Zutique poems and his two books...

His style always in a state of flux...

Why? He saw the "I" as the "Other."

Including himself in Paris and London...

Arthur was voyant...

Je est un autre...


 ;D ;D ;D



Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: Lhoffman on February 23, 2008, 12:41:29 AM
Parody, satire, even obscenity....natural responses when one is "the other", the outsider always looking in.  How else to keep hold of sanity?

But why did he stop writing?


Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: madupont on February 23, 2008, 01:52:56 AM
Night on the Great River [three translations]     
by Meng Hao-jan
Translated by Gary Snyder, Kenneth Rexroth and William Carlos Williams 

 
(I)

Steering my little boat towards a misty islet,
I watch the sun descend while my sorrows grow:
In the vast night the sky hangs lower than the treetops,
But in the blue lake the moon is coming close.

[translated by William Carlos Williams]

(II)

Night on the Great River

We anchor the boat alongside a hazy island.
As the sun sets I am overwhelmed with nostalgia.
The plain stretches away without limit.
The sky is just above the tree tops.
The river flows quietly by.
The moon comes down amongst men.

[translated by Kenneth Rexroth]

(III)

Mooring on Chien-te River

The boat rocks at anchor by the misty island
Sunset, my loneliness comes again.
In these vast wilds the sky arches down to the trees.
In the clear river water, the moon draws near.

[translated by Gary Snyder]
 


Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: pugetopolis on February 23, 2008, 03:47:10 AM
Night on the Great River

My Bayliner bobs by the dock—
The sun sets in the west while
Over the Cascades a moon sadly
Eclipses itself over my cabana…


Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: pugetopolis on February 23, 2008, 03:15:30 PM
(http://images.tribe.net/tribe/upload/photo/172/315/17231558-9e46-40ed-93fc-4d78f6288c6c)

Young Rimbaud

“Le sang païen revient.”
—Arthur Rimbaud, Une Saison en Enfer

Once upon a time—
There was boy
Named Rimbaud…

Gay Paris—
Took him in and
So did Verlaine…

But Rimbaud—
Turned all of French
Lit inside-out…

The kid was—
Just too bitchy
For the Parnassians…

Zutique poetry—
More to his liking
Chicken voyant…

Je est un autre—
His password into
Dérèglement….

Pretty soon tho—
Even that bored him
L'enfant terrible…

Ditching poetry—
He let Abyssinia
Be his new home…

http://www.gaypoetry.com/design/poetry_dis.asp?dataID=35356







Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: pugetopolis on February 23, 2008, 05:27:45 PM
(http://bluehydrangeas.files.wordpress.com/2006/06/yeats.jpg)

I Wept in Yeats’ Kitchen

“You reveled in red…
But the jewel you lost was blue.”
—Ted Hughes, “Red,” Birthday Letters

I found Mommy dead—
Her head stuck in the oven.

I pulled Mommy out—
But her pretty face was blue.

I wept in Yeats’ kitchen—
But orphaned boys never cry.

I looked into Mommy’s eyes—
Her lips pursed like a kiss.

Red was her favorite color—
But she ended up blue.

Red carmine on the carpet—
Red-ochre on the linoleum floor.

Blood oozed from her nose—
Bruised roses, writhing snakes.

Her mind livid burgundy—
Even now it revels in ruby-red.

Open veins in the bathtub—
Her wrists would’ve been next.

Her tiny fingers always busy—
Her Schaeffer pen the evil key.

I have my father Ted to thank—
Kingfisher blue eyes are mine.

I’m the Bluebeard Boy of morning—
Her ruby corduroy blood is mine.

I am the Son of Ariel—
My dead mother was a goddess.

My fingers are her fingers—
All ten of them cat-like & nervous.

My mind is her mind—
Old labyrinths open up to us.

We slink thru texts like snakes—
Our poetry is zero to the bone.

The edge of things recedes—
The writerly life is a lonely one

—for Nicholas Hughes

http://www.gaypoetry.com/design/poetry_dis.asp?xa=GPO&dataID=30452




Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: pugetopolis on February 23, 2008, 07:18:47 PM


Ightnay onway ethay Eatgray Iverray

Ymay Aylinerbay obsbay ybay ethay ockday—
Ethay unsay etssay inway ethay estway ilewhay
Overway ethay Ascadescay away oonmay adlysay
Eclipsesway itselfway overway ymay abanacay…


http://forums.escapefromelba.com/index.php/topic,112.msg72722.html#msg72722


Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: pugetopolis on February 23, 2008, 11:01:03 PM
(http://images.tribe.net/tribe/upload/photo/846/f8f/846f8ffe-f669-4342-a085-c0c3d3c3d6e8)

Jockbot Lover Boy

http://snipurl.com/1zngr

“Grand pianos crash together—
when my boy walks down the street”
—Stephin Merritt, 69 Love Songs

It’s simply amazing—
He’s a totally new form of life…
I got him online just like that!!!!
My Ebay Lover Boy…
My cute new Jockbot Boyfriend…

Overnight delivery—
I had to have him right away…
Those pretty blue metallic eyes…
His cute Petula swivel hips—
So strong and yet so petite…

The way my Jockbot Boy—
Shoots me with his Cupid arrow…
If you don’t cry it isn’t love—
I cry and cry for all those years
Before genetic engineering!!!

All those wasted weekends—
Cruising the cabarets looking
For Love—when all you need now
Is a MasterCard and a phone—
So many Sexbots so little time…

I named him after Star Wars—
Darth Vader Space Ship Boy
With that big laser-sword of his…
Ah the wonders of modern science—
Electronic-Jiffy Lube Love!!!!

Oh the things he tells me—
Whispering sweet-nothings in
My ear sitting on the sofa watching
Desperate Housewives—gone gone
Those days of chasing lawn-boys!!!!

When he walks down the street—
All the street lights sizzle and pop…
Electric streetcars stop dead in their
Tracks oh he’s the Epitaph of my
Poor pace-maker throbbing heart!!!!

http://www.gaypoetry.com/design/poetry_dis.asp?dataID=35363




Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: pugetopolis on February 24, 2008, 02:35:35 PM
(http://web.csustan.edu/english/reuben/images/authors/whitman_young.jpg)

Too Gay, Too Gay
—for Robert Creeley

And I sd, my
friend, because
you’re old & gay 

Walt, you—
who were that 
way back then

Too gay—
what can we
do, too gay...

Write he sd—
for christ’s
sake, write

http://www.gaypoetry.com/design/poetry_dis.asp?dataID=35370
 


Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: pugetopolis on February 24, 2008, 06:47:04 PM
(http://web.csustan.edu/english/reuben/images/authors/whitman_young.jpg)

Too Gay, They Say
—for Walt Whitman

Too gay—
the only way
I know how…

when I cross—
the street
I hold yr hand

when they say—
we’re too gay
I just smile

it’s not that
bad, Walt—
being too gay

“I’ll stay—
If you let me
stay,” he says

“And I’ll go—
if you want me
to go” he says

“But I’d just—
as soon stay 
with you…”

“Because—
you’re my
only home…”

http://www.gaypoetry.com/design/poetry_dis.asp?dataID=35371




Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: Lhoffman on February 24, 2008, 08:26:20 PM
Pugetopolis, I've been reading Whitman myself, Specimen Days and Leaves of Grass, along with some writing on the American civil war.  A very good book has just been released, Republic of Suffering by Drew Gilpin Faust.  Fascinating book about the change in attitudes and rituals surround death that came about as a result of the manner of death and the many unclaimed corpses in the Civil War.

Leaves of Grass

I’ve seen the ghosts at Gettysburg,
spirits of heroes mown down in their youth
in sacrifice celebrated by Whitman,
the poet prescient in his vision of
atoms and blood-fed grass.

I’ve seen the ghosts at Gettysburg,
young men swept away
for love of country
or love of God,
ghosts whose father mother sister brother
comb the fields in attitudes of desperation,
whose wives and sweethearts
weep away their beauty
as they wander the graves
in search of truth.

I’ve seen the ghosts at Gettysburg
Rebel and Fed
called forth by tears.
They rise through the miasma
greet one another in the haze,
greet one another in blades of grass
atoms mingling,
greet one another as kindred spirits,
as confraternal souls
destined forever to walk
as ghosts at Gettysburg.





Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: pugetopolis on February 24, 2008, 11:13:46 PM

Pugetopolis, I've been reading Whitman myself, Specimen Days and Leaves of Grass, along with some writing on the American civil war.  A very good book has just been released, Republic of Suffering by Drew Gilpin Faust.  Fascinating book about the change in attitudes and rituals surround death that came about as a result of the manner of death and the many unclaimed corpses in the Civil War.


I came across this reference to death in the recent London Review of Books in regard to Gay’s new book Modernism.

I found it interesting the way this LRB review briefly characterizes death as “aesthetic thanatophilia”...

And “that all-inclusive negative” (Howard).

I wonder how this relates to the Shepard-King death?

The media adds a certain amount of "all-inclusive negativity" to these hate-crime murders...

And perhaps even represents them as “aesthetic thanatophilia.” 

And what about these King elegies I’ve been publishing?

Are they nothing but the same thing—“aesthetic thanatophilia”?
 
“How one interprets Modernism depends on what one includes. While its intellectual aspects are important, the wider context of this culture of crisis is critical to any appreciation. Modernism was the culture of an age of mass death. It was, as Matei Calinescu has said, an ‘aesthetic thanatophilia’. Richard Howard, in his homage to Ford Madox Ford, called the modern ‘that all-inclusive negative’. Death was both figurative and literal, evident in the mechanisation of the world and the industrial killing of modern war.”—Modris Eksteins, “Drowned in Eau de Vie,” Review of Modernism: The Lure of Heresy from Baudelaire to Beckett and Beyond by Peter Gay, LRB, 21 February 2008

http://www.lrb.co.uk/v30/n04/ekst01_.html



Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: Lhoffman on February 25, 2008, 10:47:21 AM
Quote
I came across this reference to death in the recent London Review of Books in regard to Gay’s new book Modernism.

I found it interesting the way this LRB review briefly characterizes death as “aesthetic thanatophilia”...

And “that all-inclusive negative” (Howard).

I wonder how this relates to the Shepard-King death?

The media adds a certain amount of "all-inclusive negativity" to these hate-crime murders...

And perhaps even represents them as “aesthetic thanatophilia.” 

And what about these King elegies I’ve been publishing?

Are they nothing but the same thing—“aesthetic thanatophilia”?

 


"Aesthetic thanatophilia"...I'm not sure that this was purely a modernist response.  Men have always killed each other and it seems the function of art has always been to answer questions of life and death.  I can see that the Malevich and Tzara referred to in the review are related to mass death.  There is an idea of over-filling, over-sating the senses.  A reminder that the observers are still among the living; and behind it all, the idea of repopulation, recovery of that which has been lost (the idea being, that even though it may be a bit messy and frenetic, life goes on).

Plagiarism of history while referring to the work of John Cage:  Cage has said himself that '4"33 is a direct response to Raushenberg's White.  Perhaps Raushenberg extended previous ideas (as all artists do, otherwise we would still be viewing stone monoliths), but his work was not plagiarism.  When he erased, he did not repopulate.  White (and '4 "33) existed only as reflections of life and of the observer.  At the same time, these works expressed a tacit exceptance of death (no repopulation, no over-sating of the senses).  (Perhaps this is why they made people so uncomfortable?  After us nothing, and this in a time of mass hysteria of the cold war.)  The art of White consisted in the moving shadow of the viewer on the canvas.  When the viewer left the room or moved on to other works, all that remained was emptiness.  No audience, no art.  Cage's music was created by the living breathing presence of his audience.  No audience, no music.


Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: pugetopolis on February 26, 2008, 02:13:09 AM
(http://images.tribe.net/tribe/upload/photo/172/315/17231558-9e46-40ed-93fc-4d78f6288c6c)


Too Gay—Exiles

“Wreathes of wild chrysanthemums
drift—your small hard breasts…”
—Clayton Eshleman, “Exiles,”
Under World Arrest

Exiles—
We all pretty
Much know
The game…

Exiles—
From Paris
Like Verlaine
And Rimbaud…

Exiles—
From Petersburg
Like Vlad and his
Gay brother…

Exiles—
Solzhenitsyn
There in the
Gulag Archipelago…




Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: pugetopolis on February 26, 2008, 11:47:41 PM
(http://www.androphile.org/gay_love/homosexual/homosexuality/gay_sex/Hercules/Hylas/img/HercHylasFULL3.jpg)
Hercules and Hylas
Cista Ficoroni, 4th  Century BC,
Villa Borghese, Rome


Love Crimes

“And you say, I love you honey
Very funny…”
—Stephin Merritt, “Very Funny,”
   69 Love Songs

It wasn’t a hate crime—
It was a love crime, my dears…

Between two California boyz—
Both so very cute…

Larry and Brandon—
The Love Crime of Oxnard…

The Love of Malibu—
Little LA bedroom community…

Everybody didn’t know—
They thought it was a Lark…

But Love gets serious—
Just ask Romeo and Juliet…

_______________________________

“Jeremiah, another student and friend of the victim, said King had recently told the
14-year-old boy who is alleged to have shot him that he had a crush on him. "I see
no point in shooting someone for telling them that you like them," said Jeremiah,
who didn't want to give his last name.”

Brandon McInerney, 14, who attended E. O. Green with King, has been charged with
premeditated murder and will be tried as an adult. He is being held in Ventura County
Juvenile Hall in lieu of $770,000 bail. McInerney could face 50 years to life in prison if
convicted. Prosecutors added a hate crime allegation that could bring an additional
one to three years.—LA Times

http://www.latimes.com/news/local/la-me-oxnard17feb17,1,1523425.story?ctrack=1&cset=true

http://www.nytimes.com/2008/02/23/us/23oxnard.html?_r=2&em&ex=1203915600&en=d0c85187d9ba7001&ei=5087&oref=slogin&oref=slogin

http://www.gaypoetry.com/design/poetry_dis.asp?dataID=35402




Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: pugetopolis on March 03, 2008, 12:05:30 PM
The Elements of Style

“A rose is a rose is a rose”
—Gertrude Stein

I
couldn't
care less, my
dear I couldn't care
less, my dear I couldn't
care less, my dear I couldn't
care less, my dear I couldn't care
less, my dear I couldn't care less, my
dear I couldn't care less, my dear I couldn't
care less, my dear I couldn't care less, my dear
I couldn't care less, my dear I couldn't care less,
my dear I couldn't care less, my dear I couldn't care
less, my dear I couldn't care less, my dear I couldn't care
less, my dear I couldn't care less, my dear I couldn't care less,
my dear I couldn't care less, my dear I couldn't care less, my dear
I couldn't care less, my dear I couldn't care less, my dear I couldn't care less, my dear I simplycouldn't care less, my dear I couldn't care less, my dear I
couldn't care less, my dear I couldn't care less, my dear yes my dear,
I couldn't care less, my dear I couldn't care less, my dear I
couldn't care less, my dear I couldn't care less, my dear I
couldn't care less, my dear I couldn't care less, my dear
I couldn't care less, my dear I couldn't care less, my
dear I couldn't care less, my dear I couldn't care
less, my dear I couldn't care less, my dear I
couldn't care less, my dear I couldn't care
less, my dear I couldn't care less, my
dear I couldn't care less, my dear I
couldn't care less, my dear I
couldn't care less, my dear
I couldn't care less, my
dear I couldn't care
less, my dear I
couldn't care
less, my
dear


Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: Lhoffman on March 03, 2008, 12:09:19 PM
I think that would be well placed over in Campaign....This is exactly what the election "discussion" has devolved into.  People care more about getting their particular brand of truth across than about the issues.

(Do you notice at the end that you have an italics sign?  You might have to cut delete paste to get rid of it.  Or do you need it to keep the shape?)


Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: pugetopolis on March 03, 2008, 12:31:47 PM
Well,
that's good enough,
ha ha. It's fun playing
with this neat Elba screen and
all its interesting layout
gadgets isn't it?
Fonts etc.


Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: Lhoffman on March 03, 2008, 12:41:09 PM
Personally, I like the strike-through feature.    :D


Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: Lhoffman on March 03, 2008, 02:06:58 PM
I must suck as a voyeur, because I'm looking and I don't see anything.


Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: Lhoffman on March 03, 2008, 02:07:53 PM
LOL....there it is!  Can I be one of the guys with the cool glasses?


Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: Lhoffman on March 03, 2008, 02:16:12 PM
The Voyeur

 ::) ::) ::) ::) ::) ::) ::) ::) ::) ::) ::)
 ::) ::) ::) ::) ::) ::) ::) ::) ::) ::) ::)
 ::) ::) ::) ::) ::) ::) ::) ::) ::) ::) ::)
 ::) ::) ::) ::) ::) ::) ::) ::) ::) ::) ::)
 ::) ::) ::) ::) ::) ::) ::) ::) ::) ::) ::)
 ::) ::) ::) ::) ::) ;D ::) ::) ::) ::) ::)
 ::) ::) ::) ::) ;D ;D  ;D ::) ::) ::) ::) 
 ::) ::) ::) ::) ::) ;D ::) ::) ::) ::) ::)
 ::) ::) ::) ::) ::) ::) ::) ::) ::) ::) ::)
 ::) ::) ::) ::) ::) ::) ::) ::) ::) ::) ::)
 ::) ::) ::) ::) ::) ::) ::) ::) ::) ::) ::)
 ::) ::) ::) ::) ::) ::) ::) ::) ::) ::) ::)
 ::) ::) ::) ::) ::) ::) ::) ::) ::) ::) ::)
 ::) ::) ::) ::) ::) ::) ::) ::) ::) ::) ::)
 ::) ::) ::) ::) ::) ::) ::) ::) ::) ::) ::)








(http://mysite.verizon.net/vzesdp09/sitebuildercontent/sitebuilderpictures/smiley_cop.jpg)

"Move it along folks, nothin' to see, nothin to see."


Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: pugetopolis on March 05, 2008, 06:23:19 AM
(http://www.lawrenceartscenter.com/Artists/Louis_Copt/i/Approaching.jpg)
Louis Copt, "Approaching" 1989

The Real Estate
—for William Stafford

They say that you—
Can take the boy outta
The  country but not take
The country outta the boy…

This is quite true—
Country boyz know how to
Bullshit and it’s something
That never leaves you…

Some call it sophistry—
Others call it stoic as in
Midwestern Gothic stoic
Resignation to the real…

But it’s real estate—
That’s really the name of
The ultimate game as in—
“Wanna a bridge, baby?”

Chug, chug, chug—
Goes the choo-choo train
And then up goes the
Price of real estate…

Santa Fe tracks—
East and West down
Along Cottonwood River
Gullies and ravines…

Out past Highway 50—
Where I was conceived
After a weekend of hard
Work by my parents…

There in the bedroom—
Of my grandparents
The GAR Queen Bee and
The County Commissioner…

My redhead mother—
A real live-wire plus my
Father who played bass
In a local  band…

They met each other—
In the sleek new art deco
Civic Auditorium and
Soon they were lovers…

I was born in May—
I was the #1 Lucky Boy
My mother prairie goddess
My father a jet pilot…

At night I could hear
The Santa Fe Doodlebug
Signaling me thru the
Tall leaning poplars…

And during the day—
Petunias guided my
Passage thru Time plus
Zinnia bodyguards…

The real estate—
Leaned in on me and
I became one with
The mapping of me…

That’s how the West—
Was actually won with
The rails, the immigrants,
The farms, the fields…

The real estate—
Parceled out of what
Was then and what’s now
And everything in between…

http://www.gaypoetry.com/design/poetry_dis.asp?dataID=35458




Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: pugetopolis on March 05, 2008, 09:06:08 AM
(http://www.louiscopt.com/images/random/prairie-dancer-2-r.jpg)
Louis Copt, “Prairie Dancer”

Prairie Dancer

“I do more painting—
when I’m not painting.”
—Andrew Wyeth

I was driving back—
From the elevator there
In Formosa…

At night the prairie—
Is lunar and full of that
Spectral kind of thing…

The stubble fields—
Still warm in the hot
August afterglow…

I like dirt roads—
They’re silent and
Hushed in the dark…

All the old farmers—
They’re dying and the
Land is for sale…

Old farmhouses—
And machinery waste
Away like Mars…

A brief interlude—
The windows down
Sipping a cool one…

Driving down thru—
Cool creek ravines
Up gold plateaus…

Who was she—
The one dancing
Out in the wheat?


Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: pugetopolis on March 05, 2008, 09:59:43 AM
(http://www.askart.com/AskART/assets/artist/127307/Louis%20Copt.jpg)
Louis Copt, “Morning Fog,” 1987

Morning Fog

Richard Stauffer—
And James Swint
Picked me up one
Early Sat morning…

Arrowhead-hunting—
Southeast of town
Where I’d never been
Before back then…

It was wet & cold—
Both of them were
Amateur archeologists
There in Kansas…

The fishing was good—
And there were these
Weird gothic hills that
Stuck up out of nowhere…

They took me to see—
This old man who lived
In a huge stone mansion
Who was a collector too…

I stood in this room—
With glass-cabinets full
Of Osage Indian points
Plus prairie death…

We stayed overnight—
The timber had a life all
Its own when we three
Went for a walk…

Down this river trail—
Old limestone fenceposts
Still standing gaunt and
Scarred by barbed-wire…

It was very scary—
For a sophomore kid
Like me a small-town
Naïve gawker type…

Lions tigers bears—
Oh my I said clutching
My sleek black Luger
Tight as a glove…



Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: pugetopolis on March 05, 2008, 11:10:13 AM
(http://www.louiscopt.com/original_art/prairie_fire/images/nightfire.jpg)
Louis Copt, “Nightfire” 2007

Flames in the Balcony

“The rural landscape—
It’s disappearing,” he said
“And here is the record
Of it like it was for me…”

His paintings—
They were like strange
Snapshots somewhere
Between then and now…

With me in the middle—
Stopped dead still in
Some kind of lonely
Prairie moment…

The Emptiness—
It went much further
West than just the
Highway 50 Drive-In…

The Inland Sea—
That once made a
Beach out of the
Flint Hills nearby…

Sidewalks with shells—
Limestone bridges and
Stonemason blocks—
Strong City bones…

This kid I knew—
Across Constitution Street
There in Emporia had
Become an artist…

And he was right—
Time was moving fast
And the rural landscape
Disappearing like…

Our hometown—
It was already gone…
No longer William Inge
Little college town…

Tyson moved in—
Then moved out…
Wal-Mart rules empty
Commercial Street…

At least they left—
The Granada Theater
Standing and didn’t
Tear it down…

Old dream palace—
Red velvet curtains
Shiny brass railings
Lana Turner balcony…

Rains of Ranchipur—
Never fell on the Plains
But Richard Burton’s
Deep Welsh voice did…




Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: pugetopolis on March 05, 2008, 11:44:30 AM
(http://www.louiscopt.com/original_art/prairie_fire/images/upwind-flames.jpg)
Louis Copt, “Upward Flame” 2005

Fire Chase

The summer heat—
The August sun beating
Down driving my uncle’s
Wheat truck to town…

It was an easy job—
Waiting for him to fill the
International Harvester
Full of oozing gold…

Tall huge elevators—
Gaunt Greek-like there
Along the railroad tracks
Pool hall, gas station…

Things got rough—
Up north in Republic
And Jewell County
With my cousins…

The Fire jumped—
Across the Field too
Quickly with me in
Back riding the disks…

Raymond-Massey—
Powerful tractor fast
And smooth racing
To head-off Flames…

Holding on tight—
For dear life riding
The bucking-bronco
Sharp razor-blades…

I could smell it—
My eminent doom
Incinerated by the
Racing greedy Fire…

Either that or—
Those sharp blades
Beneath me would
Slice and dice me…

Those Novak boys—
Laughing at me…
Afterwards because
I pissed in my jeans…




Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: pugetopolis on March 06, 2008, 10:16:09 PM
(http://www.pictureshowman.com/images/Big_Sleep.jpg)

The Big Sleep (1946)

Vivian: So you do get up, I was beginning to
think you worked in bed like Marcel Proust. 
Marlowe: Who's he?
Vivian: You wouldn't know him, a French writer.
Marlowe: Come into my boudoir.

Looking back—
Playing the buildings people
Boyfriends girlfriends flashback
Bildungsroman game again—

What we know now—
Pretending to know it back then…
Fascinating game isn’t it---
Tea marmalade Miss Proust?

Especially the ones—
That got away like maybe—
Even yourself so stylish now
Compared to back then?

http://www.gaypoetry.com/design/poetry_dis.asp?dataID=35462




Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: Lhoffman on March 07, 2008, 01:05:59 AM
I can't find where you put it now, but your restructure of The Big Sleep reads like Bogart's voice. 

I love the Kansas poems.  Reading through them, and maybe it's because I know the mid-west, brings back what I knew when I was a child.  The silos, the trains, the emptiness between cities.  Those poems made me homesick. 

The day the earth stood still....You know, I've never seen that. 


Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: pugetopolis on March 07, 2008, 01:31:38 AM
(http://www.cmu.edu/PR/releases06/images/060419_gort_lg.jpg)

http://forums.escapefromelba.com/index.php/topic,190.msg76115.html#msg76115


Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: pugetopolis on March 07, 2008, 03:19:18 AM
(http://web.mac.com/lcopt/iWeb/Site/Photos_files/DSCF4055.jpg)
Louis Copt, “Unsettled Sky” 2008

The Tornado

They hid there—
Under the underpass
Hiding for their lives but
It wasn’t good enough…

They crawled up—
The cement embankment
All the way up under the
Strong steel girders…

Then they waited—
Two or three families
On either side of the
Wet slick highway…

Highway to hell—
And then it came…
Roaring and shaking
Everything around…

They screamed—
But nobody heard the
Sound of their horror
And their screaming…

First it sucked—
The cars and pickups
Out from under the
Straining bridge…

And then it sucked—
All the people next…
One by one from their
Loved one’s arms…

Many weren’t found—
A few turned up later
When the local farmers
Mowed their alpalfa…




Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: pugetopolis on March 07, 2008, 06:28:06 AM
(http://web.mac.com/lcopt/iWeb/Site/Photos_files/DSCF3936.jpg)
Louis Copt, “Night Flames” 2008

RFD Duende

“The true struggle—
is with the Duende”
—Federico Garcia Lorca

The arrival of the duende—
Dark and quiet as a domino
Stopped me with the look of
Its dead fish-eyes…

It was spring break—i drove back to kansas to see if anything was left and there wasn’t much…the place was in ruins—nobody lived there and my dead grandparents were long since gone…in the empty barn hayloft—beneath skylight shafts of light shining down there were books…her library up there—thrown in a pile after she died and left there to rot in the rain…i rummaged around—trying to find something to save but it all had turned into cardboard mush…she’d taught generations—from a little red single-room schoolhouse out in the sticks by a dirt-road…to the courthouse—where she was republic county commissioner of schools and ruled…

the forties & fifties—a time of stoic yet intense pride for a thing called k-12…now all reduced—to a pile of pulp fiction rotting in a red barn beneath a cruel kansas sky… i stood there—soon the barn would be gone to and all the buildings bulldozed…agri-business—mapped by monsanto from satellites up there—telling the worker how much fertilizers weed-killers and when… the westering thing—this is how it ends up three or four generations then this empty barn… out in the middle—of nowhere surrounded by wheat-fields and gone limestone cliffs and gullies…i kept expecting—some kind of tender duende—some kind of intimate frisson to move thru me…

Something to reassure me a little bit—maybe somehow let me know that it was all worth it—all that hard work raising wheat under the hot sun… the depression—the dust storms the droughts the locusts the prairie nights… long cold winters—the landscape at night stretching from horizon to horizon—one big lonely field of endless snow… all the things that went into that silence that was everywhere—the huge sky cold with diamond eyes and never blinking—how could a small-town city kid like me—ever really know what he and his father went thru—my father’s family tree out there in the middle of nothing… the long hot summers I spent up there during highschool—catching up to the duende thing—

running thru all my wild rfd cousins—who knew things instinctively that I didn’t…because it was a different county— spectral wild republic county—up by the nebraska border—high up there on the blue ridge plateau… life was different there—more primitive up there compared with my home down in lush lyon county…lollygagging between two rivers—cottonwood and neosho—with parks and elm-shaded streets—down there it was athens of the midwest with two colleges and the santa fe railroad… my mother’s home—she’d shake her head after each summer her son a sullen moody rowdy drunk… it took 9 months—to get it out of my system with the help of tyrants like bloxom…

and the temple—of william allen white tried its best to make me civilized again… but the duende—it always pulled me back up north where norway waited for me…czechoslovakia—train loads of hopeful immigrants wanting to make a new home…scottish stonemasons—cutting the limestone into foundations for the barns and granaries…and the churches—steeples sticking up in the vast nothingness that was everywhere…the banks and bridges—the streets and curbs and sidewalks and all the civilized things… superimposed—on the landscape that knew no end only rfd duende… the swedes—they got all the rich bottom land down by the republican river… their mansions—they still stand some of them so proud and empty and alone… most of the homes—gone now machinery left rusting in the fields john deere derelicts… worn-out old cars—beat-up hudson and kaiser and plymouth and fords & junk… pickup trucks—broken windows tall gaunt windmills lean into the prairie nothingness…old photos ache—but they can never tell the story of what went thru here so quickly…three generations—maybe four then big business moves in and where is it all then? it’s there & not there—

the rfd duende that i once felt running thru me like knife thru butter… “son of a bitch!!!”—i said to myself that last time i was there never to return… “it’s all gone, man”—and what’s left is going fast down the shitter just like fucking me…” that’s when duende—made me sick in the pit of my stomach and i felt weak in the knees… it came up thru my boots—up thru the leather heels it made me vomit and gave me the dry-heaves… it wasn’t mine it said—it wasn’t mine to begin with…and never would belong to anybody then or now…it was an ancient voice from paleozoic times—back when a vast cretaceous sea covered the land—with fetid lagoons and huge masosaurs—with pterodactyls gliding overhead in the dead moonlight of another world—more alien than mine and totally uncaring…

it was raining outside—i could feel the hot cool prairie breeze in my face as i bent down & wept…the land was duende—i was the last of the last and now the land would return back again back again—that’s when i said goodbye—wandering back uphill and crawling into my beat-up hippie vw van with its mcgovern bumper-sticker… i was only passing thru—on the way to my west coast—my hippy lover waiting for me there in seattle by the bay…i didn’t look back once—i was headed away from home—the home that was once my home but wasn’t anymore…trading midwestern rfd duende—for a new kind of duende—pacific ocean duende up thru my feet—usually on the beach walking barefoot—feeling it come up thru the sand—dark needle sea-stacks looming overhead—along with seagulls and sea-breeze—a different kind of duende—crashing down all around me—wild deep blue pacific duende—different than the other—the other duende I knew way back when—way back in those days of the vast inland sea—that was once me…

http://www.gaypoetry.com/design/poetry_dis.asp?dataID=35468






Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: madupont on March 08, 2008, 12:41:08 AM
. “STATE OF THE UNION ADRESS” My fellow, people of color. This historic day, will live in infamy. As your President. I do hereby declare a national emergency. We have weathered attacks, from the world, for over 500 years. Sadly, I must say today. We must face many, grave and evil fears. Statistically speaking, we have a preventable tsunami, every 4 months in Sudan. The amount, which died on 911, is equaled monthly. By, murder in this land. Our P.O.W’s and casualties are rising. . Increasing each, and every day. Concentration camps of jails and ghettos. Where our kids, die and play. The Underground Railroad is history. You must flourish, where you stand. An immediate draft, has been ordered, of every child, woman, and man.. Our brave, true soldiers are fiercely, fighting a war. That will not, be lost. As your Commander-In-Chief, I must tell you. We’re paying, the ultimate cost. We will no longer honor the Geneva Convention. Once, targeted by WMD’s. The world, is dropping cluster bombs, of moral Wrong, Mindslaughter & Disease. Now, the aggressors ask for a truce. And say, they only seek peace.. But, as I ponder their request. I feel like a Palestinian, in the Middle East? As President, I know. Good exists in most hearts. This, I can’t refute. Our aggressors claim that title, while evil flourishes. Yet, remaining mute. I’ve established a new Homeland Security Dept and the threat level is severe. The bad news is coming, cries the TV. It’s our midnight ride, of Paul Revere. Vote for me. You must set yourself free. Why? Ask Malcolm X and Dr. King. My days are numbered, as a non-owned leader. Assassination, they will bring. But, while I’m alive. I will lead our struggle. Our economy continues to grow. Frivolous spending on consumer goods, very high. But, should be low. While at the U.N. “United Negroes”. I vetoed bills, misleading the masses. Yet, the practice of selling out continues. The attraction is monetary passes. Social Security is bankrupt. We are responsible, for each others feasts. We’ve been poor nomads, since sailing the Atlantic. Unloved, in the belly of the beast. I’ve contacted Oprah. Requesting her to promote more science and math. Education comes not, from Ebony and Jet. We must blaze, new educational paths. Our First Lady has convinced me to increase, the budget for college. I’m certain, the youth in our society. Has the world’s greatest thirst, for knowledge. Executive Order #1. Mandates medical exams, outlaws alcohol, cigarettes, and drugs. It bans the “N” word, too much partying, & not giving your kids, a hug. The purchase of expensive Air Force 1’s is banned. Children, can’t you see? Keep your money and invest in each other. That’s true, fiscal responsibility. The Surgeon’s General report is out. In summary, lots of self-destruction and hate. Personal responsibilities, not much to ask. Create your own future. Before, it’s too late. Ask not, what your family can do for you. Ask what you can do for your family. I regret, I only have one life to give. In the quest, to restore our humanity. The Few, the Proud, going Full Speed Ahead, and we’re all, an Army Of One. In 2008. In the midst, of a quiet, World War Three. This battle will still be won. Our resolve is unwavering. We’re a people, with a future and God’s on our side. This is my final, address to the nation. Bless all you heroes, weathering the tide.
Nat Turner at 9:05AM on Mar 7th 2008


Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: pugetopolis on March 08, 2008, 04:38:28 AM
(http://web.mac.com/lcopt/iWeb/Site/Photos_files/DSCF3444.jpg)
Louis Copt, Dark Sky 2007

Midwestern Realism

Sometimes it takes time—
To understand the Realism…
Simply because one hasn’t
Been exposed enough…

Midwestern realism—
It’s full of the poverty
And hardship of rural
American life back then…

Writers like E. W. Howe—
And Joseph Kirkland
Foreshadowed the doom
Of pioneer idyllic life…

Hamlin Garland—
Son of the Middle Border
His Main-Traveled Roads
Telling the ugly story…

Serialized at first—
Pulp-fiction magazines
And then novels about
Great Plains oppression…

The numbing drudgery—
And hard work as well as
The economic frustrations
Of going nowhere fast…

In some ways—
Garland was young Rose
Of Dutcher’s Coolly (1895)
Escaping to Chicago…

Garland went East—
To Boston and was
Influenced by William
Dean Howells…

Later Chicago with—
Garland and Dreiser and
Sherwood Anderson
And Edgar Lee Masters…

These men wrote—
About my Home Town
Before I was born
And they were right…

Reading them now—
Helps me understand
The Midwestern Realism
Of Kansas better…

Reading them now—
Helps me to enter that
Midwestern Moment
That’s me Now…

http://www.gaypoetry.com/design/poetry_dis.asp?dataID=35483





Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: pugetopolis on March 08, 2008, 04:42:13 AM
(http://web.mac.com/lcopt/iWeb/Site/Photos_files/DSCF4072.jpg)
Louis Copt, Backlit Barn 2008

Magic Realism

It’s so solitary—
The Great Plains that
Lives and breaths
Beyond city limits…

Way out there—
Not too far really…
Maybe just down by
The Cottonwood River…

Or north of campus—
Past Stauffer’s studio
Where young glass
Artists learn to…

Down a ways—
Past Wilson Park
In the Cottonwoods
The sluggish Neosho…

Isn’t that where—
The dialog begins…
With oneself and the
Prairie presence…

William Allen White—
He wrote about and
Lived there and grew
Up as a boy…

He loved Emporia—
Walking home with
His wife to Red Rock
On Exchange Street…

Home from the Office—
The Emporia Gazette
On Congress Street…
Next to the Post Office

Down East Sixth Ave—
Past Carnegie’s Library
Past Dr. Eckdall’s sleek
Jaguar sports car…

Waiting there in—
The parking lot of the
Gas station proud and
Ready to speed away…

Then up Exchange—
Up thru the colonnade
The boulevard of tall
Shady cool Elms…

I walked there too—
So many times that
I know it like the
Palm of my hand…

Mapped out like—
A Midwestern realist
Would map out a
Magic-realist space…

Thinking to oneself—
A constant dialogue
Adjusting to the town
As well as the…

http://www.gaypoetry.com/design/poetry_dis.asp?dataID=35484







Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: pugetopolis on March 08, 2008, 12:08:39 PM

Larry King—A Prayer

“Eurydice and Orpheus and
Hermes were all simple-minded”
—Jack Spicer, The Heads of the Town

Our chicken—
Who art
In heaven
Baby…

Oxnard kid—
Hallowed be
Your name
Larry King…

No more—
Tears baby
Boy with your
Big brown eyes…

Drive on—
My little chauffeur
Kid Heurtebise
Drive on

http://www.gaypoetry.com/design/poetry_dis.asp?xa=GPO&dataID=35385




Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: ponderosa on March 08, 2008, 09:34:43 PM
http://www.blowbackmagazine.com/TomHardingbio.html

Experience

The wind pushed the final hair and
There was perfection,
Looking up smiling,
Fixing it's coat,
Flexing the gloved fingers.

I felt like exclaiming.
But i've spoiled beauty before,
Taking words and smearing silence.

Till in time i learned never
To mix my love and grammar,
Like oil and water,
And I turned and said thank you to the wind,
Which nodded on silently.


Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: pugetopolis on March 11, 2008, 04:43:49 AM
(http://www.helnwein-museum.com/stc/ghpicts/gh984.jpg)
Charles Bukowski

She Said
—Charles Bukowski
War All the Time

what are you doing with all those paper
napkins in your car?
we dont have napkins like
that
how come your car radio is
always turned to some
rock and roll station?do you drive around with
some
young thing?
you're
dripping tangerine
juice on the floor.
whenever you go into
the kitchen
this towel gets
wet and dirty,
why is that?
when you let my
bathwater run
you never
clean the
tub first.
why don't you
put your toothbrush
back
in the rack?

you should always
dry your razor

sometimes
I think
you hate
my cat.
Martha says
you were
downstairs
sitting with her
and you
had your
pants off.
you shouldn't wear
those
$100 shoes in
the garden

and you don't keep
track
of what you
plant out there

that's
dumb
you must always
set the cat's bowl back
in
the same place.

don't
bake fish
in a frying
pan...

I never saw
anybody
harder on the
brakes of their
car
than you.

let's go
to a
movie.

listen what's
wrong with you?
you act
depressed.



Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: ponderosa on March 11, 2008, 12:43:42 PM

She Said
—Charles Bukowski
War All the Time

what are you doing with all those paper
napkins in your car...

http://www.comicspage.com/ohman/


Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: pugetopolis on March 13, 2008, 08:12:00 AM
(http://www.thegarageproject.com/images/Products/furniture_decorations/pegasus.gif)

Jiving the Elders

“…for whom history was
walking through dead grass,
and the main things that
happened were miles and
the time of day…”
—William Stafford,
“Prairie Town,” Rescuing
Some Years in Kansas

Jiving the Elders—
It doesn’t work anymore…
They know too much about
Life in Kansas…

Especially the men—
My two stoic gaunt
Grandfathers who I
Once knew back then…

Walter the calm—
Cool Santa Fe man
Working down there
By the railroad tracks…

Later John Deere—
Dealer of combines
Tractors and Farm
Equipment…

One term—
County Commissioner
Smoking cigars and
Making deals…

Down on Sixth—
Like all the Big Shot
Small-town smooth
Wheeler-dealers…

Until one day—
He had a heart-attack
At the Poker Table in
The country courthouse…

From then on—
A recluse just sitting
There in his empty
Office at home…

He didn’t go to
Church anymore…
With Jenny, me
And my brother…

No need anymore—
To keep up the
Façade of being
Country gentleman…

Jenny GAR Queen—
Civil War daughter
Living out her Davis
Family fantasy…

Dark evenings—
Her RFD garden…
Snap-dragons tulips
Twilight wisteria…

My grandmothers—
The Movers & Shakers…
The ones who kept
Both Families going…

Theresa up North—
Republic County…
Teacher Commissioner
Of all the Schools…

Natural-born Leader—
Eleanor Roosevelt type…
Endeared to how many
Generations of kids?

Arthur like Walter—
Moody withdrawn…
Gothic Americana
Kansas Republican…

Done in by the—
Depression droughts
The usual Thirties
Nightmare stuff…

He’d given up—
Like Walter letting go…
His wife doing all the
Heavy Lifting…

It takes Work—
To keep families
And homes going
That’s for sure…

And there I was—
Grandson of the Border…
Fourth generation
Kid of the Plains…

Old enough now—
To wish I knew
Back then what
I know now?

Not really—
It was good to be…
Naïve and Happy
Emporia evenings…

Elm-shaded streets—
Peter Pan Park and
Growing up then in
The Eisenhower ‘50s…

No time to jive now—
Not to my Elders anyway…
Because believe or not
I’m an Elder now…




Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: pugetopolis on March 13, 2008, 09:33:43 AM
(http://www.poetryconnection.net/images/William-Stafford.gif)

If I Could Be Like William Stafford

"I'd rather slime along
than be heroic..."
—William Stafford, "If I Could
Be Like Wallace Stevens,"
The Darkness Around Us Is Deep

I’d turn into—
An octopus with
Words like 8-arms reaching
Out into the Darkness…

The inky Darkness—
That wants to be understood…
All my suckered fingers
Reaching out into it…

“We want to know”—
They say, “Try not
To be so mock heroic…
Just be real…”

Pride gets in my way—
It’s not easy being a…
Whitmanesque tan-faced
Prairie boy these days…

“Talk some more”—
They say and try to be
More stoic and gothic
Americana, kid…”

“Don’t worry about it”—
“Reinvent it make it new
And please hurry up
Times running out…”





Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: ponderosa on March 13, 2008, 10:00:59 AM
Is it really dark?
Or simply dimly lit.
The lamp from yonder window
casting shadows from within,
refraction or reflection?
Observation or introspection?

Is it dark or just hazy?


Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: pugetopolis on March 13, 2008, 10:42:14 AM
(http://www.poetryconnection.net/images/William-Stafford.gif)

Traveling Thru Darkness

“In the late night…”
—William Stafford, “Through
the Dark Night,” The Darkness
Around Us Is Deep

Traveling thru the dark—
The Dead are calm & stoic…
About Literature and Poetry
Since Logos is their grave…

They live in our dreams—
No wonder we don’t want
To remember them and
Where they come from…

The stoic swerve—
Down into the womb we
Chose to be our Mother
And our Father’s Tree…

This is Progeny—
We choose it and that’s
The secret often concealed
From each generation…

We pick the Zeitgeist—
The time of time to play
Around with the magic
Mise-en-scene moment…

I chose Kansas City—
The Santa Fe Super Chief
Zooming me and Harper Lee
Deep into Kansas Darkness…




Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: ponderosa on March 13, 2008, 11:28:40 AM
Some choose while others are chosen.
Genes und chromosomes and all that jazz.
Nature does nurture the beast within
battling the demons
slaying so many dragons
so many, so many
out of the woodwork.
into the cave
huddled, yearning to be free
masses of individual loners
longing
aching
pining away
spirited sprite limping on
fractured wings
drifting in the slipstream.



Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: pugetopolis on March 13, 2008, 11:34:23 AM
(http://www.poetryconnection.net/images/William-Stafford.gif)

Pause a Moment

“Your job is to find what
the world is trying to be…”
—William Stafford, The Darkness
Around Us Is Deep

Pause a moment—
And put down the cup of
Coffee and listen to what
I’m going to say…

On the other hand—
Turn away and pretend
You know more than me
And you probably do…

I know nothing—
Except this and it’s
Totally unique to you…
What more can I say?

Stand there & listen—
To the quiet that invites
You to turn your face
Away from yourself…

Wait for the time—
The timing is everything…
When something in the
Night speaks to you…

It will touch you—
From that Dark Place
That is the gift inside
You down deep…

I can only say this once—
But then even once still
Isn’t enough because it
Happens quick, baby…

There’s this little kinda—
Excursion and evasion
That poets like to do—
Then the Payoff…




Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: ponderosa on March 13, 2008, 11:41:24 AM
Finished with my coffee
I'm having a banana.

We try,
others say "Just do!"
Working and playing
it's a game
but a chore.

I'm listening.

Thanks for sayin'.



Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: pugetopolis on March 13, 2008, 11:57:58 AM
(http://web.mac.com/lcopt/iWeb/Site/Photos_files/DSCF4055.jpg)
Louis Copt, “Unsettled Sky” 2008

The Tornado

They hid there—
Under the underpass
Hiding for their lives but
It wasn’t good enough…

They crawled up—
The cement embankment
All the way up under the
Strong steel girders…

Then they waited—
Two or three families
On either side of the
Wet slick highway…

Highway to hell—
And then it came…
Roaring and shaking
Everything around…

They screamed—
But nobody heard the
Sound of their horror
And their screaming…

First it sucked—
The cars and pickups
Out from under the
Straining bridge…

And then it sucked—
All the people next…
One by one from their
Loved one’s arms…

Many weren’t found—
A few turned up later
When the local farmers
Mowed their alpalfa…



Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: pugetopolis on March 13, 2008, 12:55:55 PM
(http://www.poetryconnection.net/images/William-Stafford.gif)

Revisiting The Plains

“That winter when this
thought came…”
—William Stafford, “Living
on the Plains,” The Darkness
Around Us Is Deep

That winter I bought—
An RV and had the dealer
Drive it out to where
I wanted it to be…

It was just Land—
All the buildings were gone
But the dirt road and hill
And ravine were still there…

That’s all I needed—
I wanted to rescue it…
My memory of what it
Was like back then…

It didn’t take much—
I wanted to recuperate
The Moment of being
Kansas Chicken Little…

I wanted to rescue it—
The way the snow covered
Everything after the Divorce
When my parents broke-up…

Dumped somewhere wild—
By the Santa Fe Doodlebug
There in Concordia by my
Estranged redhead mother…

Picked up by relatives—
Valentine Day 1954 not
The best birthday for my
Little brother and me…

Suddenly finding ourselves—
In Republic County up by
The Nebraska Border all
Because of the Korean War…

The War wrecked it—
The marriage, the military
Attaché assignment in Tokyo
The whole ball of wax…

There is nothing more bleak—
Nothing more lonely than
To be an Exile suddenly in
The Kansas High Plains…

The Prairie schooners—
Then the summers south of
Belleville the feel of the
Great Westering Experience…

I wasn’t in any hurry—
Slowly spring came and then
Summer came and I just
Did my usual thing…

All I needed was time—
A couple of mulberry trees and
A hammock to take me back
To those Ace paperback worlds…

I read the same books—
All the juvenile sci-fi classics
Especially the trashy pulp fiction
Ones I didn’t understand back then…

I drove over to Mankato—
To see mark and my cousins
Who thought I was crazy…
Staying out there alone…

Rescuing the past—
It takes time but I was in no
Hurry because each moment
Was the reason I was there…




Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: pugetopolis on March 13, 2008, 01:41:41 PM
(http://www.poetryconnection.net/images/William-Stafford.gif)

Revisiting Republic County

—for Hoffman

“how the world
can’t keep up with
our dreams…”
—William Stafford, “Living
on the Plains,” The Darkness
Around Us Is Deep

The Machiavellian moments—
When the world leans in on you
When you’re young and don’t
Understand the Human Heart…

When the Love that created you—
Suddenly doesn’t exist anymore
And your Mother has a couple of
Black eyes and it’s all Lies…

When your father beats her up—
Really bad there at the duplex
On Neosho Street because she’d
Been lonely and wanted out…

Driven in a Corvette—
Young F-86 pilot distraught
And not knowing what to do
Except dump us quick…

Adultery is nothing new—
How many Odysseus husbands
Have been washed up on beaches
Nude ask Telemachus…

But there is nothing more—
Spectral and incredibly lonely
As an evening in the high plains
Of Kansas with no parents…

The Prairie leaned down on me—
I couldn’t sleep I couldn’t think
I couldn’t do anything except
Exist in the spectral RFD moment…

This is what I wanted to recover—
The moment that I was the boy
Who didn’t exist anymore than
I am the man who pretends to…

I challenged myself—
In the only way I knew how and
That was a journey into darkness
Again to find out what I missed…

The Nothingness of Exile—
It defines the East Forty and the
West Forty and the North Forty
And of course the South Forty…


Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: ponderosa on March 13, 2008, 01:58:16 PM
Uh... thank you, I think.

Therefore, I yam what I yam? Sweet Sassy Molassey!


Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: pugetopolis on March 13, 2008, 03:38:15 PM
(http://www.helnwein-museum.com/stc/ghpicts/gh984.jpg)


Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: pugetopolis on March 13, 2008, 04:20:05 PM
(http://www.helnwein-museum.com/stc/ghpicts/gh984.jpg)

Bukowski Workshop

Ponderosa—

I like your attitude. Kinda. Sort of. Maybe.

The only question is this—how subversive you are?

Puget


Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: ponderosa on March 13, 2008, 04:50:03 PM
Not at all. Subversion requires violence of some form.


Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: Lhoffman on March 13, 2008, 07:02:59 PM
Ponderosa....no no no....art is subversive.  Ask Joseph Stalin. 

Pugetopolis.  I love these works you are doing on Kansas/Midwest. 


Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: ponderosa on March 13, 2008, 11:18:47 PM
Ask Joseph Stalin.

 :)

The pen really ain't mightier than the sword, but it can inspire those who may be prone to (or cornered into) picking up a sword.


Title: Happy Pi Day!
Post by: ponderosa on March 14, 2008, 09:53:38 AM
http://www.piday.org/

(http://mathworld.wolfram.com/images/eps-gif/CirclePi_1000.gif)

More than just a number.
A constant in a fluid world.
A slice of irrationality, invaluable to the reasoned.
Oh my, it's pi.


Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: ponderosa on March 14, 2008, 10:00:50 AM
Leap year and pi are God's way of saying this world ain't perfect, but we can work it out if we try.


Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: Lhoffman on March 14, 2008, 12:19:27 PM
"How are you celebrating today?" 

 :D :D


Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: ponderosa on March 14, 2008, 01:14:49 PM
Cherry pie for dinner!


Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: pugetopolis on March 15, 2008, 03:40:38 AM
(http://www.poetryconnection.net/images/William-Stafford.gif)

Heartland Communiqué

“Hello, is Mother
at home?”—William Stafford
“The Farm and the Great
Plains,” The Darkness
Around Us Is Deep

Of course, she’s not home—
She’s dead and so are all
The Others who once were
So intimate and real…

Exile is Authorial—
It’s the ultimate Narrative
At least that’s what…
The New York Times says

I believe everything—
Everything I read much
More than things I watch
On TV or the Internet…

Images and words—
Sitting in the quiet of the
Night mean more to me
Than Entertainment…

This art deco photo—
NYC overhead snapshot
Chrysler Building gargoyles…
Looming down at me…

Compare that to this—
Satellite photos now of the
Mosaic boyhood fields so
Artistically motel moderne…

Me down here somewhere—
Posing in front of ‘40s camera
Before the plains intelligentsia
My stoic KS relatives…

They were pretty smart—
A lot smarter than me now…
With my baccalaureate and
Cosmopolitan quack-quack…

Their cynical faces—
More at one with their skin
Then I’d ever be because
Plains smart is different…

WWII changed things—
Rural life and Midwestern
Existence got globalized fast
By perpetual war economics…

Eternal war economy—
Flexing its latent loins because
The country never wanted to
Go thru another Depression…

The Westering Experience—
Mock-heroic voice over by
Spencer Tracy Kansas City
Cinerama matinee ‘60s movie…

Better than that tho—
This single photo my father
Back from P-51 England skies
After WWII with his relatives…

Three generations—
In a single snapshot that
Captured how the West was
Really won—by Farmers…

Funny how RFD reads—
The grim genealogy in the
Faces of living breathing
Kansas men and women…

Just a snapshot that’s all—
Back when a picture was
Worth a thousand words
Before info-glut kicked in…

And there they were—
And there they are and
There I am tonight meditating
On this communiqué thing…

What to make of it—
Other than West Coast and
Midwest is part of me—
Like William Stafford said




Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: pugetopolis on March 15, 2008, 07:23:33 AM
(http://www.poetryconnection.net/images/William-Stafford.gif)

William Allen White

“What’s wrong with Kansas?”
—William Allen White

WAW got beat up—
By a gang of Arkansas
Drunks by the Emporia
Post Office…

Slave state Ruffians—
There was a lot of that
Back then when Kansas
Was becoming Statehood…

WAW went back to—
The Emporia Gazette office…
Sitting down at his desktop and
Writing an Editorial…

An Editorial—
Is like a Poem and
You know how Poems
Work, well, kinda…

They are the essence—
Of the dialogic imagination
Since they are so immediate
And acute to the zeitgeist…

How like hands—
Do the words flow and
Intertwine like the Studies of
Reuben’s Heads and Hands…


You sit down—
There in front of Desktop…
To opine about more than
Just the usual Thing…

What was wrong was—
What was right for the next
Election and of course he
Got to meet TPTB…

Read the History—
From then on all the
Liberal Republican potentates
Visited Emporia…

On 927 Exchange Street—
Three blocks over from my
Home there on Constitution
Street Ingeville USA….




Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: pugetopolis on March 17, 2008, 07:41:13 AM
(http://www.poetryconnection.net/images/William-Stafford.gif)
 
The Changing Light Over Kansas

—for Kenny Calhoun
 
“each day—
a treasured unimportance”
—William Stafford, “The
Rescued Year,” Rescuing
Some Years in Kansas
 
There’s something about it—
The way winter prairie light
Comes down thru the windows
And crawls across the floor…
 
I remember sitting in it—
Moving the antique high-back
Rocking chair with it as it
Moved across the floor…
 
Letting the warmth of it—
Seep and soak into me as
As I read a book slowly
In the afternoon sunlight…
 
Kansas winter sunlight—
It’s different than summer
Sunlight filtering down thru
Elm-tree boulevard shade… 
 
Winter sunlight—
It brings out the tans
And golds of the sleeping 
Front lawns and limestone…
 
Old bumpy sidewalks—
Limestone foundations of
Old courthouses and churches
And small town college campuses…

Sitting there the front room—
There on Constitution Street…
Where my grandparents retired
And then gave it to us…

Today faraway now—
Here on the West Coast where
Seattle winter light is not like
The light that was Kansas…
 
The Emporia Gazette photo—
Winter light shinning down on
A hardwood floor moving slowly
Across a Persian carpet…
 
A study group calmly—
Taking notes and getting their
Thoughts together about
Emporia and the future…




Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: pugetopolis on March 18, 2008, 05:59:47 PM
(http://www.louiscopt.com/original_art/contemporary/images/earth-and-sky-lb.jpg)

Prairie Noir
 
“on a relief map”
—William Stafford, 
“Sioux Haiku,” The 
Darkness Around Us Is Deep

Prairie noir sidewalks—
Chalky shells and criminal
Oozing prehistoric monsters…
Beneath my bare feet…

Prairie noir was like that—
Moody in the moonlight…
Like limestone fence-posts
Standing gaunt and alone…

Way out there in the—
Middle of Kansas nowhere
In those stoic Flint Hills…
Beneath the stoic sky…

The old sidewalks—
Were slabs of limestone…
Each one different and
Cracked and ancient…

After Sat night movies—
Walking back home from
The Granada or the Strand
Things got scary sometimes…

Pale paleozoic denizens—
Still lurked in those dead
Deep limestone sidewalks…
Once fetid lagoons…

Scary masosaurs—
Nightmare creatures of
Inland Sea embankments
Writhing with wormy death…

My primal prairie fears—
Liquidizing the limestone
Back into life walking back
Home from Halloween movies…

But more than that—
Prairie noir was like a River
Of Darkness flowing down
From the Sunken Garden…

Down Commercial Street—
Down past Sixth Avenue
And the Santa Fe tracks to 
Soden’s Grove & the Bridge… 

There was this Darkness—
In the sunlight deeper
And darker than the
Darkness of winter nights…

It’s still deep inside me—
A prairie noir darkness
Flowing in my blood…
Thru my limestone veins...

I don’t usually say this—
Or talk about very much…
Except maybe sometimes
When I really feel it…

Saying it’s one thing—
Feeling it in the sidewalks
Foundations basements and
Curbs is something else…

Prairie noir darkness—
It lurks in old churches and
Courthouses and downtown
Kansas architecture…

Even winter sunlight—
Coming down thru windows
Is darker than octopus ink…
Darker than dead of night…

I’m deep in Darkness—
Even way out here faraway
On the West Coast millions 
Of miles away from Kansas…

The Sunken Garden—
It’s still inside me sinking
Down deeper and deeper
Into my dark genealogy…

My Family Tree stretches—
Oozes all the way down from
Twelfth Avenue to the ‘30s
Cottonwood River Bridge…

East & west along Sixth Ave—
From the sleek art deco
Civic Auditorium to the
Highway 50 Drive-In…

Even with seagulls—
Flying high overhead and…
Squadrons of jet-black
Crows in the cedars…

Cawing and fussing—
In the Douglas firs down
Here by Lake Washington
Along Rainier Beach…

Even with me—
Pretending I’m Basho…
Writing calm haiku down
Here by the dock…

Bayliner bobbing—
Vast Seattle Red Night sky
Scudding down from Skyway
Over the cat, me & a fire…

Even after living here—
For over 30 years now…
In this bungalow down by
Dead Horse Canyon…

I still feel prairie blue—
The Neosho River noir of me…
Down thru campus past the
William Allen White Library…

Slowly flowing thru me—
Oozing thru my guts like
Some dark deep River Styx…
Muddy moody as Kansas…


http://www.gaypoetry.com/design/poetry_dis.asp?dataID=35585


Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: pugetopolis on March 19, 2008, 10:16:39 AM
(http://www.compleatseanbean.com/caravaggio15.jpg)

For My Young Gay Friends Who Are Afraid

There’s a time when you will
find in the closet of your youth,
in the quickness of your mind—
deep down inside you, a voice that
might have caught you by surprise
and maybe others too, but it will be
for you, just for you and nobody else—
your young passing voice that finds
its way by being afraid. That country
is there, for us, and we’ve got to cross
it like its our own cross to bear, and
what you fear won’t go away: it will
take you into yourself and bless you
and keep you. That's the world, and
we all live there.

http://www.gaypoetry.com/design/poetry_dis.asp?dataID=35590




Title: Arthur Clarke Haiku
Post by: pugetopolis on March 20, 2008, 08:57:53 AM
(http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/en/9/9b/Childhood_56.jpg)

Childhood’s End (1953)
—for Arthur C. Clarke

The one-way mirror—
Between me and Karellen…
The Overlord chill…









Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: pugetopolis on March 21, 2008, 06:52:38 PM
(http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/en/1/1f/Tfts56.jpg)

Time for the Stars (1956)
—Robert Heinlein

Two young twin brothers—
Faster than the speed of light…
Telepathic love…


Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: pugetopolis on March 23, 2008, 08:35:03 AM
(http://www.compleatseanbean.com/caravaggio15.jpg)

Auschwitz and Oxnard

“To write poetry after Auschwitz is barbaric.”
—Theodor Adorno

The same could be said about gay poetry—
that to write gay poetry after the Plague is barbaric.

The same with the cold-blooded murder
of 15-year-old Larry King sitting in his classroom
in front of his computer in Oxnard CA recently—
when a young cute athletic classmate walked up
behind him and shot him twice in the head..

How can one write poetry after that?

Auschwitz and Oxnard—aren’t they the same thing?

http://www.gaypoetry.com/design/poetry_dis.asp?dataID=35619







Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: pugetopolis on March 23, 2008, 09:31:46 AM
(http://www.compleatseanbean.com/caravaggio15.jpg)

Oxnard Mon Amour

“The obfuscated poem
is an experiment conducted
by a person (who may have
something to hide.)”
—Bernadette Mayer,
“The Obfuscated Poem,”
Postmodern American Poetry

Kids in the Kloset—
A new game played
By a New Generation
For keeps as usual…

Outré LA boyz—
You’d think the suburbs
Would be safe my dear
But think again…

You Tube’s one thing—
So gay on the screen
A campy duet singing
“I Want It That Way!!!”

Two cute Chinese boyz—
Doing their upload skit
Backstreet Boyz spoof—
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AFYDBtKeG2k

“So gay” is okay—
On the internet, baby,
But not at school or
In the cafeteria…

Not in gym—
Not in the locker-room
Especially not in the
Shower, baby boy…

Never fall in love—
With a highschool
ROTC Marine cadet,
My high-heeled boy…

Be careful, my dear—
Those moody sulky
Surfer boys down on
The beach be mean…

You Tube gay—
Be “too gay” in the
Real world so better
Butch it up, girl… 

http://www.gaypoetry.com/design/poetry_dis.asp?dataID=35620




Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: pugetopolis on March 23, 2008, 10:08:45 AM
(http://www.compleatseanbean.com/caravaggio15.jpg)

Oxnard Young Gay Sisters

Writing poetry—
About dead gay boyz
Is nothing new…
It’s called Elegiac…

T. S. Eliot did it—
Writing The Waste Land
For his cute Frenchman
Verdenal killed in WWI…

Walt Whitman wrote—
For the young Union dead…
As well as for his Southern
Lover boy Peter Doyle…

Tennyson so distraught—
He threw himself into the
Open grave of his lover…
Then wrote “In Memoriam.”

The same with Cocteau—
Miss Proust and of course
Paul Verlaine eulogizing
Forever about Rimbaud…

I know some of you—
That were in the parade
And that are now back
In school can write…

We older gay poets—
Took too long to publish
A book dedicated to young
Matthew Shepard…

Do it now—
Before the Heterosexuals
Go ho-hum and forget
Death in the Morning…

An Elegy is best—
Served cold like gay
Vichyssoise before
Straight swine forget…

http://www.gaypoetry.com/design/poetry_dis.asp?dataID=35621




Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: pugetopolis on March 24, 2008, 07:43:52 AM
(http://www.compleatseanbean.com/caravaggio15.jpg)

charles dickens haiku
—for alain julivert

once upon a time—

a time of great expectations

a boy named pip said…

http://www.gaypoetry.com/design/poetry_dis.asp?dataID=35624




Title: Reagan Returns to Rome
Post by: pugetopolis on March 24, 2008, 08:40:18 AM
(http://www.murphsplace.com/olivier/spartacus/crass4.jpg)

Reagan Returns to Rome

We met briefly at a riot in Berkeley.

I fell in love with you — the young son of tribune.

Steel-blue eyes — blue as the Adriatic — streaming with the imperial squadron.

Then Brundisium — the flat hills of the Calabrian.

Returning you at last to ancient Rome — the glory of the Senate.

You had been a peasant from birth — your early life simple and secure.

One for whom because of Hollywood would be allowed...

To approach the imperial edge of things — the edge of power.

And the life you lived — a spoiled Republican Caesar with a cowboy hat.

Like Crassus (Laurence Olivier) — you lacked any passion for the Republic.

You were the original neo/con BIG DADDY — and you loved it.

Your life — deflected by your provincial backwardness.

Such simplicity — the simplicity of a handsome boyish lifeguard.

You would have made an excellent used car salesman — such charm & poise.

Unfortunately as Edmund Morris said — it was all façade.

DUTCH was your butch nickname — but nothing was there.

Exiled into retirement — yet being summoned now back to your true lover.

The eternal City of Rome — the Invisible City by the Potomac.

Soft, scarcely perceptible cross-winds — the waves as we steer toward the harbor.

The coast coming gradually nearer on the left — a man who loved the peace of life?

To the ancient city which gave birth to you — almost taking it away quickly.

In the streets where we once held hands as we walked — laughing at the poor.

Like Sulla (Nixon) you sought death — seeking it like love.

Fleeing love now — it’s time to bury a dead Caesar.

Gone the passions of the beltway — a return journey once again.

Reserved not for empire — instead for a dying Age. 

http://www.poetsagainstthewar.org/displaypoem.asp?AuthorID=3587




Title: Reagan’s Children of the Damned
Post by: pugetopolis on March 24, 2008, 10:01:35 AM
(http://www.fadedgiant.net/assets/images/reagan_ronald_photo_7_lrg.gif)

Reagan’s Children of the Damned

“Ronald Reagan was sworn in as Governor of California
on January 2, 1967, at two minutes past midnight, under
the dome of the State Capitol in Sacramento. Cynical
observers suspected the involvement of Jeanne Dixon,
Mrs. Reagan’s favorite astrologer.”
                      —Edmund Morris, Dutch

“Well, George,” Reagan says to Senator Murphy—
“Here we are on the late show again.”

The small, invited audience laughs—
Angels peer down from the golden cupola dome.

Behind Senator Murphy in the front row—
We the children of the nomenklatura sit listening.

Here in this huge, cold marbled hall—
The youthful republican intelligentsia yawn.

Notably lacking in goiters & gloom—
Born & bred in exclusive precincts of California.

Berkeley, UCLA, USC, Stanford—
Surely we deserve the best America can offer.

We’re so fresh-faced & well-dressed—
Hungry for new information like all kids are.

