Saturday, May 27, 2017
Friday, May 26, 2017
"There's going to be a world
where the imagination is created
by joy not suffering,
a man and a woman
can love each other again
they can kiss and fuck again
(a woman's going to come along
and make this world for me
even though I'm not
M O R E !
M O R E !
Thursday, May 25, 2017
A poet and essayist who may be a finer essayist since
he has poetry in his essays, and essays in his poetry.
He's a remarkable toss-up.
To my mind, this is an ideal collection on the true ground
of contemporary poetry — with the intriguing portraits
of poets, and likewise the general life of Kleinzahler who
shares the days and nights and life of a poet.
Check out the subjects; Thom Gunn, James Schuyler's Letters,
Leonard Michaels (a poet in a fiction writer if there ever was one),
John Berryman, EE Cummings, Christopher Logue, James Merrill,
Kenneth Cox (the one and only), Roy Fisher, Lorine Niedecker,
Basil Bunting (are you catching your breath?), Christopher Middleton,
Louis Zukofsky, Richard Brautigan (a bit too nasty about RB), Allen
Ginsberg (with Peter Orlovsky barking against the door) Lucia Berlin
(more poetry in the fiction), and wonderful side road trips to Alaska,
old homestead Palisades New Jersey, AK's music gluttony
(a romp to read).
Don't even think to hesitate.
[ BA ]
Sallies, Romps, Portraits, and Send-offs
Wednesday, May 24, 2017
Tuesday, May 23, 2017
I close my eyes and all I see is rain
And bruised mouths lined above the silverware.
But rooms are empty as the country now:
The angels rise to Heaven splendidly
On page 289, but the evening still comes on.
Poorly cast in an eighth-rate Grand Guignol
Where every agonist proclaims his purity,
One's sight grows sharper in the glass:
The climate of murder hastens newer weeds.
And crippled neighbors wear divergent frowns
That no one saw before. — Nailed up in a box,
Nailed up in a pen, nailed up in a room
That once enclosed you amiably, you write,
"Finished. No More. The end," signing your name,
Frantic, but proud of penmanship. Beasts howl outside;
Authorities, however, keep the pavements clean.
Who steady rooms this earthquake rocks,
Graphing some future, indistinct, already frayed.
These rooms of ours are those that rock the worst.
Cold in the heart and colder in the brain,
We blink in darkened rooms toward exists that are gone.
The Collected Poems of Weldon Kees
edited by Donald Justice
"[The] narrator — hero. . .is Robinson Crusoe, utterly alone on Madison Avenue,
a stranger and afraid in the world of high-pain news weeklies, fashionable galleries,
jazz concerts, highbrow movies, sophisticated reviews — the world in which Weldon Kees
was eminently successful. Whenever he said, in these gripping poems, that it filled him with
absolute horror, he meant it. On July 18, 1955 his car was found on the approach to Golden
Gate Bridge. He has never been seen since."
— Kenneth Rexroth, New York Times Book Review
Monday, May 22, 2017
He’s Our Son
He’s our son
I’m very proud of him
he’s come out to work with me
in the woods, along the river
on an island damaged by flood
he’s been gone from home 7 years
been married & divorced
rebuilt his life, now a new girl
he’s also becoming overweight in
a little episode of life we can all make fun
of since he could slide it off in a matter of
weeks, he’s young! out of shape for
the work we are doing — lugging firewood
off this island, across bedrock, fording a creek
and then climbing up stone stairs of the river bank
to the road and dumping our loads countless times
into the back of the pickup truck
countless times, all morning, and it’s all over
his great young man face when he looks at me all
sweaty when we’re done and he exclaims “Jesus!”
Picking His Spots
There’s nothing like coming to bed
on a late summer rainy night
and my love is dead asleep with the rain
and the big male cat is
asleep on my side
All As One
We brought home the wood —
it’s a tradition older than these hills
we brought it from