ILLINOIS

CARL SANDBURG

How the Three Wild Babylonian Baboons Went Away in the Rain Eating Bread and Butter

One morning when Hatrack the Horse went away from his shanty, he put three umbrellas in the corner next to the front door.

His pointing finger pointed at the three umbrellas as he said, "If the three wild Babylonian Baboons come sneaking up to this Shanty and sneaking through the door and sneaking through the house, then all you three umbrellas open up like it was raining, jump straight at the baboons and fasten your handles in their hands. Then, all three of you stay open as if it was raining—and hold those handles in the hands of the baboons and never let go till I come."

Hatrack the Horse went away. The three umbrellas stood in the corner next to the front door. And when the umbrellas listened they could hear the three wild Babylonian Baboons sneaking up to the shanty. Soon the baboons, all hairy all over, bangs down their foreheads, came sneaking through the door. Just as they were sneaking through the door they took off their hats to show they were getting ready to sneak through the house.

Then the three umbrellas in the corner opened up as if it was raining; they jumped straight at the three wild Babylonian Baboons; and they fastened their handles tight in the hands of the baboons and wouldn't let go.

So there were the three wild Babylonian Baboons, each with a hat in his left hand, and an open umbrella in his right hand.

When Hatrack the Horse came home he came, quiet. He opened the front door, quiet. Then he looked around inside the house, quiet.

In the corner where he had stood the three umbrellas, he saw the three wild Babylonian Baboons on the floor, sleeping, with umbrellas over their faces.

"The umbrellas were so big they couldn't get through the door," sat Hatrack the Horse. For a long time he stood looking at the bangs hanging down the foreheads of the baboons while they were sleeping. He took a comb and combed the bangs down the foreheads of the baboons. He went to the cupboard and spread bread and butter. He took the hats out of the left hands of the baboons and put the hats on their heads. He put a piece of bread and butter in the hand of each baboon.

After that he snipped each one across the nose with his finger (snippety-snip! just like that). They opened their eyes and stood up. Then he loosened the umbrella handles from their right hands and led them to the door.

They all looked out. It was raining. "Now you can go," he told the baboons. And they all walked out of the front door, and they seemed to be snickering and hiding the snickers.

The last he saw of them they were walking away in the rain eating bread and butter. And they took off their hats so the rain ran down and slid off on the bangs of their foreheads.

Hatrack the Horse turned to the umbrellas and said, "We know how to make a surprise party when we get a visit from the Babylonian Baboons with their bangs falling down their foreheads—don't we?"

That is what happened, as Hatrack the Horse told it to the night policeman in the Village of Cream Puffs.



from Rootabaga Stories, illustrated by Maud and Miska Petersham

When not writing his biography of Lincoln, or his poems to the People, to Chicago, to the workers and the ways of the Great Plains, or playing his guitar, or welcoming the likes of a pilgrimage by Bob Dylan, Carl Sandburg wrote terrific lively fully all-sense/nonsense stories for children and the young at heart. He's little read these days compared to his grand years, and is often even ridiculed and laughed at. Imagine that.

EDWARD DORN

The Rick of Green Wood


In the woodyard were green and dry
woods fanning out, behind
----------------------------------------a valley below
a pleasure for the eye to go.

Woodpile by the buzzsaw. I heard
the woodsman down in the thicket. I don't
want a rick of green wood, I told him
I want cherry or alder or something strong
and thin, or thick if dry, but I don't
want the green wood, my wife could die

Her back is slender
and the wood I get must not
bend her too much through the day.

Aye, the wood is some green
and some dry, the cherry thin of bark
cut in July.

My name is Burlingame
said the woodcutter.
My name is Dorn, I said.
I buzz on Friday if the weather cools
said Burlingame, enough of names.

-------Out of the thicket my daughter was walking
singing—

------------backtracking the horse hoof
-------gone in earlier this morning, the woodcutter's horse
-------pulling the alder, the fir, the hemlock
-------above the valley
---------------------------------in the november

air, in the world, that was getting colder
as we stood there in the woodyard talking
pleasantly, of the green wood and the dry.

If there's one poem allowed to remember Ed Dorn by, this is my choice. And this one was recently sent to me by one of his closest friends. It was no coincidence we were both thinking of the same poem in November.

JAMES KOLLER






~


A river I couldn’t find
flows through my head.

You are standing
below the cottonwood tree
on the river’s bank.

I listen to the wind
move the tree’s leaves.

Your long dark hair
wraps around you.

I can’t see your face.

All Illinois boys have a steady eye and it often ripraps through their poems. James Koller and Coyote's Journal has long been associated with Longhouse. We're always happy to share Jim's work.

TOM CLARK







What Is That Bright Star Next to the Moon Tonight?