Generations of intelligent youth—
How many kewl yearbooks down the drain.

Ending up dupes of our own stupidities—
Like all the other talking heads preceding us.

Don’t blame Ronnie, baby boys & girls—
Don’t blame Nancy or Jeanne Dixon.

Our fate is ruled by movie stars—
Old dead Hollywood icons…
_______

“The Republicans are losing young voters.  There are many more substantive reasons young voters are trending Democratic, but it helps us that most voters see the Republicans as incredibly un-hip. The Republicans hate gays, they love crap, and their idea of new and edgy is The Osmond family.”

http://www.dailykos.com/storyonly/2008/3/23/211220/797/176/482893


Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: pugetopolis on March 25, 2008, 07:08:31 AM
(http://www.compleatseanbean.com/caravaggio15.jpg)

Bourgeois Boyz

Shopping in Rome—
It can be so tiring especially
When the sirocco blows…

Drain the Tiber quick—
Let me escape once again
To Castel Gandolfo Mall…

It never ceases to amaze me—
How fat and ugly the bourgeois
Shoppers at Costco can be…

The fat bourgeois women—
In their tight leotards waddling
Up & down the clogged aisles…

The skinny bourgeois men—
With sad smiles of resigned
Capitalist schmooze…

The only saving grace being—
The cute Johnny Depp offspring
They produce occasionally…

But how can anything so ugly—
Create these teen Michelangelo
Boyz that come and go…

The more bourgeoisie—
The better because they’re
Like pearls before swine…

These bourgeois boyz—
Such dumb but cute little
Porky Pig movie stars…

The more Republican—
The better since it makes
The Fall of Rome delectable…

It’s really quite amazing—
How the Evangelical throng
Can make me born-again …

Ironic isn’t it how Beauty—
Can conquer the World
At least for a moment…

Whisk them away quick—
To my Capri villa overlooking
The blue sea and waves…

Bring in my Naples artist—
To capture in ivory this lovely
Cameo-appearance divine…

http://www.gaypoetry.com/design/poetry_dis.asp?dataID=35633




Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: pugetopolis on March 25, 2008, 09:26:55 AM
(http://images.tribe.net/tribe/upload/photo/388/6d0/3886d0c4-5d17-4180-bb37-7fe1723edb91)

Midwest Mommy Dearest

"Being is a fiction invented by
those who suffer from becoming."
—Coleman Dowell

I try to do it the best I can—
Practicing the art of shunning…
Escaping the horrors of life
Thru Literature, my dear.

Flawed beauty they say—
Is better than nothing since
The perfect thing, well, just
Simply doesn’t exist…

How bourgeois of me—
To suppress that part of me
Once so perfect in boyhood
Only to haunt me now…

The problem with Fiction—
Is that now I know what’s in
All those rooms and closets
I was once afraid of seeing…

How sordid the mere stain—
On a coffee cup once made
Me cringe seeing how the
Fatal blot was actually me…

The inner stain so very much—
Like the Scarlet Letter turned
Lavender overnight to my sheer
Horror and ultimate disgust…

Luckily Mommy Dearest knew—
She knew me better than I knew
Myself since after all she knew
I loved coat-hangers desperately…

How many times trying so hard—
To beat some sense into me about
The birds and bees and staying in
The closet at least for her…

A small-town scandal was awful—
What would the VFW Ladies say
If they found out her son was a
Flaming faggot caught in the Park?

It was inevitable I suppose—
Despite the harangues and threats
That I’d go ahead and do what she
Did by becoming the town whore…

Sluthood in Kansas was easy—
What else to do in uptight gossipy
Bible Belt cow-towns except get
Drunk, dance and suck cock?

Closetry was nothing new—
Half the highschool and college
Faculty were queerer than a
Fucking Three Dollar Bill…

And who really cared about—
My poor gay weak Sisters of
Perpetual Non-Indulgence there
In the Athens of the Midwest?

http://www.gaypoetry.com/design/poetry_dis.asp?dataID=35634




Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: pugetopolis on March 25, 2008, 09:49:24 AM
(http://images.tribe.net/tribe/upload/photo/388/6d0/3886d0c4-5d17-4180-bb37-7fe1723edb91)

The Future Farmers of America

"Life is a series of diminishments.
Each cessation of an activity either
from choice or some other variety
of infirmity is a death, a putting to
final rest. Each loss, of friend or
precious enemy…  the self
lightened, held on earth by a
gram less of mass and will."
 —Coleman Dowell

In my case it was more like—
Pints of protein and male swill…
Especially my worst enemies
The Future Farmers of America…

Mother was always afraid that—
Some dumb Farmboy would surely
Break my heart but that’s exactly
What I wanted to happen…

Isn’t that what hearts are for—
To be broken and squeezed and
Squished and crushed in the arms
Of some young Rancher’s son?

Some pig-farmer youth who—
Smirks and plays hard to get but
Then ends up waiting for me in
His pickup in the parking lot?

I loved RFD Romance—
Groaning and moaning out on
Dark lonely country roads when
I went down on FFA farmboys…

Nothing on but their boots—
And their cowboy hats as they
Banged their heads against
Ford or Chevy gun-racks…

Blue corduroy FFA jackets—
Better than jock lettermen the
Male ode de cologne of pure
Pheromone armpit heaven…

There’s nothing quite like it—
The stoic gaunt Easter Island
Look of a young Rancher dude
Losing it for the first time…

Done in by a professional—
An instinctual member of the
Animal husbandry intelligentsia
Bent on bending it good…

Nothing like Kansas farmboys—
So proud with their County
Fair 4-H six-inches of country
Blue ribbon know-how…

Hunky corn-fed Heifer boyz—
Young Red State Republicans
Their smirky lips so twisted
In the barbed-wire moonlight…

http://www.gaypoetry.com/design/poetry_dis.asp?dataID=35635




Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: pugetopolis on March 25, 2008, 10:51:21 AM
(http://images.tribe.net/tribe/upload/photo/388/6d0/3886d0c4-5d17-4180-bb37-7fe1723edb91)

James Dean in Kansas

I’m getting back again—
Into that William Inge mood…
Revisiting all his movies with
James Dean as the lead…

Movies like Picnic (1955)—
James Dean & Cliff Robertson
On top of those tall white graceful
Art deco Kansas grain elevators…

Looking out over the expanse—
Of vast golden Midwestern Ukraine
Full of wheat fields, railroad tracks
And bored women like Kim Novak…

Come Back Little Sheba (1952)—
Letting Burt Lancaster do his thing
Along with whiney Shirley Booth
And love-sick Terry Moore…

Replace the young suitor tho—
No more Richard Jaeckel schlock
Gimme me some of that moody
Sultry James Dean stuff…

The same with Bus Stop (1956)—
Letting Marilyn Monroe have him…
James Dean playing the cowboy
Like Heath Ledger in Ned Kelly…

Or Splendor in the Grass (1961)
Natalie going down on Dean…
Instead of cute Warren Beatty
Both young men so haughty…

Better yet tho my favorite—
Bus Riley’s Back in Town (1965)…
With James playing Michael Parks
In that small town melodrama…

With the undertaker’s hand—
Poised so nicely on James’ knee…
Telling the kid that, well, even
Old morticians get lonely too…

http://www.gaypoetry.com/design/poetry_dis.asp?dataID=35636




Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: pugetopolis on March 25, 2008, 12:55:55 PM
(http://images.tribe.net/tribe/upload/photo/388/6d0/3886d0c4-5d17-4180-bb37-7fe1723edb91)

Bus Riley’s Back in Town (1965)

I like Stafford's poetry—
But his prairie lyricism gets…
Well, kinda kitschy after awhile
If you know what I mean…

I need to keep the edge—
And that's thru William Inge…
Because nothing’s more real
Than a Picnic that ain’t…

Inge was a protégé of—
Tennessee Williams which
Says a lot since both were
A couple of Midwestern fags…

There’s nothing quite as—
Maladroit and melodramatic
As a lovelorn Kansas queen
Like Blanche in Streetcar…

Tennessee Williams played up—
The Deep South since it was
Born to be bad and corrupt and
Jaded with Southern decadence…

But Midwestern sleaze—
It’s a different kind of pulp fiction
Altogether compared with the
Stench of magnolias & wisteria…

Kansas decadence breaks—
It breaks your heart the same
Way as Streetcar but toss in the
Stench of feedlot cowshit…

Miles and miles of it—
Flat horizon-to-horizon piles
Of endless fine cattle manure
Beneath a huge cow-patty moon…

I can sense Ingeville KS—
In all the plays and novels that
William Inge wrote and I know
The love-hate thing so well…

The Deep South is tragic—
It has the Civil War to give it
That Gone With the Wind flair
And French Quarter class…

But Kansas lacks romance—
American gothic is what’s there…
And one has to be stoic to live
And die in the Middle Plains…

That’s just the way it is—
That’s the way it’s always been…
Resignation to Nothingness
Is the stoic way of Life…

http://www.gaypoetry.com/design/poetry_dis.asp?dataID=35638




Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: pugetopolis on March 25, 2008, 01:19:07 PM
(http://images.tribe.net/tribe/upload/photo/388/6d0/3886d0c4-5d17-4180-bb37-7fe1723edb91)

The Dark at the Top of the Stairs (1960)

Funny how I keep thinking—
Of that kid in Oxnard lately…
Because he was so much more
Advanced than me I guess…

Drag, my dear, in junior high—
That’s a grand step forward for
Gender Expression as they
Called it in his Obituary…

A good way to die young—
High-heeled boots lipstick
Eye-shadow and maybe a
Swish & limp wrist or two?

Too gay for me back then—
When I was young surely I
Would have been so dead
To be so gay that way…

That’s what I mean by—
Being more advanced than
Me because he was more at
The cutting-edge of queer…

The vanguard of the gay—
Doing his gayness the way
He wanted to after all it’s a
Sophisticated LA suburb…

Larry King reminds me of—
Jake Gyllenhaal in his Fem
Gay role as Jack Twist in
Brokeback Mountain…

Well, kinda, anyway—
Not butchy and hunky
And troubled and moody
Like Heath Ledger tho…

Nascent gayhood—
The kid discovering his
Bildungsroman direction
With Style and Panache…

Isn’t that what Freedom is—
The chance to see your
Life as conceptual art if
That’s your thing?

Oxnard is troubled tho—
Young illegal aliens and
Boyz down at the Beach
And the bad Economy…

Throw in the usual—
Poshlust peer-group push
Toward politically correct
Performance Art…

And what do you have—
Something up there in the
Dark at the Top of the
Stairs waiting for you…

The whole push toward—
Gay marriages is fine but
What about the young ones
In the trenches, my dear?

The New Depression—
The End of Weimar and
War in Persia only makes
Matters more difficult…

It isn’t as easy as—
Clicking your magic red
Scarlet Wizard of Oz slippers
Anymore is it, my dears?

http://www.gaypoetry.com/design/poetry_dis.asp?dataID=35640




Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: pugetopolis on March 25, 2008, 04:15:28 PM
(http://catherwood.typepad.com/photos/drivein/highway188.jpg)

Ars Poetica—And Film

“My friend, who believed firmly
in veiled mediums, and who
had acquired her intellectual
formation in the great Surrealist
bargain basement…”
—Alejo Carpentier, The Lost Steps

Some poets say write—
For your Audience and talk
With them and woo them
And schmooze, baby…

Other writers say—
“Fuck the Audience” and
Write only for yourself or
Surely you’re doomed…

Charles Bukowski—
When his wife got him
An Apple he discovered
His true soul-double…

Postmodern poetics—
Those who write for the
Masses and those who
Write for themselves…

Somewhere between—
Jimmy Durante burlesque
And Blanche DuBois sad
Tragedy is a middle way…

Hart Crane tried it—
A grand Aztec epic poem
And ended up jumping
Overboard Orizaba…

William Inge tried it—
And won but ended up
In his mansion garage
Gassed by his Mercedes…

Midwestern Regionalism—
The list is long including
Edgar Lee Masters, Proulx
And Langston Hughes…

Stoic realism so real—
It verges on Fabulation…
Like the Flint Hills and
The Cottonwood River…

But for me movies—
They’ve always been my
Ars poetica & filmography…
The story of my life…

Late on Saturday nights—
Beneath huge star-strewn
Night Sky at the Highway 50
Snake Pit Drive In…

Watching Body Snatchers—
Gulping my Orange Crush and
Squeezing into the backseat…
Oh juicy sci-fi horror movies!!!

Godzilla and Them—
Creature from Black Lagoon…
Alligator People and Attack
Of the Giant Shrews!!!

I Walked With a Zombie—
War of the Worlds, This
Island Earth, Forbidden
Planet & Wasp Woman!!!

Children of the Damned—
The Wolf Man and Bride of
Frankenstein along with
Solaris and The Blob!!!

Lit crit and film crit—
Subverting each other
Like this poem now is
My kind of Ars Poetica…

Some write for others—
Others write for themselves…
The Lost Steps for me is
More like falling down them…

Down down I tumble down—
Miss Lonelyhearts style…
Head-over-heels bumpity-
Bump straight down to hell…




Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: Lhoffman on March 27, 2008, 01:33:34 PM
Soul Hunger


My mother never fed us the song and dance
about starving children in China.
She’d serve up supper
and we’d have at it...
If not she took comfort
in knowing there would be
food for table tomorrow.



One summer night
friends and cousins came
And the August air
Was heavy with the smell of roast pork
We sat ate laughed
and while the grown-ups
recalled and reminisced
we loaded our plates
with ribs redolent
of smoke and sauce
Outdoors we ran
while we feasted
children’s games tag mother-may-I
pushing jostling
our grubby fingers clutching
the ribs as we savored them back to the bone
Just one more
and one small bite
was one bite too much
Pure satisfaction to fling
the meat laden bone
under the old mulberry tree
to be found by my
horrified mother
next morning when
she walked the dogs.


Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: pugetopolis on March 28, 2008, 01:26:10 PM
Soul Hunger


My mother never fed us the song and dance
about starving children in China.
She’d serve up supper
and we’d have at it...
If not she took comfort
in knowing there would be
food for table tomorrow.



One summer night
friends and cousins came
And the August air
Was heavy with the smell of roast pork
We sat ate laughed
and while the grown-ups
recalled and reminisced
we loaded our plates
with ribs redolent
of smoke and sauce
Outdoors we ran
while we feasted
children’s games tag mother-may-I
pushing jostling
our grubby fingers clutching
the ribs as we savored them back to the bone
Just one more
and one small bite
was one bite too much
Pure satisfaction to fling
the meat laden bone
under the old mulberry tree
to be found by my
horrified mother
next morning when
she walked the dogs.



Very good Hoffman. Write some more about your family.
William Stafford writes a lot about his Family.
His mother and father when they lived in Kansas.
It’s a good way to center yourself.

Smith: A writer's family is very important, however, isn't it?
Stafford: I talked to a writer who, by the way, was very successful and he said that he did his work by having a room in his house with a good solid door which he shut and then told his kids never to make any noise around that. So he succeeded and then he said to me, "Now the kids are grown and gone and I don't know whether I did the right thing or not."

http://www.english.uiuc.edu/maps/poets/s_z/stafford/interview.htm



Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: pugetopolis on March 30, 2008, 11:20:17 PM
(http://www.bbc.co.uk/radioassets/photos/2007/7/12/24146_2.jpg)

The Lisp

“The stutter is the plot.”
—Charles Olson

Lips tell the Truth—
Lips don’t Lie nor do
They languish in
Flummoxed lassitude…

Lisps don’t lie either—
They tell the Truth
Every time I open my
Embarrassed mouth…

Lisps are like—
Billy Budd stuttering
As Mister Claggart tells
Lies, lies, lies…

Lisps are like—
Zones of catastrophe…
Not just eccentricities
But disobedience too…

I hear the Lisp—
Speaking petulantly…
In butchy writers as
Well as poets…

There’s no women—
In Melville’s Moby Dick…
No women in Olson’s
Maximus epic either…

There’s a Lisp tho—
It’s the Lisp in
American Literature
That interests me…

History happens—
Gays are just as much
Witnesses as victims
To its Happening…

I’ve got the Lisp—
And I’ve been expelled
From the Garden
Of the Straights…

I’m into it tho—
My Lisp is really
Radical postmodern
Representation…

Willa Cather—
She got it right…
With “Paul’s Case”
How it really works…

The Lisp is more—
Than just simply Lisping…
It’s Limp Wrists and the
Way I tend to Mince…

Some of us—
Have it worse than
Others doing our gay
Performance art…

We’re the Ladies—
That the Pequod lacks…
We’re Miss Maximus
Lisping out of Gloucester…

We’re the Scarlet Letter—
Except ours is Lavender…
We haunt Miss Hawthorne
The moody Berkshires…

The worst thing of all—
Being an uppity Queen…
With a nasty sneer
And queer disposition…

Straights just can’t—
Stand it but I really
Can’t blame them…
Resenting the Lisp…

The Lisp is a Voice—
It can articulate Love…
Or trash it with the
Most snarky Dish…

The Lisp speaks—
It’s what I hear in
Myself and others like
The Muse speaking…

The Lisp is Lesbian—
She sounds a lot like
Emily Dickinson and
Elizabeth Bishop…

The Lisp is gay—
He sounds a lot like
Rimbaud and Verlaine
Miss Auden & Merrill…

The Lisp is bitter—
It sounds a lot like
Coleman Dowell and
Nasty Miss Larkin…

The Lisp is coy—
Like Ziggy Marsh
The Lipstick Dreamer
Fighting for Her Life…

The Lisp is moody—
Like Langston Hughes
And Essex Hemphill
And James Baldwin…

But the Lisp can be—
Smoke, Lilies and Jade…
Just like Bruce Nugent
And the Negro Literati…

The Lisp can be—
Latino like Reinaldo
Arenas and his Palace
Of the White Skunks…

The Lisp can be—
Jim Everhard’s Cute
And Miss Ginsberg’s
Nude Neil Cassady…

The Lisp can be—
Miss Eliot late at night
In the creepy London fog
Of The Waste Land…

The Lisp can lurk—
In the dark at the top of
The stairs in Henry James’
Ghostly The Jolly Corner…

To say nothing of Miles—
And poor little Flora with
Peter Quint leering thru
The Turn of the Screw…

The Lisp can be—
Campy like David Trinidad’s
Phoebe Ode to Bette Davis
And All About Eve…

The Lisp can lurk—
There in Sunset Boulevard…
Smirking at Norma Desmond’s
Kept man William Holden…

The Lisp can weep—
Like poor Miss Havisham’s
Tragic love for cute Pip in
Great Expectations…

The Lisp can be—
Cruel as Dennis Cooper…
Cinematic as Frank O’Hara’s
Halleluiah to Hollywood…

The Lisp can be dirty—
Or clean as Peter Orlovsky’s
Clean Asshole Poems
City Lights Press…

The Lisp can be Lorca—
Latched onto by Jack Spicer
Thru Cocteau’s radio-verse
Vast serial universes…

The Lisp can convolute—
Into itself sometimes…
Inscrutably like Basho
And John Wieners…

The Lisp lacks no—
Astute critics like acerbic
NYTimes William Logan
Or Miss Yvor Winters…

They simply hated it—
Hart Crane’s mock-heroic
Dish of the great American
Whitmanesque myth…

The Lisp goes on & on—
A queer undertow and
Sublime subtext to the
Usual White Trash Text…

But I come to praise Lisp—
Not trash it letting you
Know that each Lisp is
Unique and yours…

Lisping is to Live—
Meeting oneself thru
The Magic Muse that
Others despise…

Lisping opens up—
Vast ancient Archives…
Worse than even Miss
Nixon’s secret Tapes…

Having your Secretary—
Erase the Lisp with nice
Big gaps of Silence…
Doesn’t do any good…

Lisping is like Acting—
Screenplays down thru
Time all those lost
Gay Filmographies…

But that’s Okay—
The Lisp will survive…
As well as the Mince
And Limp Wristology…

http://www.gaypoetry.com/design/poetry_dis.asp?dataID=35679




Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: pugetopolis on March 31, 2008, 02:16:28 AM

(http://www.bbc.co.uk/radioassets/photos/2007/7/12/24146_2.jpg)

The Mince

The Mince—
It’s the ultimate
Curse for all modest
Closet-cases…

The Mince—
So transparent and
Revealing my dears…
It’s simply awful…

The Mince—
It’s like having your
Beads read by just
About Everybody…

The Mince—
It’s like the Emperor’s
New Clothes when he’s
Really quite nude…

The Mince—
It’s much worse than
The Lisp because of
Every step you take…

The Mince—
You can always keep
Your Mouth shut to
Avoid the Lisp…

The Mince—
But you’ve got to
Get to work and go
To Lunch and…

The Mince—
There’s nothing quite
As bad as trying to
Avoid the Swish…

The Mince—
It takes so much time
And energy to butch
That Mince up…

The Mince—
Surely it’s genetic
The way it sort of
Creeps up on you…

The Mince—
Being told by your
Lovely Peers that
You’re just too gay…

The Mince—
Scolded for being
Too Fem and too
Homosexual…

The Mince—
It can certainly
Make mince-meat
Of your Façade…

The Mince—
Manhandled by stares
And the worst kind of
Snickering Snotty Looks…

The Mince—
Worse than having a
Pair of nelly queenly
Faggy limp wrists…

The Mince—
So archetypically
The sashay of the
Greek gods too…

The Mince—
Back when Olympus
Was Omni-sexual
Cruising Athens…

The Mince—
Purest and cruelest
Of all the world’s
Truest Give-aways…

The Mince—
The Lisp and the
Famously limp wrist
The Holy Trinity…

The Mince—
Thru all the Stations
Of the Cross each
And every day…

http://www.gaypoetry.com/design/poetry_dis.asp?dataID=35681





Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: pugetopolis on April 01, 2008, 12:50:47 AM
(http://images.tribe.net/tribe/upload/photo/172/315/17231558-9e46-40ed-93fc-4d78f6288c6c)

