Monday, March 2, 2015


Morris Graves, 1949
with his dog Edith Sitwell ("Sit well")
photograph: Mary Randlett

A handwritten letter to his brother Wallace Graves,
from Eureka, California, June 8, 1965:

"Walden Pond received. I'd read a few pages when I remembered that Margaret Callahan had sent me a copy when I first lived at The Rock. I was only able to read a few pages of it and laid it aside. There is something about wisdom that has never engaged me. Folly is funnier — and vice more fun. An awful confession to finally have to make.

I will read on in Walden though this time — but so far page after page of bon mots (though in marvelous English) gets me to saying, "Oh, blow it out your ass!" and I lay the book down and reach for another box of Cracker Jacks (they each have a prize in them, you know)."

Sunday, March 1, 2015



Wendell Berry  & John Haines
Portland Oregon 1982
photography by William Stafford

"What excites us is some sort of technological revolution: the

fossil fuel revolution, the automotive revolution, the assembly

line revolution, the antibiotic revolution, the sexual revolu-

tion, the computer revolution, the "green revolution," the

genomic revolution, and so on. But these revolutions — all

with something to sell that people or their government

"must" buy — are mere episodes of the one truly revolution-

ary revolution perhaps in the history of the human race: the

Industrial Revolution, which has proceeded from the begin-

ning with only two purposes: to replace human workers with

machines, and to market its products, regardless of their use-

fulness or their effects, at the highest possible profit — and so

to concentrate wealth into ever fewer hands."

Wendell Berry
page 10
Our Only World
ten essays




Arthur Rimbaud

Friday, February 27, 2015


A Cooking Book

  Lorine Niedecker

Longhouse 2015

72 pages, perfect bound, 5.5 x 6.25 inches
ISBN 978-1-929048-29-8 

This booklet was sent as a Christmas Gift from

Lorine Niedecker to Maude Hartel in December 1964.

It was in Gail Roub's possession as of August 1991.

In 1992 Lorine Niedecker's then Literary Executor Cid Corman

passed the manuscript over to Longhouse who published

A Cooking Book for the Winter Solstice of that same year.

For Winter Solstice 2014 Longhouse refurbished & reprinted

A Cooking Book in a brand new edition with the original edition

now out of print. These poems were not included in the

Lorine Niedecker: Collected Works (University of California)

 edited by Jenny Penberthy.

Longhouse is more than happy to keep this little gem available for

new & old readers.



U.S. addresses ~ order here through Paypal
shipping is free

International shipping: $10

Thursday, February 26, 2015

Wednesday, February 25, 2015


photo ~ Harry Redl
Philip Lamantia

I Touch You

I touch you with my eyes when you lie under spiders of silk
I touch you with my one hundred headed giraffes too secret to be seen
the rods & cones the morning covets awaken you
with my touch of tobacco eyes
and you rise from the snail's bed of tubular hair
I touch you with the breath of jet planes
and they are gone elsewhere to touch you too
I won't have you touched by sordid saints
I touch you with the hour that drips scent
snared from the chain of immaculate lice
who avenge themselves forever on the holy of holies
I touch you with the wind heaving the breasts of the morning
I touch you in the overcrowds
and they vanish
replaced by all the women who resemble you
and I touch them with the eyes of the sun
Annihilation of priests
I touch you on the threshold of the totem
carbon salt on the breath of the world
I touch you with my intricate rose superior to the fog
I touch you with heart strings of the veiled mountain
whose magnetic moment is the sight of us making love
I rend your skirt by the wind stolen from ancient castles
your legs secrete the essence of wheat
and your ankles brush the wing of crow
Your lips touch alchemic gold torn from the femur bone of poetry
whispering through archives of your smile
that beguiles the oracle who has a headache to change his legends
I touch your earlobe with the fatal elegance of the peacock lip
your convulsions gallop my heart of the rose hermetic and flushed by goats sighting prey
I touch your nipples
that touch heaven that is all of you touching me
the temple of your hips
the morning glory of your sex
the miracle of bedsheets and the sacrament of sweat
Rhythms of your thighs are the music of the spheres
You are more beautiful than the black buttocks of dawn
and all light has been given to veil you from the murderers of love
I touch your presence undressing the furniture
whose cries fill the distance between us
and you shall hear
when I touch you with telepathic tendrils
for then I'll come into you the light of the walking dream

-   -   -

You wait you wail
Across the silences
That are a struggle in the world
Obstacles said to be conjunctions of Saturn and the Moon
Objects — telephones — are taboo
Taboo the sky curled into leaden pillars
Taboo the river of racing horses
The sun spits on my fingers
Your little finger completes a sentence
Solitude is a flame of sleep
Jungles fold me in passionate bird omens
Where are you
The page is turning against me like a wave of horses
I'm unsteady on this continent
That throws its chains around all of us
As if we weren't here
Orbiting like apples through galaxies of desire
Your countenance in the clock I map
And your hands brushing the hair invisible
Step by step we come closer
To the Thunderbird's retreat
And beauty cries from a lacerated heart

Philip Lamantia
The Collected Poems of Philp Lamantia
edited by Garret Caples
Andrew Koron
Nancy Joyce Peters
(University of California Press 2013) 

Tuesday, February 24, 2015



It’s late

I’ve been shoveling snow

the woods are dark deep done

and so what if I’m

done shoveling for the night

the snow is still falling

it's been falling for months

it will fall while we sleep

snow doesn’t sleep

it’s here and then it's gone

it isn't worried about your hardship

it will melt in good time

you will forget

about it all

by spring and

spring isn’t in a hurry either

you’re out of luck


Bob Arnold

White-breasted Nuthatch