Out late and looking again to the hazed red urban evening sky for a sign
What is that bright star next to the moon tonight?
Asking myself this among other questions of fleeting consequence
I watched Jupiter the great fluid king of the night
With his rude belching gases and submissive fluctuating moons

His swashbuckling bright streaks flaunted like sans culottes
Boiling firestorm spots and magnetic auroras
Cozying up, it seemed, to the chaste and shying
Waxing gibbous Lady Luna — seeming so close,
Though in reality far more distant and intense,

With nothing of her ethereal luminous
Silent running beauty, her unearthly milky violet glow —
Challenging her brightness perhaps
Though hardly her pulchritude —
Until my view grew occluded under the constellated neons

Of the Pyramid Ale House



Long known to California, Tom Clark was referred to Charles Olson by Ed Dorn as a "Chicago buster." Tom says that was a downstate sodbuster's way of referring to a Chicago boy. Longhouse recently published Tom Clark's Single and here is a piece from that. Much more of Tom's world may be found from his blog: Tom Clark: Beyond the Pale

It won't waste your time.

AUSTIN SMITH





Instructions For How To Put an Old Horse Down


This is what you need to do:
wait for one of those mornings
that seems as if it will never come,
and when it comes, wait for evening.

While waiting for evening,
do as little as possible,
and don’t visit the horse:
you’ll only lose heart.
Remind yourself that she
is suffering and that
her time has come.

One thing you can do
is find a length of rope
hanging in the shape
of a racetrack in the barn:
you won’t need it
but it’s a good thing to find.

If you have kids, tell them
what’s going to happen
sometime in the afternoon.
They’ll understand.
If you wait and tell them
afterwards what you’ve done,
they’ll never forgive you.

Finally, in that hour when
you usually visit her,
walk into the field with oats
in your pockets.

Let her eat them
out of your hand
until they’re gone,
then lead her in.

Then lead her in.

Austin Smith was born and raised on a family farm in Illinois. The son of the poet Daniel Smith, Austin has had two publications issued from Longhouse: Wheat & Distance and Instructions for How to Put An Old Horse Down. The family have recently moved their good work and farm chores to rural Wisconsin.

photo Ed Dorn: courtesy The Poetry Project Photo Archive
photo James Koller: courtesy NEW (Paris)
photo Tom Clark: copyright Gerard Malanga
photo Austin Smith: copyright Austin Smith

DOROTHEA TANNING

I stood before this painting today for a good 15 minutes after being stuck away in the woods all week. It's nice to visit a town. And to be allowed in free to see such a painting as Dorothea Tanning's To the Rescue. On the same floor with a Mark Rothko, a gruelling oil by Ivan Albright, and a small but enduring Rauschenberg exhibit holding up everything from the first floor. Dorothea Tanning has not had enough said about her, and she is nearly 100 years old. She has been waiting for us.


Here is another:






Like Carl Sandburg, Dorothea Tanning was born in Galesburg, Illinois.








In 1946 she became Max Ernst's fourth and last wife








Today she paints, has poems published in the New Yorker, and writes books like we may never see again

To the Rescue (1965 ), Dorothea Tanning, Hood Art Museum
Insomnies (1957), Dorothea Tanning
photo of Dorothea Tanning (1943), Robert Bruce
A Little Night Music (1946), Dorothea Tanning

WOOD

photo © susan arnold

TODAY I DROPPED SOME HIGH AND STANDING DEAD WHITE PINE TREES

Today I dropped some high and standing dead white pine trees. 75 feet tall. Sweetheart stood far away, but I wanted her to watch how beautifully they fell. So what the workmanship — it's the tree, the tree — the falling from grace. Dead and only to rot on the ground, though we will bust off the dry limbs for kindling. And if we were still tapping maple trees for making syrup, we'd grab all this deadwood for the hopper. After I dropped the trees the woods started to look cleaner and retrieve that old brown and green needle pine look of the healthier trees. Before I dropped the dead ones, Sweetheart said they reminded her of bears when she hikes through the woods and sees them. I have two more to drop but I'll save those for the next thrill day. They can kill you in a second with a widow maker or any damn thing since they're unpredictably tall and dead, so I have to be in the cutting mood. We also worked down on the river with the chain saw and wheelbarrow and scraped up a big load of dry apple wood we're burning right now. From river to woodstove. No middle man, except us, but we're part river and part wood.




THE CHERRIES



Great weather has kept me in the woods with both chain saws. A tall and gangly cherry went the other way, which was no surprise; it was nearly straight up without much of a lean. What I didn't like after I cut it loose was that it took down an equally tall cherry tree. One I would have liked to save...but inspecting the root system later, curious why it toppled, I could see it wasn't long to go. On ledge and probably a heavy wind would take it. Also 75 feet to the tippity-top. Now I have both trees lodged up, and the knocked over one is hung up in a group of trees...so the afternoon got longer. I get paid to drop trees exactly where I want them or the customer would like them, so this was something different. I didn't care where it fell. I just wanted it down safely. But not into the other tree. Mucho firewood is the result. Today I'll go back and make more cordwood lengths, stack logs and buck up the larger logs no one can handle without a tractor. It'll be fine stovewood. Too crotched-out to make any sound lumber. But this felling is just the stories other choppers have. The one that got away. The one that made sure if it was going to fall it was going to take a brother tree along with it. Sweetheart hiked out to the job after she heard all saw work was quieted down and reminded me, "You said it could fall either way." In a woodlot you want the tree down closest at hand (this one is), and you just want no one hurt. The earth is waiting for what drops, however it comes.