Making Love to Arthur Rimbaud

“I am a slave to the
infernal bridegroom”
—Arthur Rimbaud,
   A Season In Hell

Rimbaud was my infernal bridegroom—I was born to be his slave—I know it sounds stupid—but he made me feel delirious—he permitted everything—but with a contempt for me afterwards—that was worse than the most hoodlums of hearts—my secret was I knew the awful truth—

Rimbaud thought I was dreary and insignificant—and it was true—he was truly the lit-up infernal bridegroom—and I was his foolish virgin bride—how shall I describe him to you—now that I’m a widow—weeping and alone—he was barely a Frenchman—his mysterious Mongolian delicacies seduced me—I forgot my wife and child and fellow poets—leaving them to follow Rimbaud anywhere—

what an infernal life we had—real life around him was absent—he was a demon—telling me love had to be reinvented—but afterwards only treating me with cold distain—that was no marriage—it was more like being devoured by crocodiles along the Nile—sometimes he spoke in a dialect that melted my heart—other times I wanted to plug up my ears with wax—

Rimbaud had that unfinished-look to him—the way he was exquisitely virile—but not all the way yet—a kind of half-done look on his face—like one of those unfinished Michelangelo slaves or captives—his helpless arms stretched over his curly head—or standing by the window—smoking and maybe

drinking some wine—pouty and sad after making love—but not quite all the way a man yet—but manly enough for me—strange and complicatedly male—longing to escape reality—nobody else had the strength—the strength of despair to put up with him—to protect and love him—and to imagine he felt that way about me—but he’d just shrug his shoulders—making me want him even more—already

he’d grown into a habit—I thought of me being him—after a profound caress especially—only to have him smirk—what would I do after all we’d gone thru he’d say—me waking up some morning with him gone—always putting on the edge—not knowing whether that day or

night was our last—even tho I made him promise never to leave me—but he’d just smirk at me saying I was jealous—him having what I could never possess—each time after making love—feeling I finally understood him—thanks to his magic powers—knowing tho when I said it—that I was simply mocking myself—penis-envy was the real thing—he was right he had what I wanted and needed—

but could never own—even if he let me have it all I wanted—feeling ashamed of myself each time—knowing he was untouchable tho—cold as a saint in heaven—grotesque with angelic aloofness—his hands and feet too big—his legs too long and gangly—

the way Rimbaud’s tit-ring made his nipple erect—the way his Adam’s apple was too big & thick—the way his voice changed—from Ardennais bass to Parisian soprano—and then back again—losing his young manhood and losing it some more—he was so mature back then—even tho his body was only half-done—the rest of him half-mature and awkward—giving me a hint of what was

to come—the male muse hidden deep inside him—his exquisite French family tree between his legs—gnarly and veined and pretty—surely the root of all evil—especially evil for me—the thing that hurt me all the time—embarrassing me when we embraced—feeling him up—

Rimbaud’s half-finished goodlooks—that look on his face—all over my face—feeling him excruciatingly growing-up fast—turning inside-out—snap and pop—like a tight rubber-band unraveling quick—all of sudden he wasn’t mine—he was somewhere else—concentrating on  being mature—the most mature of male thugs—the thing Paris did to him—those Commune soldiers—finishing off any

boyhood leftover—leaving only manly sadness afterwards—that and nothing else—all the rest of him zeroing into Zutique—all of him squeezing into Parisian light—nothing left of his precocious poetry—me trying to become him—bending it and strangling his muse—stretching it out

of all natural proportions—wanting to be around him all the time—unnaturally causing my divorce—shamelessly my new greedy hands—my new greedy fingers—famished for the first time in my life—wanting to get all that poetry out of him I could—all of his exquisitely mature Illuminations—runny with light so overly mature—making me shudder just to think of it—his sudden poetic

offspring—long ropes of exquisitely mature poetry—runny necklaces of extrasensory pearls—imbued with modern maturity—his young French manhood oozing into the future--so intensely that future poets would puke and faint—whenever Rimbaud sneered—

fainting in my arms—looking cross-eyed at me shamelessly—showing off what he knew I wanted—what I needed more than me—a guy craving another guy’s muse—there’s nothing more queer than that—how Rimbaud could get me to do anything—just so I could be bad when he was good—the way his muse lasted forever—the arteries on his neck and veins popping out—his eyelids squeezed

tight so he couldn’t see my face—tight like his tight lips—tight like his smooth flexed ass-muscles—holding it back until he shot into the future—accidentally in the dark—darkness that was to come—

100 years later—me stumbling into the bathroom—not turning the light on—not seeing what I was doing or where I was going—then accidentally stepping on a tube of toothpaste—fallen on the floor in the dark—feeling it suddenly squeeze-out with my bare feet—suddenly shooting a long oozy shot—a long snotty squirt of Tom’s toothpaste—splat!!! all along the bathroom tiles—splat!!!

up against the shower curtain—all the way up past his bellybutton—past his erect nipples and tit-ring—splat!!! against his bulging straining neck—all that Tom’s toothpaste—quivering wiggling obscenely…

http://www.gaypoetry.com/design/poetry_dis.asp?dataID=35685




Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: madupont on April 01, 2008, 10:52:07 PM
 A Phone Call to the Future


1.
Who says science fiction
is only set in the future?
After a while, the story that looks least
believable is the past.
The console television with three channels.
Black-and-white picture. Manual controls:
the dial clicks when you turn it, like the oven.
You have to get up and walk somewhere to change things.
You have to leave the house to mail a letter.


Waiting for letters. The phone rings: you're not there.
You'll never know. The phone rings, and you are,
there's only one, you have to stand or sit
plugged into it, a cord
confines you to the room where everyone
is also having dinner.
Hang up the phone. The family's having dinner.


Waiting for dinner. You bake things in the oven.
Or Mother does. That's how it always is.
She sets the temperature: it takes an hour.


The patience of the past.
The typewriter forgives its own mistakes.
You type on top sheet, carbon, onion skin.
The third is yours, a record of typeovers,
clotted and homemade-looking, like the seams
on dresses cut out on the dining table.
The sewing machine. The wanting to look nice.
Girls who made their dresses for the dance.


2.
This was the Fifties: as far back as I go.
Some of it lasted decades.
That's why I remember it so clearly.

Also because, as I lie in a motel room
sometime in 2004, scrolling
through seventy-seven channels on my back
(there ought to be more—this is a cheap motel room),
I can revisit evidence, hear it ringing.
My life is movies, and tells itself in phones.


The rotary phone, so dangerously languid
and loud when the invalid must dial the police.
The killer coming up the stairs can hear it.
The detective ducks into a handy phone booth
to call his sidekick. Now at least there's touch tone.
But wait, the killer's waiting in the booth
to try to strangle him with the handy cord.
The cordless phone, first noted in the crook
of the neck of the secretary
as she pulls life-saving files.
Files come in drawers, not in the computer.
Then funny computers, big and slow as ovens.
Now the reporter's running with a cell phone
larger than his head,
if you count the antenna.


They're Martians, all of these people,
perhaps the strangest being the most recent.
I bought that phone. I thought it was so modern.
Phones shrinking year by year, as stealthily
as children growing.


3.
It's the end of the world.
Or people are managing, after the conflagration.
After the epidemic. The global thaw.
Everyone's stunned. Nobody combs his hair.
Or it's a century later, and although
New York is gone, and love, and everyone
is a robot or a clone, or some combination,


you have to admire the technology of the future.
When you want to call somebody, you just think it.
Your dreams are filmed. Without a camera.
You can scroll through the actual things that happened,
and nobody disagrees. No memory.
No point of view. None of it necessary.


Past the time when the standard thing to say
is that, no matter what, the human endures.
That whatever humans make of themselves
is therefore human.
Past the transitional time
when humanity as we know it was there to say that.
Past the time we meant well but were wrong.
It's less than that, not anymore a concept.
Past the time when mourning was a concept.


Of course, such a projection,
however much I believe it, is sentimental—
belief being sentimental.
The thought of a woman born
in the fictional Fifties.


That's what I mean. We were Martians. Nothing's stranger
than our patience, our humanity, inhumanity.
Our worrying about robots. Earplug cell phones
that make us seem to be walking about like loonies
talking to ourselves. Perhaps we are.


All of it was so quaint. And I was there.
Poetry was there; we tried to write it.


 Mary Jo Salter 







Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: pugetopolis on April 01, 2008, 11:48:09 PM
(http://www.radvideo.com/detailsoft/bj225-g.jpg)
 
The Destroying Angel

—for Peter De Rome

I made love—
To Bill Eld during
The Seventies down at
The Lavender Cinema…

Down on First Ave—
On Sat nights in my
Trenchcoat in the dark
With my right hand…

Back then Bill Eld—
Was one of the sexiest
Porno stars around
And he knew it…

The Lavender Cinema—
Down the street from
The Pike Place Market
With a view of the Bay…

Mt. Rainier sunsets—
Elliott Bay ferries…
The docks down by
The seagulls & drunks…

Back then I was living—
In the University District
Disillusioned hanging
Around the campus…

My Lover left me—
So hopelessly hetero…
Yet his gymnast body
Still turned me on…

Capitol Hill back then—
Before the gay deluge…
A couple of gay bars,
A bookstore & rain…

His aunt a hairdresser—
We lived with her there
On Harvard off Broadway
For a year or so…

Volunteer Park—
The Conservatory full
Of dying orchids and
The art deco Museum…

But mostly lonely—
Feeling like I was the
Only Fag in town or
Even the World…

A guy needs Love—
Love & companionship…
That’s how I ended up
Falling for Bill Eld…

The Destroying Angel—
A movie directed by
Peter De Rome (Bijou)
Made just for me…

Now online for sale—
“Athletes/Jocks/Sports
Classics/Pre-Condom
Muscular Men/Oral…”

Bill Eld probably—
The sexiest Male then
In the porno business
That’s what I thought…

Watching it 3 times—
While all around me
Blowjobs and handjobs
Going like crazy…

This was back when—
Sex was still so-so safe
Before the Plague got
It’s two-bits in…

Bill Eld Young—
Starring in Peter De Rome’s
The Destroying Angel
Hand-in-Hand Productions…

Why did Bill Eld—
Turn me on so much?
Because he was the
Spitting image of my…

Seattle lover-boy—
Who tragically for me
Preferred pussy to
My famished Lips…

In between girlfriends—
I’d hear his big fast
BMW motorcycle drive up
To my dumpy bungalow…

My slovenly love-shack—
Down by the lake in the
South End to get what
A man needs sometimes…

I was working part-time—
Different Drummer Books…
Plus being a Masseuse
At the gym on campus…

I was such a Whore—
Still in love with him…
Desperately at the same
Time with Bill Eld…

High cheekbones—
And a haughty smirk…
Meaning only one thing
I was his Love-Slave…

Both were my Angels—
My Destroying Angels…
As surely as Day is Day
And Night is Night…

Who am I to say—
Why I loved them so…
Their pure Male smell
And Masculinity…

Porno movies are okay—
But with Eld it wasn’t
Just a porno flick there
At the Lavender Cinema…

It was more like—
Living breathing oozing
Pornography coming out…
Of every pore and orifice…

It was just Awful—
And it got worse and
Worse until finally…
I merged with the Male…

I know it sounds silly—
Penis-envy is supposed
To be a Female thing like
Jealousy for phalluses…

It was simply Huge—
And thick as your wrist
And the way he sneered
Made me almost Faint…

There’s something about—
A well-endowed youngman…
With a Bad Attitude toward
Me down on my knees…

It must have been Telepathy—
The way he read my beads…
So clairvoyantly and cocky
Always dishing me…

I was on Cloud Nine—
For hours afterwards…
Floating ten-inches off
The sweaty sidewalk…

He slept over maybe—
When he got too loaded…
To get on his bike and
Ride it up back home…

Instead he’d ride me—
Ride my Face some more…
Grabbing my handlebar ears
And gunning it all the way…

Both of them—
They were Trouser Trout…
Butch, chatter-free and
Full of male-centric Action…

When they’d give me—
A hug and a nipple-tweak…
It sent me to Heaven…
Where Cavemen dwell…

Serious Dudes—
Slab-muscled guys…
Born Exhibitionists with
Lots of staying power…

Turning me inside-out—
Reaming me good like a
Rotor-Rooter Men should
Unclogging my brain…

My submissive side—
Always got a workout…
Finding myself usually
Out of my depth…

Ending up screwed—
And barely just hanging
On without any time
To even beg for it…

Once I tenderly—
Turned to kiss him and
The way he kissed me
Was just too much…

The look on my face—
Like a deer caught in the
Headlights instead of
A woman in heat…

The Destroying Angel—
Billed as the first porno
Horror flick was the
Story of my Life…

A young seminarian—
Full of same-sex desire…
Picks up a menacing
Biker in a Seventies bar…

Peter De Rome uses—
Edgar Allan Poe as his
Inspiration for the story’s
Sinister dark mood…

Plus the use of a—
Threatening Doppelganger
Like so many of Poe’s gothic
Supernatural Tales…

The Trysts take place—
In shadowy rooms with
Dark furnishings and
Christian crosses on walls…

The Actors are dead-pale—
Shot in hard light making
Bill Eld’s skin look more
Like Ivory than Flesh…

Against this backdrop—
This color-drained canvas….
Sex oozes slowly like
A Wound in the Night…

De Rome turned me—
Into an Auteur of Love…
Going beyond porno
Into Heavenly Tricks…

http://www.gaypoetry.com/design/poetry_dis.asp?dataID=35692





Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: pugetopolis on April 01, 2008, 11:51:52 PM
Notes on The Destroying Angel:
 
Seattle Lesbian and Gay Film Festival
 
http://seattlelgff.bside.com/?mediaTab=filmDetails&_view=_filmdetails&filmId=34603906
 
“With the support of Bijou Video, we are pleased to show this collection of the artful, and very arousing, films of legendary gay pornography pioneer, Peter De Rome. A recent donation of the Super8 originals to the BFI National Archive allowed the institute to produce new copies of these films, some previously commercially released, but others that have not been seen since the early 1970s. De Rome is perhaps best known for his full-length features ADAM AND YVES (1974) and THE DESTROYING ANGEL (1976), but this program showcases his equally erotic short film work from 1969– 1974: DOUBLE EXPOSURE, HOT PANTS, SECOND COMING, DAYDREAMS FROM A CROSSTOWN BUS, MUMBO JUMBO, UNDERGROUND, PROMETHEUS, plus FIRE ISLAND KIDS, and ENCOUNTER. Graphic, homoerotic, and explosive, these films boast an artistic appeal laced with social commentary…and are just plain hot! From monstrous members, to subway sex, they star a variety of natural, intriguing, and sometimes dangerous men!”
 
The Erotic Films Of Peter De Rome
 
http://www.reelingfilmfestival.org/reeling2007/html/films/filmdesc/theero.html
 
“While pornography today is as easy as a click and a streaming video, in the 1970s, gay porn played a significant role in validating gay identity. In fact, it was about the only accessible filmic representation of gay men available. The Erotic Films Of Peter De Rome (1973) is a classic example of the intersection of artistry and eroticism in early gay pornography, and has returned to the big screen thanks to Chicago’s Bijou Video. Peter De Rome first started shooting 8mm sex films in 1965, producing 30 private films over several years. Pioneering producer Jack Deveau saw one of these shorts at a festival and convinced the filmmaker to collect them in one feature, The Erotic Films of Peter De Rome. De Rome viewed eroticism as involving more than just sex. He often cited as a major influence Jean Genet’s Un Chant D’Amour, a dreamy, surreal, highly visual work that depicts several prisoners in adjacent cells struggling with sexual longing and privation. Sexual consummation is rarely the centerpiece of a De Rome piece. He is far more interested in the full experience of intimacy – the longing, the pursuit, the passion, the afterglow, and in some cases, the aftermath.

The eight short films in the series take the viewer on a lurid sexual expedition designed to do more than elicit an orgasm. From humorous to sardonic, De Rome truly pushes the edge of filmmaking as his characters find themselves in surreal scenarios ranging from a wondrous garden setting to London’s underground subway.”
 
The Destroying Angel
 
http://www.radvideo.com/details/BJ225DVD/THE+DESTROYING+ANGEL+-+DVD/Bijou+Video
 
Bijou Video
Item #BJ225DVD
Year Produced: 1976
Reviewed by: Oliver Penn
Low Stock - Usually ships within 2-4 weeks.
 
Each year, thousands of young and virile men enter religious schools. Some hear a calling, while others go to "find" themselves. But giving up the body's carnal desires has caused many to question their ability to conform to the Church's strict rules. The Destroying Angel is Peter de Rome's compelling homage to these conflicted young men, as told through the life of Casswell Campbell (Timothy Kent). His struggle forces him to take a three month sabbatical from his priestly studies and return to the secular world in order to resolve his doubts. He drifts into an underworld of sleazy bars, anonymous sex, hallucinogenic drugs, and all out debauchery.

Casswell is picked up by biker, Bill Eld, at NYC's notorious Spike Bar. In his Brooklyn apartment, they have rough, nasty sex, hampered only by Campbell's involuntary religious visions that keep flashing into his head. He is force-fed Bill's huge dick, flipped over onto his belly, spanked and then roughly fucked. Bill leaves afterward, feeling guilty and somewhat disappointed. Cass' holy delusions are heightened once he's alone. He is "visited" by his destroying angel, a nude, alter ego of himself, offering him a gift of communion. Now hallucinating, Cass envisions a mound of masculine studs engaged in group sex. All of them have bulging crotches, great bodies and appear so real that Cass reaches out to touch them. In a moment of holy symbolism, the men all cum and piss over him.

At a dinner party, Cass meets handsome Grant (Philip Darden), to whom he admits being unable to resist the temptations of the flesh. Later, during drug-enhanced sex with Grant, Cass fantasizes that his "darker image" is in bed with them, and Grant alternately plows Cass and his "twin." In a brilliantly shot sequence, Cass watches as Grant fucks the living hell out of his alter ego. On Fire Island, Casswell finally confronts the dark force that haunts him. He is told, "I am your Angel of Life; but I can also destroy you." Armed with more dope, Cass picks up another stud, (Thom Aaron), an aggressive top who puts Cass through another night of degrading sex. Thom forces several large objects up Cass' ass before violently fucking him into delirium. De Rome creates atmosphere throughout the film, which is macabre and shadowy (but you can see everything). The special effects hold up well after nearly 30 years and every acting performance is polished and believable. Tim Kent is wonderful, but so are Bill Eld and Phillip Darden. The other men are just as hot (maybe even hotter) as anyone in porn today. Naturally fit bodies, big dicks, and wonderfully bushy pubes, hairy legs and furry chests.

http://movies.nytimes.com/movie/430072/The-Destroying-Angel/details
 
http://ebony.gayhost4free.com/throbberland/eld01/index.html
 
 



Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: madupont on April 02, 2008, 09:34:54 AM
Avenue A
We hardly ever see the moon any more
                                                          so no wonder
   it's so beautiful when we look up suddenly
and there it is gliding broken-faced over the bridges
brilliantly coursing, soft, and a cool wind fans
       your hair over your forehead and your memories
              of Red Grooms' locomotive landscape
I want some bourbon/you want some oranges/I love the leather
                jacket Norman gave me
                                                and the corduroy coat David
     gave you, it is more mysterious than spring, the El Greco
heavens breaking open and then reassembling like lions
                                                 in a vast tragic veldt
     that is far from our small selves and our temporally united
passions in the cathedral of Januaries


     everything is too comprehensible
these are my delicate and caressing poems
I suppose there will be more of those others to come, as in the past
                                                  so many!
but for now the moon is revealing itself like a pearl
                                                  to my equally naked heart


Frank O'Hara


Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: Lhoffman on April 02, 2008, 01:27:46 PM
Pugetopolis...many readings of The Destroying Angels and it reminds me of Rimbaud and Verlaine.  Why?  The relationship?  contempt?  something hidden behind the words?


Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: pugetopolis on April 02, 2008, 04:36:56 PM
(http://images.tribe.net/tribe/upload/photo/172/315/17231558-9e46-40ed-93fc-4d78f6288c6c)

The Problem with Ex-Lovers

The problem with ex-lovers—they’re never “ex.”

The problem with ex-lovers—they’re “hard” to forget.

The problem with ex-lovers—they just don’t go away.

The problem with ex-lovers—they know too much.

The problem with ex-lovers—they don’t know enough.

The problem with ex-lovers—they know what you like.

The problem with ex-lovers—they know you still need it, baby.

The problem with ex-lovers—they weren’t born yesterday.

The problem with ex-lovers—ships passing in the night.

The problem with ex-lovers—messages in a bottle.

The problem with ex-lovers—gypsy fortune-tellers warned you.

The problem with ex-lovers—Maria Ouspenskaya tried to tell you.

The problem with ex-lovers—“Don’t waste your time, baby.”

The problem with ex-lovers—“Don’t fall for that Wolfboy.”

The problem with ex-lovers—“What big teeth you’ve got, kid.”

The problem with ex-lovers—all that smooth déjà vu jive…

The problem with ex-lovers—let them go, baby…

The problem with ex-lovers—low IQ’s and big dicks.

The problem with ex-lovers—young, dumb & full of cum.

The problem with ex-lovers—“Bad Seed” like Rimbaud.

The problem with ex-lovers—they’ll drive you crazy.

The problem with ex-lovers—it never was love anyway.

The problem with ex-lovers—the way their upper lips tremble.

The problem with ex-lovers—when you gnaw on it all night long.

The problem with ex-lovers—too straight, too many girlfriends.

The problem with ex-lovers—too moody, too pouty, too proud.

The problem with ex-lovers—too pensive, too put-upon.

The problem with ex-lovers—kept men get that way.

The problem with ex-lovers—they know you’re a size queen.

The problem with ex-lovers—they make you crawl for it.

The problem with ex-lovers—hungover in the mirror?

The problem with ex-lovers—the exquisite way they lose it.

The problem with ex-lovers—they’re two-way Romeos.

The problem with ex-lovers—trying to forget about them.

The problem with ex-lovers—they never call to say hello.

The problem with ex-lovers—it’s been downhill ever since?

The problem with ex-lovers—don’t do phone sex with them.

The problem with ex-lovers—it only makes things worse.

The problem with ex-lovers—try never to look back, girl.

The problem with ex-lovers—easier said than done…

The problem with ex-lovers—The Collector?

The problem with ex-lovers—keep them down in the cellar?

The problem with ex-lovers—Dorian?

The problem with ex-lovers—keep them locked-up in the attic?

The problem with ex-lovers—you can’t live with them.

The problem with ex-lovers—you can’t live without them.

The problem with ex-lovers—they make you feel blue.

The problem with ex-lovers—blue as Cleopatra, blue as the Nile.

The problem with ex-lovers—so now you want an asp?

The problem with ex-lovers—they’re just too animal?

The problem with ex-lovers—but isn’t that what you wanted?

The problem with ex-lovers—all those weepy insomniac nights.

The problem with ex-lovers—SSDD without them.

The problem with ex-lovers—too much Penis Envy.

The problem with ex-lovers—Cream of Olay.

The problem with ex-lovers—Jar in the freezer.

The problem with ex-lovers—frozen pearl-jam deluxe.

The problem with ex-lovers—crummy old VHS home-movies.

The problem with ex-lovers—T-shirts saved in zip-locks.

The problem with ex-lovers—their fading armpit languor.

The problem with ex-lovers—their photos still in your billfold.

The problem with ex-lovers—their answering machines.

The problem with ex-lovers—they never call back.

The problem with ex-lovers—their spastic love.

The problem with ex-lovers—spraining their necks.

The problem with ex-lovers—strangling it to death.

The problem with ex-lovers—playing hard to get.

The problem with ex-lovers—their nice thick family trees.

The problem with ex-lovers—their bruised family jewels.

The problem with ex-lovers—their mother of pearl foreskins.

The problem with ex-lovers—somebody else getting him off.
 
http://www.gaypoetry.com/design/poetry_dis.asp?xa=GPO&dataID=32126


Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: madupont on April 03, 2008, 11:10:57 AM
Bild, 1959
As the bourbon's level
descended in the bottle
his voice would grow
lower and more
indistinct, like a candle flame
under a glass


Sunlight in the basement room


So he reads to me
disappearing
When he is gone


I go over
and secretly taste his drink


Mushroom cloud of sunset




Publication Date

One of the few pleasures of writing
is the thought of one's book in the hands of a kindhearted
intelligent person somewhere. I can't remember what the others
         are right now.
I just noticed that it is my own private


National I Hate Myself and Want to Die Day
(which means the next day I will love my life
and want to live forever). The forecast calls
for a cold night in Boston all morning


and all afternoon. They say
tomorrow will be just like today,
only different. I'm in the cemetery now
at the edge of town, how did I get here?


A sparrow limps past on its little bone crutch saying
I am Federico García Lorca
risen from the dead—
literature will lose, sunlight will win, don't worry.


Franz Wright


Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: pugetopolis on April 03, 2008, 07:31:03 PM
(http://emol.org/reporters/Starr/mariamontez.jpg)

Method Poetry

“…at least in America a Maria Montez
could believe she was the Cobra Woman,
the Siren of Atlantis, Scheherazade…”
—Jack Smith, “The Perfect Filmic
Appositeness of Maria Montez,”
Film Culture #27 (1962-1963)

1. Pick a cult movie…

2. Like David Lynch’s Eraserhead

3. Become Henry Spencer…

4. Open your eyes & talk about what you see…

5. Pick a cult movie…

6. Like Cobra Woman (1944)…

7. Become Maria Montez…

8. Become the Queen of Technicolor…

9. At the Orpheus Theater Chicago 1951…

10. A Montez film festival—the whole gaudy array of her secret-flix…

11. Skip the narrative pretexts…

12. Let the film address itself directly and immediately to your unconscious…

13. Let fetishism cement you to the screen…

14. Pretty soon the libido is libidinally yours…

15. Let your erotic preferences transform themselves into film…

16. Skip the esthetic manifestos…

17. Burn the ground under your feet and use what you’ve got…

18. Place everything you know between quotation marks…

19. Place everything you don’t know between quotation marks…

20. Become a cult object—break, distort, unhinge yourself from the whole and become your own cameo…

21. Become a café conversation—two clichés make us laugh but a hundred clichés make us weep because 
      they’re all talking with each other and they’re all you…

22. Become an Eraserhead or Cobra Woman spin-off…

23. Become a pastiche prima donna…

24. Adopt a camp surrealist POV…

25. Gloss the rival cults…




Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: Lhoffman on April 03, 2008, 07:34:26 PM
Pugetopolis....sounds fun.  I don't remember if I showed you this before.  Maybe LOULOU isn't a cult movie, though.

Oh, to be like LouLou--
Tragic combination
of innocence
and allure,
Everyman's dream,
the MadonnaWhore.
Every man--
but not Jack.
Jack knew the drill--
The good girl
bad girl shuffle--
Jack definitely knew the drill
and it didn't include
tacky vaudeville shows
or shabby cabaret.
A girl can dream
of dancing shoes,
but best not open the box.


Walking the wire
night after night,
in search of an image--
a long lost battle
for self and soul,
Life was killer--


until Jack.


Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: Lhoffman on April 03, 2008, 07:36:52 PM
Killer Klowns from Outer Space!!!


Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: pugetopolis on April 03, 2008, 11:15:24 PM
(http://www.soundtrackcorner.de/images_big/killer_klowns_PERCEPTO020.jpg)

Curtis Mooney: Killer clowns, from outer space. Holy shit!

Pugetopolis....sounds fun. 

Hoffman...speaking of killer clowns...

I'd like to share with you something along the lines of Method Poetry...

It's based on the camp cult film Cobra Woman (1944) with Maria Montez, Sabu, Jon Hall and Lon Chaney, Jr. One of early NYC filmmaker Jack Smith's favorite movies starring the Queen of Technicolor Maria Montez. She made a series of these crazy movies and Universal made millions. Smith influenced Warhol, Lynch and many auteur critics like Sarris and later Hoberman. Smith's Flaming Creatures was an early cult camp surrealist favorite; his essay “The Perfect Filmic Appositeness of Maria Montez,” Film Culture #27 (1962-1963) praises Montez as his diva rather than Bete Davis or Joan Crawford...

"Cobra Woman" illustrates some of the method-poetry points I made in the mesage above. Kinda. 
  ;D ;D ;D


Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: pugetopolis on April 04, 2008, 02:29:02 AM
(http://emol.org/reporters/Starr/mariamontez.jpg)
 
Cobra Woman (1944)

“Geef me that cobra jool!
Eeet ees rightfully mine!”
—Maria Montez, Cobra Woman
 
My Kid Brother Sabu
 
Sabu told me—he just didn’t want to think about it—but I knew what he was thinking… it was the only thing he thought about and of course it was the same with me… I thought about him—more than I should…once I got to know the awful truth… he kept telling me—it didn’t make any difference and I nodded knowingly… letting him think—in the privacy of his own thoughts about his young jungle manhood… after the divorce—mother brain-dead there in the hospital… it was just him & me… the mansion—there in Beverly Hills…
 
 


Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: pugetopolis on April 04, 2008, 02:32:54 AM
Sunset Boulevard
 
Sabu my jungle half-brother— I kept coming back to him—knowing what I know now and knowing what I thought I knew back then… I  didn’t know anything—not really anything about my kid brother except he kept to himself all the time… I was 18 & he was 16—and he knew a lot more things about our family than I knew until later on… like he was half of me—my half-brother— something mother never admitted but they both knew it was the truth… it must have slipped out—one of those drunken Sat nights coming home from the nightclub arguing as usual… mother and her dumpy husband—her second husband who would divorce her soon and then the car-wreck… you know how booze is—it must have slipped out one of those loose-lipped moments—something about Sabu’s heredity… 


 


Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: pugetopolis on April 04, 2008, 02:40:30 AM
Sabu’s Family Tree
 
Mother had fallen in love—with a young porter on the Santa Fe Super Chief—on the way back to LA and Sabu was the result… the details were sketchy—she was working New York City in-between her first & second marriages… the young porter’s name was Tyrone Dwayne Jefferson—it was a one-night stand—he was tall and extremely goodlooking—there were some photos and old letters in a safety-deposit box…that’s what the estate attorney gave us—handing it over to Sabu and me—everything we didn’t want to know—plus the house & insurance money…they’d pulled the plug—we had the funeral and then Sabu and I were alone in the mansion with ourselves… that’s when we started sleeping with each other—because we were lonely and more than just that… so I bought us a car—a beat-up used ’59 Cadillac baby-blue convertible… with those big garish fins looming in back—for us to get out of town—and away from everything for awhile…


 


Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: pugetopolis on April 04, 2008, 02:42:18 AM
Sabu’s Big Secret
 
Sabu was almost albino—his skin was so pale white it was almost translucent and thin as Bible tissue-paper… he had red hair like mother—and freckles and brown eyes—and was taller and cuter than I was or ever could be…I hadn’t paid much attention to him—you know how kid-brothers are—they get in the way or get ignored or shrugged off and all that… Sabu didn’t go to the funeral—he wasn’t into things like that and so when I came back home I found him asleep in bed…I took off my clothes—and crawled under the covers with him just to have somebody to hold and hold real tight… I must have sobbed too much—and cried after the ordeal in Forest Lawn Cemetery… because when he woke up… he held me tight a long time—and then slid back the sheets—letting me see his lizard—his sleek Creature from the Black Lagoon…




Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: pugetopolis on April 04, 2008, 02:44:47 AM
How I Became Maria Montez
 
Sabu had a Giant Cobra—truly a King Cobra direct from Maria Montez’s secret lovesick Cobra Island hideaway… how could my kid brother—have such a huge Negro penis… not tan or mauve but instead jet-black like ebony or onyx… uncut with a big pink head—then telling me a secret—that he didn’t want me to see it earlier because he knew I’d want it all the time… Sabu knew I was queer—everybody in Los Angeles knew it—and he knew Billy Eld was my boyfriend too… Sabu was friends with my fag-hag girlfriends—they gossiped about me all the time—telling each other my deepest down-deep dark secrets… with mother always hinting to me—“Now, honey, I think you should think about going to college out of state, don’t you think?—That way sweetheart there won’t be any sex scandals to embarrass your Mommy Dearest…”—mother was always telling me things like that—how to be tactful no matter what… and not to let some ignorant young LA prick break my little faggot heart…


 


Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: pugetopolis on April 04, 2008, 01:10:45 PM
(http://www.foothilltech.org/rgeib/english/orwell/primary_sources/faulkner.jpg)

The Fart and the Fury
—for William Faulkner

"Tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow—
I fart in this shitty place from day to day…
Down to the last stinky turd of recorded time,
And all my diarhea has flushed me clean in
This place of shitty death. Out, out, stinky fart!
Life's but an endless toilet, a poor plunger
That struts and frets its hour upon the stage
And then is heard no more: a Rotor-Rooter
Child-idiot, full of farts and fury…
Signifying nothing."

http://www.mcsr.olemiss.edu/~egjbp/faulkner/faux.html




Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: Lhoffman on April 04, 2008, 01:20:01 PM
Pugetopolis...

Cobra Woman--->
the dual nature of the twins good/evil--->
Nabokov--->
Pale Fire--->
Kinbote/Shade/Gradus--->
boy in the leopard loincloth--->
Sabu---->
Cobra Woman.

Think Nabokov saw it?


Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: pugetopolis on April 04, 2008, 04:06:58 PM
Pugetopolis...

Cobra Woman--->
the dual nature of the twins good/evil--->
Nabokov--->
Pale Fire--->
Kinbote/Shade/Gradus--->
boy in the leopard loincloth--->
Sabu---->
Cobra Woman.

Think Nabokov saw it?


You bet he did.

He knew just the right American poshlust buttons to push.

To make a million with Lolita and retire for life in Switzerland...

Like he had this dream of Uncle Ruka telling him he'd get all his fortune back...

"When the contract arrived, his reaction was bizarre--and uniquely Nabokovian. He recalled a curious dream he had the year his Uncle Vasily Rukavishnikov died in 1916. Uncle Vasya had said to him: "I shall come back to you as Harry and and Kuvyrkin."--Brian Boyd, Vladimir Nabokov: The American Years, pp. 366-367.

Harris and Kubrick had returned him at one stroke to the ranks of the wealthy...

"No wonder he would make Van Veen engage in a serious study of the "precognitive flavor" of dreams "in the hope... of 'catching sight of the lining of time.'"--Ada, 361, 227

 ::) ::) ::)



Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: pugetopolis on April 04, 2008, 04:27:07 PM
Ada

Page 227

“…Van took some notes in the hope—not quite unfulfilled—
of “catching sight of the lining of time” (which, as he was
later to write, is “the best informal definition of portents
and prophecies”)


Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: pugetopolis on April 04, 2008, 05:01:21 PM
Ada

Hoffman—I’m glad you brought Nabokov up at this point. I’d never followed up on Boyd’s note on Vladimir’s dream about his Uncle Ruka in Ada—so it’s interesting doing it now. For example, the double-trope we’ve been studying in Fiction (Pale Fire)—it seems to me that Ada (1990) continues Vladimir’s stream of thoughts about dreaming and writing… by writing a novel about it. I can understand that since I learned how to do that from him—thinking with poetry. And taking notes as I go thru Pale Fire—like Professor Shade’s Pale Fire poem (33-69). Following Nabokov’s notes—the foreword, the long rambling Kinbote notes (commentary) and the suggestive index of imaginary Zembla scripta…

I confess that my idea of “method-poetry” owes a great deal to the  way Nabokov structured Pale Fire around Shade’s Cantos—for example, the footnotes to Cobra Woman (1944) above and the notes to The Destroying Angel piece in Movie Club. These commentaries—fictional or filmic—are like layers of an onion enveloping the original text. In some ways, this is how dreaming works for me—like a Chinese puzzle-box one box inside the next…

Page 227

“…Van took some notes in the hope—not quite unfulfilled—of “catching sight of the lining of time” (which, as he was later to write, is “the best informal definition of portents and prophecies”)

Page 360-361

“In the professional dreams that especially obsessed me when I worked on my earliest fiction, and pleaded abjectly with a very frail muse (“kneeling and wringing my hands” like the dusty-trousered Marmlad before his Marmlady in Dickens), I might see for example that I was correcting galley proofs but that somehow (the great “somehow” of dreams) the book had already come out, had come out literally, being proffered to me by a human hand from the wastepaper basket in its perfect, and dreadfully imperfect, stage—with a typo on every page, such as the snide “bitterly” instead of ‘butterfly” and the meaningless “nuclear” instead of “unclear.” Or I would be hurrying to a reading I had to give—would feel exasperated by the sight of the traffic and people blocking the way, and then realize with sudden relief that all I had to do was strike out the phrase “crowded street” in my manuscript. What I might designate as “skyscape” (not “skyscrape,” as two-thirds of the class will probably take it down) dreams belongs to a subdivision of my vocational visions or perhaps may represent a preface to them, for it was in my early pubescence that hardly a night would pass without some old or recent waketime impression’s establishing a soft deep link with my still-muted genius (for we are “van,” rhyming with and indeed signifying “one” in marina’s double-you-less deep-voweled Russian pronunciation). The presence, or promise, of art in that kind of dream would come in the image of an overcast sky with a manifold lining of cloud, showing artistic signs of clearing, and presently the glow of a pale sun grew through the leaner layer only to be recowled by the scud, for I was not yet ready.”




Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: pugetopolis on April 04, 2008, 05:12:32 PM
Ada

Page 361

Then Nabokov moves into another kind of dreaming called “dim-doom” dreaming. Everybody has these kinds of dreams—waking up and finding ourselves uneasy about them or not remembering them still feeling the uneasiness of what we may have forgotten. This can work both ways though—waking up feeling good but not remembering why or what we dreamed about making us feel that way…

“Allied to the professional and vocational dreams are “dim-doom” visions: fatidic-sign nightmares, thalamic calamities, menacing riddles. Not infrequently the menace is well concealed, and the innocent incident will turn out to possess, if jotted down and looked up later, the kind of precognitive flavor that Dunne has explained by the action of “reverse memory”; but for the moment I am not going to enlarge upon the uncanny element particular to dreams—beyond observing that some law of logic should fix the number of coincidences, in a given domain, after which they cease to be coincidences, and form, instead, the living organism of a new truth (“Tell me,” says Osberg’s little gitana to the Moors, El Motela and Ramera, “what is the precise minimum of hairs on a body that allows on to call it ‘hair’?”).




Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: pugetopolis on April 04, 2008, 05:26:27 PM
Ada

Page 361

Then Nabokov discusses his Lolita-esque dreams—continuing it seems from his Humbert-Humbert days rambling around in his stationwagon taking notes on index cards for his famous Lolita novel. Do Russian writers dream differently than American writers?   ;D ;D ;D

“Between the dim-doom and the poignantly sensual I would place “melts” of erotic tenderness and heart-rending enchantment, chance frolements of anonymous girls at vague parties, half-smiles of appeal or submission—forerunners of echoes of the agonizing dreams of regret when series of receding Adas faded away in silent reproach; and tears, even hotter than those I would shed in waking life, shook and scaled poor Van, and were remembered at odd moments for days and days.

Van’s sexual dreams are embarrassing to describe in a family chronicle that the very young may perhaps read after a very old man’s death. Two samples, more or less euphemistically worded, should suffice. In an intricate arrangement of thematic recollections and automatic phantasmata, Aqua impersonating Marina or Marina made-up to look like Aqua, arrives to inform Van, joyfully, that Ada has just delivered a girl-child whom he is about to know carnally on a hard garden bench while under a nearby pine, his father, or his dress-coated mother, is trying to make a transatlantic call for an ambulance to be sent from Vence at once.”




Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: pugetopolis on April 04, 2008, 05:41:19 PM
Ada

Pages 361-362

“Another dream, recurring in its basic, unmentionable form, since 18888 and well into this century…”

But at this point I think I’ll shift over to Ada Online and save time typing by simply cut-and-pasting from the Internet…

Here is the complete Chapter 4 Part 2 of Ada—the rest of this chapter on dreams I've embolded for you, Hoffman.