Bob Arnold says, know where you stand but don't ever think you know enough

photo © bob arnold

LULJETA LLESHANAKU









VERTICAL REALITIES



Waking is an obligation:
three generations open their eyes every morning
inside me.


The first is an old child — my father;
he always chooses his luck and clothes one size too small for him.


Next comes grandfather...In his day, the word "diagnosis" did not exist.
He simply died of misery six months after his wife.
No time was wasted. Above their corpses
rose a factory to make uniforms for dock workers.


And great=grandfather, if he ever existed,
I don't even know his name. Here my memory goes on hiatus
my peasant origins cut like the thick and yellow nails
of field workers.


Three shadows loom like a forest over me
telling me what to do
and what not to do.


You listened to me say "good morning"
bit it was either an elephant pounding on a piano
or the seams coming apart in my father's little jacket.


Indeed, my father, his father. and his father before that
are not trying to change anything
nor do they refuse to change anything; the soap of ephemerality
leaves them feeling fresh and clean.


They only wish to gently touch the world again
through me, the way latex gloves
lovingly touch the evidence
of a crime scene.


translated from the Albanian by Henry Israeli and Shpresa Oatipi

From the second book of poems in English by this Albanian native. To be published by New Directions in February 2010.

RAINER MARIA RILKE







POEMS FROM THE BOOK OF HOURS



Put out my eyes, and I can see you still;

slam my ears to, and I can hear you yet;

and without any feet can go to you;

and tongueless, I can conjure you at will.

Break off my arms, I shall take hold of you

and grasp you with my heart as with a hand;

arrest my heart, my brain will beat as true;

and if you set this brain of mine afire,

upon my blood I then will carry you.


translated by Babette Deutsch
from the original bilingual edition published by
New Directions in 1941, now with an introduction by
Ursula K. Le Guin — we haven't yet found quite the
perfect stocking-stuffer that beats this one.








PAAVO HAAVIKKO







from BIRTHPLACE


And yet, we must have a word with happiness,
Build the house to catch the sun's light,
Open our windows on the valley;
So, be seated under the tree and listen to it,
Exchange pleasantries, talk to it.


Give up all hating, see the fir growing, and the rose
How it flowers there, by the field,


Before the lake freezes over you hear the horsemen
On their way to the forest, before the mountains grow
----dark in Bohemia,
The Bohemia mountains, the Bohemian forests,
Deep down to the forests of the Balkan,
Deep down into Balkan dust
Where pine, fir and wallow rise out of the sand, a white
----bird perches
On the far side of the Danube, utters a pitiful cry.


translated from the Finnish by Anselm Hollo

I love these three poets of the heart and the home, be-it home wherever you may be at this very moment.

photograph of Luljeta Lleshanaku courtesy New Directions
photograph of Paavo Haavikko by Pekka Tynell

ENTOURAGE

Yesterday we were at a book sale in an old meeting house (center of a small town, wide doors, old creaking floors, maybe 1000 books) and brought home a few boxes of well chosen books. All at a modest cost and three hours of concentrated work — half of that time spent waiting for the event to start.


Outside it was raining, people were coming into a place lit by tall broad windows and almost every person was over 40 years of age. It was like a secret meeting place of older folk. The books like ancient texts. Everyone stationed to take the money for the books were over 70 years of age, at least. You could watch them work with poor eyesight and hearing. Adding numbers even took effort. They had had a life of raising children, growing vegetables, tending farm animals, adjusting to losses of loved ones and their own abilities. These were all people with no parents on earth any longer. Their clothes were practical and completely simple. They were supporting a cause that raised money for a library, and the library had cut back its hours over the years, because all its benefits from long ago were now gone to the greed of war capitalists and money grubbers.


The irony is that we were in a small New England town, one of the quaintest, and all the buildings in the vicinity were required to be painted almost a cleansed pure white. The very wealthy have visited this town for its splendid foliage and simple ways that can be predicted and schedules made by its enduring clock. The limousines have been seen, but nowhere in this crowd. Even the big drafty whale-like building we were in like Pinocchio was bold and white and the bright windows were the size of rowboats. I had looked the building over while I waited to get inside for the books, and it had gone a little shabby from what the original settlers would have maintained.


These are the times, tough times when you think of what has been lost. As I watched the elders come in for books, shedding rain gear and old hats, I seemed to be in a private counsel celebration with my own kind. My young son was nowhere to be seen and none of his friends or anyone his age. I've seen them buying books elsewhere, but not this morning out of the rain, a chilly early hour of the day, finding something very good to read before the fire as winter approaches, understanding loss and maybe even vitality, and that feeling of a friend.

The book sale was indoors and a smart move. The bake sale went on as planned — a half dozen hardy women, with a tableware of goodies for sale, out in the rain.

photo © bob arnold

BOB ARNOLD








DREAMERS



To reach down at knee height

And bring your hands up under

Her dress and rise without

Hesitation or any resistance

Is naked








KINDNESS



No one spoke to her much, how strange —

Not family or friends and even those who

Sat with us at meals couldn’t say a word to her

Or even look her way. That must be beauty.

But every time she went to town and was alone —

A pretty scarf, an intriguing handbag, forever

And ever elderly women in parking lots and

Aisles of stores sought her out. This daughter

Whose own mother wouldn’t speak to her

Had women without daughters

Eating seed from her hand.








A HAPPENING



A year, at least, since I’ve

Had the chance to talk

To any neighbor


From afar I see one hike

The muddy road in bright

Pants and dull winter coat


For some reason she turns around

So I lift my arm and wave

And she waves

photo © susan arnold

DAWN



To live by a woods river

Forever is to finally

Forget it



& to remember

It again

Is something







NO OTHER



After she was sick awhile

She became thinner

Still young enough and strong

Her moves sexy

I couldn’t keep my hands off her hips

The attention delighted her

She blushed instead of being too confident

Her hair fell to pieces like always

When she looked up my sky was blue

At night she fell asleep by the wood fire

There never would be another woman

Rain at the windows for days was welcome

In times of trouble no one wanted to listen to this stuff










ONE WORD



Finally a blue sky day

And you do the wash!

Then you go and hang everything

Out on the line, a place reached

Through two feet of snow, rotten

Ice and a pathway I shoveled



Colorful wash all day

Blowing in the wind



At dusk you go pick

Dry clothes off a rope —

For a moment your billowy

Red skirt, violet sweater,

Bright long hair blowing

In the same breeze



I come to help as

You hold one garment up to

Your face breathing in the

Fresh wash and all you

Say with a smile is

“Woodsmoke”

photo © bob arnold

AWASH



That night it rained through the woods —

The moon was gone after days

& days of brilliant light



Love a world

You can’t

Control

BOB ARNOLD








IN THE LAND OF SLUSH



They have been together and in love so long now

That when they think of an earlier life apart, it

Isn’t possible. Or it seems another life entirely.

After all it was childhood only before they met.

Somewhere within the love a child was born,

Came into his own, left. They returned to what

They had before the child was born as if wooded

Branches closed in together like wings of a large bird.

When he told her she was beautiful during a quiet

Meal, it was as if she had never heard the word before

Even though he brought it to her in every imaginable

Way each day. Walking together in a land of slush at

The end of winter in a bleak town meant very little

When there is beauty. It could vanish in an instant

So don’t be bothered with those who hate you for it.

In that same instance others would grab it, gladly, and

You would be looking in. She carried a heavy package,

The rain was new spring but cold as snow, you held

The umbrella for her as you both walked, & talked.

The true poet dreams being awake. He is not possessed by his subject, but has dominion over it. In the groves of Eden he walks familiar as in his native paths. He ascends the empyrean heaven, and is not intoxicated. He treads the burning marl without dismay; he wins his flight without self-loss through realms of chaos "and old night"...

CHARLES LAMB

photo © bob arnold

BOB ARNOLD










FLOATING WORLD



It was a dreamy time for you and me
The weather said so


The pair of windows that opened like shutters
The easy turn of the latch


Through the opening light dazzled
Something like your hair


Many years married I loved you like
A young girl from behind


A small bird with flashing orange wings
Sang from a tree that grew to our window


In this hut we built with our own hands
Some would call it a fairytale


These days pass by as light becomes darkness
There is next to nothing to show for it

photo © bob arnold

Good Morning Tom & Angelica

You should have been with us this morning in the kitchen as we brought in the one surviving feral kitten from the batch of squatters yesterday. Lo and behold she was caught inside the stone hut for the last four days! finding a perch in one sunshine window and looking out. We had been hearing meowing and went to look, search this sound out. Nothing. Finally the kitten showed itself in the window and she was scrawny and we brought her inside. Last night fed her, inched closer, a little milk with wet meat with tender talk. Furry Lewis was playing at suppertime as the first cut of the evening so Furry became its name for the moment. She made it through the night. Fed again this morning. Now louder meows and coming a little closer and closer and louder meows. As I was preparing more food Sweetheart jumped and exclaimed from the kitchen window by the fridge "Come and look". Three feet from the window, regale, eyes like no other was mother cat. She's never come this close, certainly not in a pose, beautiful example of standing one's ground. Through the house walls she had heard the meows and she came a-callin'. I'll never forget the look. I once tracked a bobcat to its den with Carson on my back in a knapsack and a foot of fresh snow on snowshoes and while I was looking and looking through the brush and knowing the small rock caves were ahead of me, on my back, at my right ear, Carson said with a smile to his word "Kitty". Say what? Dead ahead and no more than 6 feet away, was the bobcat looking out. It could have had me as prey since I was in adoring standstill.