http://www.ada.auckland.ac.nz/


What are dreams? A random sequence of scenes, trivial or
   tragic, viatic or static, fantastic or familiar, featuring more or
   less plausible events patched up with grotesque details, and re-
   casting dead people in new settings.
359.05    In reviewing the more or less memorable dreams I have had
   during the last nine decades I can classify them by subject matter
   into several categories among which two surpass the others
   in generic distinctiveness. There are the professional dreams and
   there are the erotic ones. In my twenties the first kind occurred
359.10   about as frequently as the second, and both had their intro-
   ductory counterparts, insomnias conditioned either by the over-
   flow of ten hours of vocational work or by the memory of
   Ardis that a thorn in my day had maddeningly revived. After
   work I battled against the might of the mind-set: the stream of
359.15   composition, the force of the phrase demanding to be formed
   could not be stopped for hours of darkness and discomfort, and
   when some result had been achieved, the current still hummed
   on and on behind the wall, even if I locked up my brain by an
   act of self-hypnosis (plain will, or pill, could no longer help)
359.20   within some other image or meditation—but not Ardis, not
[ 359 ]     
   Ada, for that would mean drowning in a cataract of worse
   wakefulness, with rage and regret, desire and despair sweeping
   me into an abyss where sheer physical extenuation stunned me
   at last with sleep.
360.05    In the professional dreams that especially obsessed me when
   I worked on my earliest fiction, and pleaded abjectly with a very
   frail muse ("kneeling and wringing my hands" like the dusty-
   trousered Marmlad before his Marmlady in Dickens), I might
   see for example that I was correcting galley proofs but that
360.10   somehow (the great "somehow" of dreams!) the book had al-
   ready come out, had come out literally, being proffered to me
   by a human hand from the wastepaper basket in its perfect,
   and dreadfully imperfect, stage—with a typo on every page,
   such as the snide "bitterly" instead of "butterfly" and the mean-
360.15   ingless "nuclear" instead of "unclear"' Or I would be hurrying
   to a reading I had to give—would feel exasperated by the sight
   of the traffic and people blocking my way, and then realize
   with sudden relief that all I had to do was to strike out the
   phrase "crowded street" in my manuscript. What I might
360.20   designate as "skyscape" (not "skyscrape," as two-thirds of the
   class will probably take it down) dreams belongs to a subdivi-
   sion of my vocational visions, or perhaps may represent a preface
   to them, for it was in my early pubescence that hardly a night
   would pass without some old or recent waketime impression's
360.25   establishing a soft deep link with my still-muted genius (for we
   are "van," rhyming with and indeed signifying "one" in Marina's
   double-you-less deep-voweled Russian pronunciation). The
   presence, or promise, of art in that kind of dream would come
   in the image of an overcast sky with a manifold lining of cloud,
360.30   a motionless but hopeful white, a hopeless but gliding gray,
   showing artistic signs of clearing, and presently the glow of a
   pale sun grew through the leaner layer only to be recowled by
   the scud, for I was not yet ready.
[ 360 ]   
    Allied to the professional and vocational dreams are "dim-
   doom" visions: fatidic-sign nightmares, thalamic calamities, men-
   acing riddles. Not infrequently the menace is well concealed, and
   the innocent incident will turn out to possess, if jotted down
361.05   and looked up later, the kind of precognitive flavor that Dunne
   has explained by the action of "reverse memory"; but for the
   moment I am not going to enlarge upon the uncanny element
   particular to dreams—beyond observing that some law of logic
   should fix the number of coincidences, in a given domain, after
361.10   which they cease to be coincidences, and form, instead, the liv-
   ing organism of a new truth ("Tell me," says Osberg's little
   gitana to the Moors, El Motela and Ramera, "what is the precise
   minimum of hairs on a body that allows one to call it ‘hairy'?").
    Between the dim-doom and the poignantly sensual, I would
361.15   place "melts" of erotic tenderness and heart-rending enchant-
   ment, chance frôlements of anonymous girls at vague parties,
   half-smiles of appeal or submission—forerunners or echoes of
   the agonizing dreams of regret when series of receding Adas
   faded away in silent reproach; and tears, even hotter than those
361.20   I would shed in waking life, shook and scalded poor Van, and
   were remembered at odd moments for days and weeks.
    Van's sexual dreams are embarrassing to describe in a family
   chronicle that the very young may perhaps read after a very
   old man's death. Two samples, more or less euphemistically
361.25   worded, should suffice. In an intricate arrangement of thematic
   recollections and automatic phantasmata, Aqua impersonating
   Marina or Marina made-up to look like Aqua, arrives to inform
   Van, joyfully, that Ada has just been delivered of a girl-child
   whom he is about to know carnally on a hard garden bench
361.30   while under a nearby pine, his father, or his dress-coated
   mother, is trying to make a transatlantic call for an ambulance
   to be sent from Vence at once. Another dream, recurring in its
   basic, unmentionable form, since 1888 and well into this century,
[ 361 ]   
   contained an essentially triple and, in a way, tribadic, idea. Bad
   Ada and lewd Lucette had found a ripe, very ripe ear of Indian
   corn. Ada held it at both ends as if it were a mouth organ and
   now it was an organ, and she moved her parted lips along it,
362.05   varnishing its shaft, and while she was making it trill and moan,
   Lucette's mouth engulfed its extremity. The two sisters' avid
   lovely young faces were now close together, doleful and wistful
   in their slow, almost languid play, their tongues meeting in
   flicks of fire and curling back again, their tumbled hair, red-
362.10   bronze and black-bronze, delightfully commingling and their
   sleek hindquarters lifted high as they slaked their thirst in the
   pool of his blood.
    I have some notes here on the general character of dreams.
   One puzzling feature is the multitude of perfect strangers with
362.15   clear features, but never seen again, accompanying, meeting,
   welcoming me, pestering me with long tedious tales about other
   strangers—all this in localities familiar to me and in the midst of
   people, deceased or living, whom I knew well; or the curious
   tricks of an agent of Chronos—a very exact clock-time aware-
362.20   ness, with all the pangs (possibly full-bladder pangs in disguise)
   of not getting somewhere in time, and with that clock hand
   before me, numerically meaningful, mechanically plausible, but
   combined—and that is the curious part—with an extremely
   hazy, hardly existing passing-of-time feeling (this theme I will
362.25   also reserve for a later chapter). All dreams are affected by the
   experiences and impressions of the present as well as by memories
   of childhood; all reflect, in images or sensations, a draft, a light,
   a rich meal or a grave internal disorder. Perhaps the most typical
   trait of practically all dreams, unimportant or portentous—and
362.30   this despite the presence, in stretches or patches, of fairly
   logical (within special limits) cogitation and awareness (often
   absurd) of dream-past events—should be understood by my
   students as a dismal weakening of the intellectual faculties of
[362 ]   
   the dreamer, who is not really shocked to run into a long-dead
   friend. At his best the dreamer wears semi-opaque blinkers; at
   his worst he's an imbecile. The class (1891, 1892, 1893, 1894,
   et cetera) will carefully note (rustle of bluebooks) that, owing
363.05   to their very nature, to that mental mediocrity and bumble,
   dreams cannot yield any semblance of morality or symbol or
   allegory or Greek myth, unless, naturally, the dreamer is a
   Greek or a mythicist. Metamorphoses in dreams are as common
   as metaphors in poetry. A writer who likens, say, the fact of
363.10   imagination's weakening less rapidly than memory, to the lead
   of a pencil getting used up more slowly than its erasing end, is
   comparing two real, concrete, existing things. Do you want me
   to repeat that? (cries of "yes! yes!") Well, the pencil I'm
   holding is still conveniently long though it has served me a lot,
363.15   but its rubber cap is practically erased by the very action it
   has been performing too many times. My imagination is still
   strong and serviceable but my memory is getting shorter and
   shorter. I compare that real experience to the condition of this
   real commonplace object. Neither is a symbol of the other.
363.20   Similarly, when a teashop humorist says that a little conical
   titbit with a comical cherry on top resembles this or that (titters
   in the audience) he is turning a pink cake into a pink breast
   (tempestuous laughter) in a fraise-like frill or frilled phrase
   (silence). Both objects are real, they are not interchangeable,
363.25   not tokens of something else, say, of Walter Raleigh's decap-
   itated trunk still topped by the image of his wetnurse (one lone
   chuckle). Now the mistake—the lewd, ludicrous and vulgar
   mistake of the Signy-Mondieu analysts consists in their regard-
   ing a real object, a pompon, say, or a pumpkin (actually seen in
363.30   a dream by the patient) as a significant abstraction of the real
   object, as a bumpkin's bonbon or one-half of the bust if you see
   what I mean (scattered giggles). There can be no emblem or
   parable in a village idiot's hallucinations or in last night's dream
[363 ]   
   of any of us in this hall. In those random visions nothing—un-
   derscore "nothing" (grating sound of horizontal strokes)—can
   be construed as allowing itself to be deciphered by a witch doc-
   tor who can then cure a madman or give comfort to a killer by
364.05   laying the blame on a too fond, too fiendish or too indifferent
   parent—secret festerings that the foster quack feigns to heal by
   expensive confession fests (laughter and applause).


Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: pugetopolis on April 04, 2008, 05:54:13 PM
Ada

Page 362

“I have some notes here on the general character of dreams.
   One puzzling feature is the multitude of perfect strangers with
362.15   clear features, but never seen again, accompanying, meeting,
   welcoming me, pestering me with long tedious tales about other
   strangers—all this in localities familiar to me and in the midst of
   people, deceased or living, whom I knew well…”

I’ve had these kinds of dreams to—they’re totally maddening. There’ll be these total strangers who I seem to know better than most of my friends—and like with Nabokov they’ll tell me long tedious stories about this or that… all in familiar places or places that remind me of places I know or used to know… or places with art deco architecture bleeding from some future ‘30s time… long convoluted histories that I wake up from with enormous melancholy and regret… not being able to remember the dreams more thoroughly other than being haunted by a kind of dream déjà vu that makes me look around and think… how many dream overlays are there going on with this city I’m living in… how many multiple realities are intermeshing themselves… like some kind of Grand Central Station of intersecting memories and recollections?




Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: pugetopolis on April 04, 2008, 06:04:16 PM
Ada

Page 361

“…or the curious
   tricks of an agent of Chronos—a very exact clock-time aware-
362.20   ness, with all the pangs (possibly full-bladder pangs in disguise)
   of not getting somewhere in time, and with that clock hand
   before me, numerically meaningful, mechanically plausible, but
   combined—and that is the curious part—with an extremely
   hazy, hardly existing passing-of-time feeling (this theme I will
362.25   also reserve for a later chapter).”

I have this recurring dream of rushing around trying to get to the airport in time to catch a flight somewhere important but not really knowing in the dream where the flight is going. All I know in the dream is that I’ve got to pack all the books in my Library into a couple of suitcases…

Or that I’ve got to sort thru all my worldly possessions—throwing out this and that while keeping other stuff—and that this is all going on while the clock is ticking away and time is running out to catch the flight. Usually finally thankfully I end up missing the flight and avoid the whole trauma of packing all the shit impossibly into the luggage…

It’s the worst kind of anxiety dream—a writer packing up all his books for some flight to Nowhere…




Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: pugetopolis on April 04, 2008, 06:31:03 PM
Ada

Page 263

“Metamorphoses in dreams are as common
   as metaphors in poetry. A writer who likens, say, the fact of
363.10   imagination's weakening less rapidly than memory, to the lead
   of a pencil getting used up more slowly than its erasing end, is
   comparing two real, concrete, existing things. Do you want me
   to repeat that? (cries of "yes! yes!") Well, the pencil I'm
   holding is still conveniently long though it has served me a lot,
363.15   but its rubber cap is practically erased by the very action it
   has been performing too many times. My imagination is still
   strong and serviceable but my memory is getting shorter and
   shorter. I compare that real experience to the condition of this
   real commonplace object. Neither is a symbol of the other.”

I don’t know how many times I’ve found myself in the most intriguing and imaginative dreams—with my imagination extremely acute in the “now” moment… but with a memory that just doesn’t match my imagination. Nabokov mentions the pencil and eraser routine—but with me it’s usually losing all my clothes along the way… along with my billfold and my driver’s license and whole identity… I’ll be more than aware of myself in the “now” moment and know that I’ve lost track of my clothes and identity somehow… this in itself is very nerve-wracking… and then backtracking in the dream to where I might have left the stuff… or surveying the dreamscape for some hint of where I am… and sometimes even looping back again and again thru the weird cityscape… usually freeway loops they’re the worse.. never making the right turn and then having to torturously work my way back… only to take the same wrong exit…

So that imagination and memory are either mutually exclusive or incompatible—or there’s a heads-and-tails relationship between them that eludes me somehow… is it that the “now” moment in dreaming is so intense that memory bleeds and gets anemic compared with the magic realism of the Now? I know Borges and the Latin fabulists have written about this—for example the gardens of forking paths, the maddening mazes and the fear of mirrors with eternal regress when two mirrors face each other… For me dreams are surrealist… reminding me of movies like The Others, Solaris, The Innocents… While book-discussing Borges—some of us read a couple of Borges short-stories about the Other… Borges’ dream-other… and how he tested the Other by asking him in the dream for a coin or stamped letter or something like that to prove that the Other was actually him… in the future or in the past… I’ve had dreams like that but usually observing myself from the side or overhead and not really communicating… as if I were an omniscient observer hovering in the dream…




Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: pugetopolis on April 04, 2008, 06:59:48 PM
Ada

Pages 363-363

Now the mistake—the lewd, ludicrous and vulgar
   mistake of the Signy-Mondieu analysts consists in their regard-
   ing a real object, a pompon, say, or a pumpkin (actually seen in
363.30   a dream by the patient) as a significant abstraction of the real
   object, as a bumpkin's bonbon or one-half of the bust if you see
   what I mean (scattered giggles). There can be no emblem or
   parable in a village idiot's hallucinations or in last night's dream
[363 ]   
   of any of us in this hall.

This is where Nabokov gets into his anti-Freudian rant—but without taking one side or the other of Signy-Mondieu analysis, I’d like to bring up the dream-within-a-dream scenario that I’ve dreamed more than once. I’ll be in some Bijou Theater—sometimes familiar sometimes not—but I’ll be seated there with the audience and suddenly I’ll realize that I was actually living inside the movie… and that for some strange reason I became disenthralled from the filmic realism of the moment… only to find myself along with lots of other people in vast classic old Movie Palace like the ones in NYC, LA, Chicago and New Orleans… so that within the dream I’m aware of a previous dream-movie that had been so real that I was living it as if it were “reality” when apparently it was a “fabulation”… which sometimes in my dreams causes some angst on my part concerning the dream Movie Palace I find myself in—knowing the difference even tho the memory of the previous dream was just an illusion… but then that immediacy soon fades as well… sitting there if I gaze up at the screen and start falling into that movie playing up on the screen—you see what I mean?

So that contrary to Nabokov’s village idiot's hallucination, i.e. a bumpkin's bonbon—the cineaste hallucination of a movie within a movie might be some kind of representation off the unconscious like Borges’ mazes and gardens of a thousand forking paths… just as maddening and perplexing as Borges’ models that he uses in his novels, short stories and poetry… which makes me conclude like Borges did that reality in unknowable and too labyrinthine for at least my modest mind to figure out…

But even that is not a satisfying conclusion—with Nabokov’s dream of his Uncle Ruka predicting the future for his favorite nephew, Vladimir, telling / advising / letting him in on some choice things about what was to come… after leaving his nephew his rich fortune, two or three estates and aristocratic name… only to have the Revolution sweep it all away… only to have it returned to him thru the work of his imagination… and film contract about a young girl named Lolita…

And then Ada




Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: Lhoffman on April 04, 2008, 10:40:29 PM
Pugetopolis...I read the first three chapters of Ada in book.  Looked briefly at the on-line which suggested reading the book first so as not to spoil. 

I suspect some similarities to PF, the question of what is part of a narration by the characters and what is the author's narration of events.  There is also a reversal of the Shade/Kinbote connection that relates to Van as the child of two (twin) mothers. 

Speaking of dreams, Aqua and Marina (reference Pnin?) and the squirrels reminded me that last night I dreamed that I got up from my bed and looked out of the window into the pouring rain and discovered that several squirrels appeared to be holding a meeting around the bird feeder in my back yard.   And today I meet Mr. Nabokov yet again.


Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: pugetopolis on April 05, 2008, 09:39:07 AM
Pugetopolis...I read the first three chapters of Ada in book.  Looked briefly at the on-line which suggested reading the book first so as not to spoil. 

I suspect some similarities to PF, the question of what is part of a narration by the characters and what is the author's narration of events.  There is also a reversal of the Shade/Kinbote connection that relates to Van as the child of two (twin) mothers. 

Speaking of dreams, Aqua and Marina (reference Pnin?) and the squirrels reminded me that last night I dreamed that I got up from my bed and looked out of the window into the pouring rain and discovered that several squirrels appeared to be holding a meeting around the bird feeder in my back yard.   And today I meet Mr. Nabokov yet again.

Another coincidence—last night opening up Wood’s book on Nabokov to this passage on page 207:

“After the first contact, so light, so mute, between his soft lips and her softer sin had been established—high up in the dapple tree with only that stray ardilla daintily leavesdropping—nothing seemed changed in one sense, all was lost in another. Such contacts evolve their own texture; a tactile sensation is a blind spot; we touch in silhouette…”—Ada

And Wood's explication in the next paragraph:

‘Ardill’ is Spanish for squirrel, but also seems to be a little Ada, given a few extra letters and set loose in a pastoral animal kingdom. ‘leavesdropping’ is Nabokov’s invention: the squirrel is listening in on the lovers’ mute meeting, and dropping leaves, and perhaps dropping down through the leaves.

—Michael Wood, The Magician’s Doubts:
   Nabokov and the Risks of Fiction




Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: pugetopolis on April 05, 2008, 10:03:57 AM
(http://www.nybooks.com/images/levines/toibin_colm-20040715.2.gif)

Colm Toibin

Last night reading Colm Toibin’s review of Hart Crane: Complete Poems and Selected Letters entitled “A Great American Visionary,” The New York Review of Books, Volume 55, # 6, April 17, 2008…

http://www.nybooks.com/articles/21253

Enjoying the way he begins his essay with “There are certain single volumes of American poetry…”

Then moving through Hart Crane’s poetry and letters explaining how Crane’s life and work came together with The Bridge and ended with the Orizaba sailing out of Vera Cruz… telling the story about Crane’s life like he does with other NYRB reviews of writers like Tennessee Williams, William James, Alan Hollinghurst and Roger Casement…

http://www.nybooks.com/authors/7334

Then jotting down the following notes...




Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: pugetopolis on April 05, 2008, 10:07:13 AM
(http://graphics.nytimes.com/books/99/07/18/specials/crane.2.jpg)

At Hart Crane’s Tomb

“tangential slants,
inter-woven symbolisms”
—Hart Crane

Often beneath Gulf of Mexico waves—
I’ve heard the dice of my bones
Being thrown again and again on the
Murky ocean floor far down below…

The Orizaba left me here…
While an embassy of poets still
Listens to my obscured tangential
Slants & inter-woven words…

The bones of drowned me—
Washing up on Key West sandy
Beaches or along Miami art deco
Rotting decaying hotels…

This is all that’s left of me—
The poet that was once me
But now only a message in
An undelivered bottle…

I’m a mute dead mariner now—
My snake-eyes rattling dice…
The bones of dead men like me
Mean only mute things to you…



Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: pugetopolis on April 05, 2008, 10:12:43 AM
(http://graphics.nytimes.com/books/99/07/18/specials/crane.2.jpg)

Contriving Farther Tides

“Compass, quadrant
and sextant contrive 
No farther tides…”
—Hart Crane

Measuring the line—
The way enjambment works
And all the other things
That go into the tides…

But mariners like me—
We also invent & compute
An extended metaphor of
Embedded vividness …

I have my own compass—
The quadrant & sextant
That my gay imagination
Employs despite me…

Deeply embedded in—
The deliberate and exact…
Despite Yvor Winters &
The New York Times…




Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: pugetopolis on April 05, 2008, 10:17:30 AM
(http://graphics.nytimes.com/books/99/07/18/specials/crane.2.jpg)

Inventing an Idiom

“the beauty of experience—
rather than innocence...”
—Hart Crane

I wrote Allen Tate—
Let’s invent an idiom
Translating jazz into
Clean sparkling words…

Something beyond—
An insane jumble of
The 4 winds and 6 senses
And epic plumb pudding…

A dream language—
Like Dunne brooding
Musky sensual with an
Esoteric fragility…

I wrote Waldo Frank—
Each age has its own
Evocative quotidian…
Except for ours…

Amazing languages—
From ancient days…
How to make it new
Jazz roof garden night?

I wrote T. S. Eliot—
I need you & evade you…
Your Waste Land calm
Compared to mine…

Jean Verdenal drowned—
Like me returning home…
The Orizaba railing the
Bridge I jumped over…




Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: pugetopolis on April 05, 2008, 10:21:18 AM
(http://graphics.nytimes.com/books/99/07/18/specials/crane.2.jpg)

Shadows Under the Piers

“And of the curveship…”
—Hart Crane

Emil Opffer my lover—
Crossing Brooklyn Bridge
East River down below
Staten Island & the harbor…

Knowing the joy—
Of Whitmanesque love
And the companionship
Peter Doyle gave him…

110 Columbia Heights—
In bed with Emil sleeping…
The view out the window
New York City morning…

Living The Bridge—
Voyaging into it like
I did in the Isle of Pines…
Moving it forward…

Inventing idioms—
Like troughing waves…
Dusk to dawn creeping
Corridors of time…

Inventing Atlantis—
All over again with me
In the middle of fifty
Thousand years ago…

Antilles & West Indies—
The dreaming prairie sod…
It was all one American
Mythic curveship of time…




Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: Lhoffman on April 05, 2008, 11:28:12 AM
(short interruption...squirrels/ardill.  I think I first noticed the squirrel motif in N when reading Pnin.  There was the scene on the park bench where Pnin opens his eyes after collapsing from one of his "events."  The squirrel is sitting there watching with a sort of human intelligence.  And given Pnin's feeling about his fellow academics, perhaps he feels the squirrel is watching with greater than human intelligence.)



Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: Lhoffman on April 05, 2008, 11:49:39 AM
Oh yea...and I have seen that NYRB review by Toibin....so much better than the NYT review that appeared in January of this year.


Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: Lhoffman on April 05, 2008, 12:28:47 PM
The beginning of the NYRB essay....the overriding image for me in that first paragraph is The Bridge.  Toibin writes:  There are certain single volumes of American poetry, some of them first books or early books, which carry with them a special and spiritual power; they seem to arise from a mysterious impulse and to have been written from an enormous private or artistic need...." 

The Bridge....a spiritual meaning for New Yorkers, and its arising (creation) is almost mythic.

Imagine Crane looking out the window of 110 into chaos, battling to "absorb, acclimatize" (as he expresses it in his essay on Modern Poetry).  Imagine Crane writing in the rise of the machine and finally he succeeds in internalizing the chaos, incorporating it into his psyche as he has the sky, earth, sea.   He overcomes, accepts the outer chaos but it begins to reside in his heart, in his mind.  It resides innocently, but then it overwhelms until at last there is no answer but Orizaba and the short walk into the calm of blue.



Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: pugetopolis on April 05, 2008, 04:22:22 PM
(http://graphics.nytimes.com/books/99/07/18/specials/crane.2.jpg)

The Broken Tower

“O jealousy of space”
—Hart Crane, Unpublished Poems
& Fragments, Complete Poems and
Selected Letters, New York: The
Library of America, 2006, 136.