Now with winter creeping close we have to decide to give the kitten out to the mother (and she may die anyway), or keep her and feed her and restore her life.

An answer is in the wings

Bob Arnold says every minute gets closer

MAHMOUD DARWISH









HE WHO WAITED FOR NO ONE



He waited for no one. He felt no lack in existence.
Before him a river, ashen as his overcoat,
and sunlight filling his heart with awakening brightness
and the tall trees.


He felt no defect in the place. The wooden seat, his coffee,
the glass of water, the strangers;
everything in the cafe the same.


Nothing had changed. Even the newspapers
yesterday's news, and an old world floating as usual on the dead.
He felt no need for hope to amuse him
like the unknown growing green in the desert
or some wolf longing for a guitar.


He expected nothing, not even a surprise,
he could not cope with repetition.
I knew the end of the journey from the first step,
he says to himself,
I have not withdrawn from the world,
nor have I gotten closer to the world.


He waited for no one, and he felt no defect
in his senses. Autumn was still his royal host,
luring him with music that returned him
to a golden age of awakening,
to poetry rhyming with stars and space.


He waited for no one in front of the river


In the no-waiting, I become an in-law to the sparrow.
In the no-waiting, I become a river—he said—
I am not hard on myself.
I am not hard on anyone.


And I escape the serious question:
What do you want
What do you want?




translated by Mohammad Shaheen

democracynow.org

Known as the Palestinian national poet, Mahmoud Salem Darwish was born in 1941 in al-Birwah, a village in the city district of Western Galilee, in Palestine, to a farming family, and passed away during the summer of 2008 in Houston, Texas.

ARTS & CRAFTS

I figured you would be wondering where I was in the Clemente book you bought for me, so I told you. I would have read and looked through it all in a one night marathon of goodness, but I wanted to savor this one. Other art books could easily be visited for two hours or less and feel replenished. Dab the napkin on the lips, move on. But Clemente is a full course meal. I tried one more time reading the heavy book in bed and it wasn't as cold last night, and I found a way to adjust the turn of the pages with a rhythm between myself and the quilts. Isn't everything a negotiation? A rhythm? Even taking the stairs in your office between the 18th and 19th floors, or 18th to the 17th, and it all has a rhythm. So what if it is a mere one floor apart either way — neither way would be the same. Perhaps a different shade of paint to the walls, a little crumpled paper in one corner, even the scuff of the steps is different between floors. I can understand why you would take the stairs between one floor, but otherwise you wisely choose the elevator. With everyone else.


I want to think of you in that elevator. The finest elevator Sweetheart and I were ever in was a posh hotel in Los Angeles when we were just off four days on the cattle train from the east coast and we were picking up a rental car and it was at this hotel. Sunday morning, still a sleepy hour. We didn't need to take the glass elevator on the outside of the building gliding up and then back down, but how to resist? So we didn't. We rode. This gave Sweetheart a splendid view of the city where she was raised.

Bob Arnold used to like watching Roberto Clemente as a boy, but this isn’t about that great player, and he usually avoids elevators and takes the stairs.

image: Francesco Clemente, Map of What Is Effortless

BEI DAO









THE ROSE OF TIME


when the watchman falls asleep
you turn back with the storm
to grow old embracing is
the rose of time


when bird roads define the sky
you look behind at the sunset
to emerge in disappearance is
the rose of time


when the knife is bent in water
you cross the bridge stepping on flute-songs
to cry in the conspiracy is
the rose of time


when a pen draws the horizon
you're awakened by a gong from the East
to bloom in the echoes is
the rose of time


in the mirror there is always this moment
this moment leads to the door of rebirth
the door opens to the sea
the rose of time







THE ROSE OF TIME
New Directions, 2010
edited by Eliot Weinberger
translators include Weinberger, David Hinton & others

photo © bob arnold

THE COMFORT OF STRANGERS

Never a dull moment. Here's what I forgot to mention earlier.

How we were waiting to see what would win out today — the sunshine, or the new John Keats/Fanny Brawne film { Bright Star }. Everybody we know from the west coast to the east coast has been talking about this film, and we thought for sure we might be able to duck into a matinee, and then the day went gorgeous on us, perfect for sharing a fall apple, and we ended up for part of the afternoon instead of indoors with the film, sitting with one of those apples at a garden shutting down for the season. Ah, the sun. Ah, the vitamin D. No movie. Another sort of movie was about to happen.

And when we got home along the river we hopped onto the bicycles and just started riding, along the river, south. We didn't see anyone, though a few dogs barked, and there was a tractor pulled off the road and into a wood's edge and someone I thought I knew was tugging a cable off the winch of the tractor but he was too far off and his back was turned and we kept riding. Day still glorious.

Some miles later, and going past the state line, we returned the same way along the river. Nearing the tractor again I could see long before the tractor the worker through the brush and he wasn't working, in fact he appeared at a standstill, maybe waiting for something to happen, or maybe stymied. No sound of chain saw. Things didn't look right.

I know when things don't look right with a mammoth white pine, a taut cable line, and a worker all used up. Sure enough, his chain saw was pinched tight at the back cut of the pine stump. I could imagine that when I quickly parked my bike near the tractor and worked my way up through the brush and rock tangle to get to the guy. I'd been there myself. First thing I suggested was we get that chain saw apart from the pinched bar and chain and leave the bar behind in the stump momentarily and save the brains and expense of a chain saw. It's a grubby Husky, but still the guy told me it cost him $600 once upon a time. He was all for it. Even though the box cut was well done and the back cut was already deep enough to make us both nervous why the tree wasn't going anywhere, we still had to get on the ground an inch from the tree and noodle this saw free. I could see he'd been pounding all the wedges he brought with him (two) and then he got desperate and made some thicker wood wedges out of flimsy pine and all he had was a 16 ounce hammer to pound it all in with. It's never good. I got him to lighten up a little when I said it could be worse and we're doing this in 3 feet of snow. With a killer wind. Yes, it felt a little better.

Sweetheart stayed safely down on the road watching two crazies not quite thinking in their minds about anything except this tree had to come down. Can't leave it. No chain saw. The bar's under a tree with the weight of a house on it. Either that cable, which has been strung way too low — no purchase for leverage to convince the tree about anything — has got to be let-go and let the tree fall backwards, sideways, or however. It may just stand there. We've seen that. The guy's concerned about the landowner's few fruit trees. It's amazing how the finest details come into play with something big and ornery. The tree might go backwards and flatten any memory of those fruit trees, or else it may lean just 5 feet to the left and fall like a circus act right onto a large pile of pine tops and brush left over from an earlier big tree. Let's just loosen the cable and take a chance.

We loosen and the tree came right at us. It was quite a surprise. Either the taut cable was holding the tree up from falling correctly, or else the pine tree was locked up way high where no one but a bird could see how a top branch was lodged in with a neighborly tree. Anyway, it came. Sweetheart was running up the road! Me and the other wood's fool stood our ground, somehow already calculating it wouldn't get near us, or the tractor, and anyway I was seriously transfixed watching such beauty decline. I always am. A whole afternoon of sunshine rushing right in after it. In fact I could see the sunshine mellow the middle boughs as it was toppling and I was pretty sure I'd never see that again.

The guy's a big guy. When I slapped him twice on the back to feel-good, he felt like the rump of a pony. I've been in this river valley so long and I know this guy comes from a farming family I knew once as boys, but I can't remember which one he is. And he never said my name, or greeted Sweetheart. But when I turned for my bicycle he said, "Thanks. Thanks for the. . . comfort."

WHIT GRIFFIN, traveling photographer

Bob, Susan, Greetings from the Nantahal Forrest. Whit









Sent from my iPhone ( North Carolina, Nov. 1, 09 )

GIRL FROM THE NORTH COUNTRY

Ever since Johnny Cash passed away, his daughter Rosanne has been saying goodbye to him. One way of saying goodbye is never to say it — keep the song & life going. When Rosanne was a youngster she would hear these songs from her father's hands. Who was that? she asked. Came the name. Never heard of him (or her), over & over again. It frustrated her. So thoughtful Pa started to make a List of essential songs, 100 to be exact. Rosanne Cash kept this list, learned from this list, and now we can hear just how well she listened and deepened. We receive here a neat dozen songs from the essential list. Of course we want all 100, but be patient. We get Merle Haggard, Hedy West, Hank Snow and Harlan Howard 'a plenty, naturally A.P. Carter, and a version of Bob Dylan's "Girl From the North Country" that'll bring the cows home. Or tears to your eyes. Finally we hear singing from what could be the 'girl' herself. Desolate, searching, sonorous, telling.

SMITHEREENS



Best to be prudent with a computer virus
Macs are pretty immune to viruses
Not bullet-proof, but close

One doesn't want to start getting cocky
About viruses or one's machine
Any machine

Last night I watched a mega-ton monster truck
Hurdle itself after charging a ramp
And just about lift vertically in the air

All to smash a pumpkin grown over the last six months
(it grew 50 pounds a day)
Into smithereens

The pumpkin didn't stand a chance
It was something like 1600 pounds
Yes, a huge pumpkin maneuvered here and there by forklift

It was smashed with one downward thrust of Mr. Monster
But that wasn't enough
It never is

The truck went thrashing away
Always looking ridiculous with little body and all-wheels these things
Only to return to grind up the pumpkin more and more

The owner said each seed was worth $500
I've grown pumpkins and carved pumpkins out for Halloween —
There's lots of seeds!