Spanish abbé night—
behind us growling mountains—
thunder over plains—

this old hacienda—
its tan patio balconies—
palmetto-green walls—

Vera Cruz villa—
living like a Romanoff—
my Fulbright money—

then the darkness—
crescent moon oozing down—
behind the temples—

Mexican gods yawn—
my Fulbright bores them—
I don’t feel at home—

beneath pyramids—
wreckage buried everywhere—
debris, ruins & edicts—

thrown down steep steps—
my throbbing heart torn out—
beneath cold plateau stars—

resigned to wonder—
hours stretch into centuries—
my face buried in time—

wreckage all around me—
grinning skulls, debris, old ruins—
my head impaled on a spike—

my throbbing gringo heart—
my bloody Ohio carcass—
thrown down steep steps—

iguana green eyes—
pale as Pernod in a glass—
staring down at me—

born tragically elegiac—
my midnight bruised eyeballs—
stunned by Mexican beauty—

serpent sweep of stars—
planets interlocking like gears—
stone wheels of time—

a windy stormy night—
incessant banging shutters —
trundle doors clamoring—

losing myself in Mexico—
beneath cold plateau stars—
these high altitudes—

tequila-ripe breathing—
Brooklyn Bridge far away—
110 Columbia Heights—

I’m unraveling myself—
ancient Aztec umbilical cord—
snaking back into time—




Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: pugetopolis on April 05, 2008, 04:44:38 PM
(http://graphics.nytimes.com/books/99/07/18/specials/crane.2.jpg)

Aztec apollo

“that night in Vera Cruz”
—Hart Crane, Unpublished Poems
& Fragments, Complete Poems and
Selected Letters, New York: The
Library of America, 2006, 141

shadows pass thru our world—
interludes between transits—
old Aztec gods young again—

young Aztec hustler—
sizing up the tourists—
their big fat asses—

cute Cisco Kid smile—
thin Mexican moustache—
his dark bedroom eyes—

Xochipilli guide—
armpits & fragrant orchids—
he knows I like him—

big black sombrero—
standing nude by the bed—
jade-green bedroom eyes—

boyish yet ancient—
Mexican serpent gargoyle—
snake alphabet words—

butch young Aztec stud—
young Quetzalcoatl goodlooks—
his thin Venus torso waist—

Olmec & Mayan—
Aztec jade turquoise eyes—
Vera Cruz hustler

his sacrificial love—
centuries in a moment—
foxy hare-lip quiver—

tender harshness—
face buried in the pillow—
his red volcanic lips—

cinching up his boots—
then uncinching them again—
getting back in bed—

always arriba andele —
slanting obdurate moons—
moody temple nights—

the old shutters banging—
monsoon rain pouring down—
his tight family jewels—

moonlit pyramids—
my unladylike smeared lips—
sleek oozing obelisks—

flat erect nostrils—
head full of blue-black hair—
banging the headboard—

Vera Cruz boyfriend—
exquisite Indian sculpture—
jade onyx jungle eyes—

windy stormy night—
incessant shutters banging—
lightning and thunder—

handsome young god—
calmly smoking a cheroot—
in our dark bedroom—

eyes closed calmly—
haughty young Cortez—
my tart Havana rose—

cold stormy night—
flint-sharp curves hard flat belly—
spurs on his boots—

Olmec & Mayan—
his Aztec jade turquoise mask—
beneath it a boy’s face—

his coruscated lips—
the strange palace flutes—
bridging two worlds—

tan patio balconies—
stunned by young male beauty—
young Mexican kid—

snake-alphabet lips—
Aztec serpent gargoyles—
spilling forth teenage rain—

the red volcanic earth—
under the pyramids—
tight black wiry pubes—

white murex shell teeth—
slanting obdurate eyebrows—
channeling the blood—

thin macho waist—
all of Mexico City waits—
Viva his Venus-torso—

Xochipilli kid—
sliding from his throne—
down into my arms—

foxy hair-lip smile—
my unladylike smeared lips—
tight family jewels—

lizard-green eyes—
green as Pernod in a glass—
the vestibule fountain—

his tequila-ripe lips—
sullen smile doing me in—
night of the iguana—




Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: pugetopolis on April 05, 2008, 06:28:46 PM
(http://graphics.nytimes.com/books/99/07/18/specials/crane.2.jpg)

Sapphic Modernism

“the need to think about
modern U.S. poetry in a
transatlantic context”
—Brian Reed, Hart Crane:
   After His Lights

Someday beneath some—
Hard Manhattan night sky
Darkening even deeper…

As you and Emil cross—
The Bridge hand in hand
Beneath the cables…

Sapphic Modernism—
Starring you as femme fatale
Triumphing over exile…

Miss Pound’s butchy—
Rather fascist androcentric
Modernist poetics…

Full of male desire—
Stoic impersonality and
Misogynist hate…

Fading away like—
Some cheap vaudeville
Burlesque drag show…

While Djuna Barnes—
H. D. Gertrude Stein and
Their ‘20s queer inflection…

Subverting the straights—
With their long-overdue
sexually transgressive art…

Sapphic Modernism—
Always coexisting alongside
Canonical modernism…




Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: pugetopolis on April 05, 2008, 07:27:43 PM
(http://graphics.nytimes.com/books/99/07/18/specials/crane.2.jpg)

From Fifth Avenue Up
—for Hart Crane

Someday we'll know you—
Dearest Hart for the woman
That you really were…

Retrieving you back—
Again from Orizaba deeps
All those fag fathoms…

Down beneath the sea—
Sinking your way downward
Strangled in seaweed lace…

No look of madness—
On your face other than
Just being bored with it all…

No more straining to touch—
Those languorous lanky young
Mexican sailor thighs…

The one that gave you—
Your embarrassing black eye
And sharp Babylonic cry…

We felt you coil in fear—
Leaning across the railing
While others jeered at you…

Pausing momentarily—
Urged by some bitter secret
Whispering in your ear.

We saw your arms—
Swimming hard then growing
Tired in the humid heat…

We saw your damp chemise—
Pulsing in the pea-green
Oozing Caribbean soup…

We saw you sagging down—
Into the dappled damp deeps
Some soft saliva on your lips…

Once we wouldn’t have—
Called you the Woman you are—
All the spleen you drew…

From your so-called—
Poet friends and colleagues
Like Miss Yvor Winters…

Dishing The Bridge—
With obvious homophobic
Canonical abhorrence…

How that clique hated you—
Allen Tate, Waldo Frank,
Burke, Munson, Pound…

Male Modernism—
With all its misogyny and
Reactionary hang-ups…

Plunging grandly falling—
You on the other hand such
Sapphic Modernist grace…




Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: pugetopolis on April 05, 2008, 08:05:32 PM
(http://graphics.nytimes.com/books/99/07/18/specials/crane.2.jpg)

Seen From The "L"
—for Hart Crane

She yawns in her apartment—
Standing nude adjusting two
Amber combs lolling in her hair…

A cigarette dangling loosely—
As she tosses a molested carpet
Down the dusty length of stairs...

She doesn’t see us go by—
She doesn’t care if we’re there
Seeing her bored every morning…

We’re usually always there—
The frail mosaic of her window
Facing starkly toward the “L”…

Streaked by shitty sparrows—
Cooing pigeons with their little
Rocking back & forth waddles…

It could just as well be—
Chicago, Paris, London, Berlin
The way bird-shit etches glass…

The window sill & fire escape—
Shirtless with a beer her husband
Cooling off from the summer heat…

Both are chain-smokers—
Her body past its prime and
Her husband with a beer-gut..

Slipping through the stitch—
Of time into crime I glance at
Them both vaguely in the heat…

They bloomed vividly once—
But now they’re just repulsive
Like some uncouth truth…




Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: pugetopolis on April 05, 2008, 09:30:38 PM
(http://graphics.nytimes.com/books/99/07/18/specials/crane.2.jpg)

From Third Avenue On

And now she wants an asp—
Says one slave-girl to the other
Cleopatra’s swan song jive…

But that’s a luxury, my dear—
As she walks down Third Avenue
Past the usual litter and drunks…

Rolling beneath dirty sheets—
Listening to her drunk husband
Snoring each and every night…

Within this city it doesn’t pay—
To kneel down and confess since
There’s so little conscience anyway…

Constant distress gets normal—
After awhile people settle down
And simply give up everything…

Day by day from bad to worse—
She looks up at the dirty ceiling
And he looks down at the floor…

The power of love slips away—
She tries to draw it back but
His snoring only gets louder…

She gets up she can’t sleep—
Sits smoking a cigarette glumly
In the dark with the chinaware…

With her hair in curlers—
She stares into vacant space
With an even more vacant face…

Nothing comes to take the place—
Of all that vacant darkness there
At the top of the stairs…

Long high terrible screams—
Mixed with prayers and someone
Swearing a loved bad word…

Somewhere a hurried curse—
A corpse lies tied-up in a hearse
As friends and relatives disperse…

Those living dead upstairs—
Surely they know New York City
Is the City of the Living Dead…

Surely they’re partial to Tombs—
Taking them back into their mother’s
Forsaken formaldehyde wombs…

Their children blooming in jars—
Staring with their little fetus eyes
At the stars & all the dinky cars…




Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: pugetopolis on April 05, 2008, 09:34:26 PM
(http://graphics.nytimes.com/books/99/07/18/specials/crane.2.jpg)

To a Burlesque Queen
—for Hart Crane

It takes more than—
A Thousand Days and Nights
To make a decent Scheherazade…

You’ve gotta get up there—
Even if you can’t sing or dance
And make them laugh & cry…

Even drunks have taste—
And know whether it’s really
A half-decent act or not…

It takes more than—
A wig and maybe a moo-moo
And a pair of big falsies…

You’ve gotta dance up there—
It doesn’t matter what it is
As long as there’s action…

Don’t look at their faces—
Just let their laughter happen
Along with your splendid grace…

Don’t let them look between—
Your hairy legs because they
Might not like what they see…

Let the lights go down—
And the liquor flow and let
Them see your beautiful face…

It’s a wondrous thing how—
A little lipstick and eye-shadow
Can go a long ways…

Some nice false eyelashes—
Even the most ratty old wig
Will get you groped sometimes…

My favorite routine is playing—
Claire Trevor that alcoholic nightclub
Singer in Key Largo (1948)…

Mean Johnny Rocco made me—
Sing “Moanin' Low" acapella just
For a single lousy drink…

You don’t really need to sing tho—
I lip-synched most of the time with
A microphone between my knees…

When you’re up there on stage—
In front of a bunch of stumbling
Lustful drunks that aren’t sweet…

That’s when a woman dies—
The jests that taint your heart and
Ruin your once gay disposition…

But that’s okay dearest sisters—
Drag queen hearts were meant to
Be broken just like broken dreams…

Once you’re past forty years—
It takes more than a thousand jibes
To make your soul song-less, baby…

You pay the price out on the street—
And if you get down on your knees
To pray it’ll just bag your nylons…

The Stage is better when it comes—
To killing a little time to sing your
Swan-song like Jimmy Durante…

 


Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: pugetopolis on April 05, 2008, 10:51:21 PM
(http://graphics.nytimes.com/books/99/07/18/specials/crane.2.jpg)

Twilight of the Illicit
—for William Logan

You there the ugly one—
The one with the blank stare
Calling yourself a critic…

Yeah you the cross-eyed one—
Who likes to drag your tacky
Fingernails across blackboards…

The esteemed bitch-queen—
Who likes to dish gay poets
Especially dead Hart Crane…

At least your wicked pen—
Hasn’t created a Literary
Movement quite yet…

But still you remind me—
Of Miss Yvor Winters and all
Those New Criticism queens…

Their Repulsive Modernism—
Spawning how many creeps
And ghastly illicit dynasties…

How many grad students—
Doomed to dismal lives in
Dismal English Departments?

All that tacky New Criticism—
Miss Eliot who’s either latent
Or blatant or in-between…

All sorts of Waste Lands—
Hushed or unsaid or kept in
The closet so many years…

Poor Pisa, my dear—
Can there be anything as
Sad as Miss Pound’s Cantos…

All the subtleties lost—
Like beer gone flat the
Tragedy of Male Modernism…

And oh how your sisters—
There in Academe before
You showed up panicked…

Screaming worst than Howl—
When Whitman was outed
And Miss Auden went fag…

To say nothing of Beatniks—
Like Miss Ginsberg and her
Love for Neil Cassady…

One could make a List—
Of gay poets you can dish
Now that you’ve done Crane…

So many Waste Lands—
So little time with all your
New York Times queasiness…

Dishing Hart Crane—
And all those sailors and
Seamen and the Fleet…

Which was his own business—
What if somebody critiqued
Your poetry that way?

What do you do, my dear—
In your bedroom at night
Are you Top or Bottom?

Are you gay or straight—
Perhaps you’re transsexual
Or maybe hermaphrodite?

Book reviewing based on—
How many sailors there are
When the Fleet comes in…

That kind of Reviewing—
Belongs in the genre
Of Closet Case Lit, honey...

Is that really the way—
Your Lit Crit should act or
Maybe you’re just jealous?




Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: madupont on April 05, 2008, 11:49:04 PM
The stanzas below make up the opening of "The Duplications", a poem of more than a hundred pages in which Koch tells the tale of Commander Papend, who built a replica of Venice in Peru, and other fantastical matters.





  From "The Duplications"
I

One night in Venice, near the Grand Canal,
A lovely girl was sitting by her stoop,
Sixteen years old, Elizabeth Gedall,
When, suddenly, a giant ice-cream scoop
Descended from the clouded blue corral
Of heaven and scooped her skyward with a loop-
The-loopy motion, which the gods of Venice
Saw, and, enraged, they left off cosmic tennis


And plotted their revenge. They thought some outer
Space denizen or monster had decided
To take this child, perhaps who cared about her
And wished to spare her heart a world divided,
Or else who wanted to hug, kiss, and clout her,
And, lust upwelling, the right time had bided,
Or something such—so thought, at least, the gods of
Her native city, famed for bees and matzoh.


Venice, Peru, of course, is where it happened,
A city modeled on the Italian one
Which was all paid for by Commander Papend,
A wealthy Yugoslav who liked his fun.
The Com had sexual urges large as Lapland
And was as set for action as a gun
In madman's hands who hates the world around him—
But Com was filled with love, his heart all pounding!


And so he'd made this North Italian jewel,
Canals and palaces on every side,
An urban re-creation, not renewal,
A daring lust's restatement of life's pride;
Huge bumboats carrying marble, masks, and fuel
Clogged South American streams, till Nature cried
"Some madman's building Venice in Peru!
Abomination beneath the sky's blue!"


In protest of his act, waves shook the earth:
Shock and resentment over this new Venice!
And Central South America gave birth
To hideous monstrous bees, so huge disfenes-
Tration would result when their great girth
Against some building window hurled its menace!
So, windowless new Venice had to be.
But there was one thing that could stop a bee


Of overwhelming size: a matzoh placard
Placed on the shoreside gilding of the house.
It must of course be large, huge as the Packard
Driven for Canada Dry by Mickey Mouse
Attempting to establish the world's record;
Minnie at his side, and Gabby Grouse,
A brand-new character who's been invented
Since Disney's death—they think he'd have consented.


Walt Disney dead! And Salvador Dalí lives!
Paul Éluard gone, and Aragon still alive!
How strange the breathing tickets that fate gives—
Bees dance to show, when entering the hive,
Which way best flowers are, but are like sieves
To death's mysterious force. Oh you who drive
The car, stop speeding; breathe a little longer.
Create, and make us gladder now and stronger!


As Papend did by carrying out his plan
"Venice in South America," an almost
Perfectly accurate copy. Yet one can
Discern things here and there I think would gall most
Other Venetians: bees and the whitish tan
Enormous matzoh placards which some tall ghost
Might use for palace walls. O strange piazzas
Of South America, deranged by matzohs!


How was it known, you ask me, that the busy
Bees would stop marauding if confronted
With matzoh placards? Well, it makes bees dizzy
To look at matzoh. If more details are wanted,
See Matzoh-Loving Bees by E. McTizzy
Where all's explained: the stinger's slightly stunted
Or blunted, I forget, by the bakery pleating
Of the matzoh, made in this case not for eating


But civil defense. So with this problem over
Com could proceed to build his city and bring
Into it thousands of young girls fresh as clover
And beautiful as an ancient Mexican ring
With jewels red as the hat of Smoky Stover,
And to these girls he offered everything
Our sad world can provide: drink, clothes, and money,
And, when he could, his love. Like some wild bunny


He made love over fifty times a day,
Never becoming sated, bored, or sleepy.
"It's just life's great experience," he'd say,
"That's all! Preferring other things seems creepy
When I can sweep into the disarray
Of limbs and golden hair, then plunge in deep. We
Live but once: let us not live in vain.
Sailors, come home! Here is life's bounding main!"


And, saying so, he'd lunge into some beauty
And, panting, pass a half an hour or so
Coming and crying "Ah, this is my duty!
Someone must make the human radar glow
Continually, or else the Cosmic Cutie
Will kill us! This I absolutely know!"
And so he'd theorize and love inceasingly
With pleasure growing in his soul increasingly.


   



Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: pugetopolis on April 06, 2008, 12:16:46 AM

The beginning of the NYRB essay....the overriding image for me in that first paragraph is The Bridge.  Toibin writes:  There are certain single volumes of American poetry, some of them first books or early books, which carry with them a special and spiritual power; they seem to arise from a mysterious impulse and to have been written from an enormous private or artistic need...." 

The Bridge....a spiritual meaning for New Yorkers, and its arising (creation) is almost mythic.


Yes, Hoffman—I’m very pleased with the Toibin NYRB review of the new Crane book. Finally a decent review by a gay writer of a gay poet. Toibin is an excellent writer—I’ve read his novel The Master based on the life of Henry James as well as his collection of essays on various gay writers Love in a Dark Time.

The earlier NYTimes review by William Logan was somewhat disappointing. Many writers have been critical of Logan’s approach—but then I’ve read his other reviews and basically what he does is zero in on a weak point and blow it up and get nasty about. It generates controversy, gets attention from the poets as well as the publishers and probably is a good thing for Poetry since nobody reads it much either more. The stats here show that readers are more interested in movies and politics—than Fiction or Poetry.

This series of Crane poems I posted is based on Brian Reed’s new book on Crane—Hart Crane: After His Lights (2006). Reed’s approach to Crane is like the Toibin book review but more detailed. Reed relates Crane to the Sapphic Modernists (Djuna Barnes, H. D. Gertrude Stein) rather than to the Modernist canon of the Pound Era (Allen Tate, Kenneth Burke, Waldo Frank, Yvor Winters etc). The point being that there were and are alternate Modernist streams of thought such as Hart Crane and the Sapphic Modernists going on, melding into postmodernist lit crit theory today

The last 4 or 5 Crane poems are based on Djuna Barnes’ The Book of Repulsive Women—a classic text opposing the Cantos etc.





Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: pugetopolis on April 06, 2008, 01:05:12 AM
(http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/thumb/9/9e/Djuna_Barnes_-_Villager.gif/435px-)

"Although there are undeniable differences between Barnes' and Crane's early poetry--most notably, Barnes's Swiftian-Sapphis scrutiny of female flesh, but also Crane's proclivity for syntactical slippage--one can nevertheless identify common thems an formal strategies... word inversions, warping conventional verse forms, at ease with strangeness and ugliness, non-Petrarchan love poems..." (Brian Reed, Hart Crane: After the Light, 2006)

Drawing by Djuna Barnes, originally published in the New York Morning Telegraph Sunday Magazine, accompanying her article "How the Villagers Amuse Themselves". The original story reads in part:

With manicure set in his hip pocket and his nails shining like a Venetian tumbler from much surreptitious buffing on his moist palm, the villager walks across the tiled floor of the cafe. From his shoulders hangs a long Mephistophelian cape; this he unclasps slowly with long, white, convalescent hands. The cape slips back -- ah, dear Lord, what have we done to receive so much beauty per flash! On his gaunt form is naught but a leopard skin, a little talcum, a string of beads, a garter of winking, seductive sapphires. A dawn of myrrh, a dusk of Hindu-colored grease-paint.




Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: madupont on April 06, 2008, 12:05:23 PM
Yes, that's what life in the Village was like in those days. Eccentrics making do with best they could.

Let me bring you up to date with a more recent New York.

To Psychoanalysis

I took the Lexington Avenue subway
To arrive at you in your glory days
Of the Nineteen Fifties when we believed
That you could solve any problem
And I had nothing but disdain
For "self-analysis" "group analysis" "Jungian analysis"
"Adlerian analysis" the Karen Horney kind
All—other than you, pure Freudian type—
Despicable and never to be mine!
I would lie down according to your
Dictates but not go to sleep.
I would free-associate. I would say whatever
Came into my head. Great
Troops of animals floated through
And certain characters like Picasso and Einstein
Whatever came into my head or my heart
Through reading or thinking or talking
Came forward once again in you. I took voyages
Down deep unconscious rivers, fell through fields,
Cleft rocks, went on through hurricanes and volcanoes.
Ruined cities were as nothing to me
In my fantastic advancing. I recovered epochs,
Gold of former ages that melted in my hands
And became toothpaste or hazy vanished citadels. I dreamed
Exclusively for you. I was told not to make important decisions.
This was perfect. I never wanted to. On the Har-Tru surface of my
   emotions
Your ideas sank in so I could play again.
But something was happening. You gave me an ideal
Of conversation—entirely about me
But including almost everything else in the world.
But this wasn't poetry it was something else.
After two years of spending time in you
Years in which I gave my best thoughts to you
And always felt you infiltrating and invigorating my feelings
Two years at five days a week, I had to give you up.
It wasn't my idea. "I think you are nearly through,"
Dr. Loewenstein said. "You seem much better." But, Light!
Comedy! Tragedy! Energy! Science! Balance! Breath!
I didn't want to leave you. I cried. I sat up.
I stood up. I lay back down. I sat. I said
But I still get sore throats and have hay fever
"And some day you are going to die. We can't cure everything."
Psychoanalysis! I stood up like someone covered with light
As with paint, and said Thank you. Thank you.
It was only one moment in a life, my leaving you.
But once I walked out, I could never think of anything seriously
For fifteen years without also thinking of you. Now what have we
   become?
You look the same, but now you are a past You.
That's fifties clothing you're wearing. You have some fifties ideas
Left—about sex, for example. What shall we do? Go walking?
We're liable to have a slightly frumpy look,
But probably no one will notice—another something I didn't know then.


   

Koch was the winner of the Bollingen Prize (1995) and the Bobbitt National Prize for Poetry (1996), a finalist for the Pulitzer Prize (1995) and the National Book Award (2000), and winner of the first annual Phi Beta Kappa Poetry Award (2001). He was named Chevalier dans l’Ordre des Arts et des Lettres by the French government in 1999. Kenneth Koch lived in New York City, where he taught at Columbia University.


Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: pugetopolis on April 06, 2008, 11:33:04 PM
(http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/thumb/9/9e/Djuna_Barnes_-_Villager.gif/180px-Djuna_Barnes_-_Villager.gif)
Satirical drawing of a dandyish Greenwich Village resident in
Barnes's 1916 article "How the Villagers Amuse Themselves".


Djuna Barnes

"A problem for Djuna Barnes was her tendency to rush to offend before she herself could be offended. The foreword T.S. Eliot wrote for ''Nightwood'' was, she thought, acceptable only because of Eliot's signature. She called him ''Uncle Tom,'' and they had once been very close, with Eliot gallantly calling her the world's greatest living genius, but in the end their relations were sometimes strained. One memoirist wrote that only in the company of Barnes did Eliot relax his acquired English manner and become American again. Eliot would sign letters to Barnes with salutations such as ''My love, whether you take it or not.'' In Eliot's office two photographs had particular pride of place, those of Groucho Marx and Djuna Barnes."

http://query.nytimes.com/gst/fullpage.html?res=990DE3DC1238F93AA35752C0A965948260&sec=&spon=&pagewanted=all