Supposedly there's some magic genetics to these giant pumpkin seeds
I put down what I was reading, Wendell Berry's The Mad Farmer Poems
(no kidding)
To witness this gross exaggeration

I don't know why I haven't gone nuts yet



Bob Arnold says, or have I ?



image: http://westseattleblog.com/blog/?p=3896

MARIE PONSOT









ALONGSIDE THE POND



At the edge of vision

just short of sight

pond air shimmers pearly

unbroken ungated. Bright

mist engages me

silent unmediated.




When I turn

and look into it



I want birds.

Share a poem this morning from one of the skilled technicians, as she has been since her first book from City Lights True Minds, somewhat forgotten in the San Francisco publisher's legacy since Ponsot was and is no Beat, but she is thoroughly beatitude. Poetry of the fullest senses. This may be her most interesting book, published in her late eighties, and pushing pushing at the no-limit edges of the poem. Lyrical gems, tv program news, personal portraits, landscape art. The silence and small bigness of this poem alone had me in its aura. And aura is that instance when nothing else matters.

FILE FOR THE 22 PROSE PIECES



Dear Joj,

So it is you, and not Jewell, who is sending out the prose pieces. 22 to be exact. I like the title and it looks like everything came through okay, except for how the titles got separated from each body of text. Probably missed the 'enter' button as you maneuvered or broke the pages between each prose poem? I'll know best when I receive the hard copy, which will be the same as hard cider, or hard liquor. The real deal. The paperwork. Thanks for sending both, J. Never mind you having to prepare the ms., between one virus'd computer to a better mate's and completing the job. We keep saying to folks, like we owe stock in Apple, get a Mac get a Mac.

Like I mentioned before, I won't (but I will) get to reading until after Nov 5. or so. That initial date by you was put into my hard head and I won't be able to re-program any earlier. I read an essay yesterday on Ralph Nader where it was presumed much of his problem getting across with the new society we have is that he is too damn literal. He means what he says. As opposed to a million-billion out there who are white liars. The essay also dragged along and also presumed some of his other problems is that he has never had, seemingly, a sexual relationship with anyone or anything. No girlfriends, no wife, they can't dig up a hooker or even an under age intern or fawning school girl or boy fascinated by old greasy stories of General Motors, Corvairs or arcane environmental abuses.

No, I don't believe for a minute you are one of the white liars.

And perish the thought I am asexual.

Next week is consumed with doctor appointments once again, breaking in with a new dentist who I have heard is past thorough, tracking down snow tires, returning to 'Mad Men' (Midas, yes them!) because since I wrote that piece and our forceful letter of complaint to the corporate office, they have returned with a deal on a complete exhaust system that really can't be turned down. Do I now trust them? No. In fact I've just now at this early hour conjured up all sorts of scenarios where the one disgrunt foreman in there tosses in faulty pipe just so the system botches up by mid-winter. Payback is hell, and we limp back and ask, "So what's this?" Since August I have been rolling under the truck applying muffler cement to the catalytic-converter region with my fingers. The only tool. Quiet the beast.

I know you have no time for this lengthy letter, but I figure between Joj and Jewell it will be read.

We've been debating all week between us if we should head north this afternoon for a book sale in the town where Ken Burns lives. We've gone the past two years when it was simpler, Saturday morning, and no fee of admission. Suddenly it is at a cost of $10 each, in the evening, only for an hour and a half (Saturdays was spend the day with us) and it's all about the special occasion. This often comes with the special prices way over a literal person's head. It could be a bust that makes a rotten way to start off Halloween. It could force us, if the sale is zippo, to dress up and parade around in this faraway town with toddlers asking for candy. "Aren't you two too old?" will be the dominant question thrown at us. In fact it would be said in the tone that isn't at all a question.

This is a rather long letter of acceptance declaring your poetry manuscript has arrived and I will begin reading when I shut up.

You owe me a long letter one of these days which only begins to detail your shyest of secrets
all's well

photo © bob arnold

A BLACK TRUCK, BLACK BUG, AND THE BLONDE

I have read all of Thoreau’s Journals. I started at age 15 and have been through it now a few times. Last Fall I reread his rambles in Maine again, nice and woolly, but I think I’ll take another peek and see if Greenleaf H. Davis gets mentioned. Peter Garland just sent to me in a letter a notice from “Foundational Maine Fiddler” all about Davis. Thoreau tended to stay skimpy on many personal names, but not always. One goes to Maine with Thoreau just about in his sleeping blankets. You’re there. Sweetheart and I went deep into Baxter State Park in 1975, three moose just about clipped our black VW while jumping the road we were rounding our way on. That same car got us to Newfoundland and way up the rugged sea-swept western coast. Too bad the car was totaled in a freak Christmas morning accident on ice two months later. Almost into town (12 miles from here) and all in an ice-storm, taking it at 25 mph. is my guess, and coming around a corner there were two vehicles waiting for us stalled on slick ice. Both lanes boxed. I was driving and instead of trying a squeeze between either vehicle (even with the VW probably not) I stayed in our lane and aimed for the GMC 3/4 ton truck looking at us with the wide radiator panel. Hit it square. It turned out a mother and young son were inside, the mother pregnant. No problem to the truck, or mother, but our bug was gone, leaking gas everywhere from what got busted on impact. I shouted to the kid to run up to the corner and flag down anyone coming...turns out a buckaroo in a black pickup was storming our way. The kid did his job and the truck ended up going flyless off the road and down into the brook. Better there than into all of us. As I remember in the other lane, the couple were elderly and paralyzed. Stayed put. Naturally in 15 minutes the sand truck finally showed up and budged everyone free while we were stuck with a cop, and Christmas morning mind you, who refused to give us a lift back into town. Must of been my ZZ Top beard? We ended up hiking, for weeks later, the two miles up river to the village from our cabin, to catch rides with neighborly neighbors going-in.

photo © bob arnold

BIGGER THAN YOU



So many have lived like I do in the far off country
And no one knew them either —

Farmers, Woodchoppers, Spectacles, Poets
Frozen feet inside well built boots gone worn

Work hands in big gloves
Nostrils watering and pinched by the blunt morning

20 below zero
River barely with a sound

That’s the ice —
Climb down through the trees, always get closer, you’ll hear something

Poem after poem I write and it's the woman I love who reads them
By firelight, by window light, by her own light

Not many buy my books in bustle world
Don’t fret, don’t weep, write more!

I write enough poems to fill a small book just
Carrying the ash pan out to the snow paths

Spreading ash onto the ice so no one slips —
First rule of poetry: no rules, Be Considerate

All of this is done in a day world of sunshine
Or beneath a night world of oh-my-gosh stars

Could we possibly count them all?




Bob Arnold says : it’s all in the title

LONGHOUSE AUTHORS LIVE, WORK & PLAY OUTDOORS!







Below are new booklets NOW.

Visit ~ What's New at Longhouse Fall 2009

~


WATCH FOR
FORTHCOMING
NEW TITLES
BY

THOMAS MEYER, JOHN LEVY, ANDREW SCHELLING, TOM CLARK, BOB ARNOLD, AUSTIN SMITH, JONATHAN GREENE, THOMAS A CLARK, JANINE POMMY VEGA, GUY BIRCHARD, CID CORMAN

Bill Porter, The Great Kashgar Bus Convoy — a two booklet wrap of Bill's travels in China on the Silk Road, where he has also drawn from ancient poetry & texts translated as Red Pine.

"In the Fall of 1992 Finn Wilcox and I set out on the Silk Road from its eastern terminus in Sian/Xian. Four weeks later, we were sitting in the lobby of the Chini Bagh Hotel in Kashgar. We had traveled as far west in China as we could go and were waiting for word on how to proceed to our final destination, which was Islamabad. The Karakoram Highway was the only road there, and it had been closed by landslides more than a month. And there were no flights."







Gary Hotham, Sand Over Sand —Whether Maryland, Germany, Norway, small poems go with Gary — this single leaf foldout of a dozen new poems.




sunrise –

a moth that didn't get

out of the room



~



within hearing —

new leaves

a day older



~

which star

—

which star

further

Gerry Loose, Starworks — Gerry on his houseboat, wood's trail, or town walk blown this way from Scotland — double leaf catch of many many poems.





soft owl calls in dawn snow just

so & snow calling dawn owls in



~



the pond's interior has two herons

inside I swim slow air



~



leaves still on the tree wind mooching

as far as they're able I'm rooted here








Bob Arnold, My Sweetest Friend — A triple brochure wrap of 38 poems as one-long-poem tribute, concerning the sudden loss of an older sister who was once a close childhood friend.


HONOR

let me tell you one thing about suicide

if a loved one has the guts or the heartbreak
to pull this off, you better have the same to
say this is how it all ended

even if you argue with her or him in your mind
every day as you bake bread
rake leaves
drive to work
return library books
tie your shoes
walk a cross walk
mail a letter
split wood
and try to sing in the shower again









Jason Clark, Abandoned Kingdoms 1-6 — Jason's artist notebook of abandoned tree houses from the northern woods — six portraits on fold-out leaf with the artist's text, and one poem by Bob Arnold.

















Bob Arnold, On Which~Way Trail — love poems from the woods and the trail. 24 poems wrapped in a variation of handmade covers and endpapers.



THE GARDEN


I see her out a window the one I love
She sees me and smiles

Looks to me again and smiles

Really, she was leaning to look
At the start of spring lettuce



~



BEING HUMAN


Seeing this —
let me today

if only for a
few moments

twirl like
this autumn

leaf, midair
just like

that, with-
out a care


Visit ~ What's New at Longhouse Fall 2009

BACK ROAD CHALKIES OCTOBER 09

photo © longhouse

~

& Remembering Soupy Sales!

(1926-2009)

ABC OF READING

a.

Today in town a woman student from Bennington College in high leather boots and tight jeans approached me on the sidewalk as I pawed through $1 LPs in crates and asked if she could take my photograph. I had already noticed her from afar. I looked into her face and asked what the photographs were all about. She said she was on a school project, something about sidewalk life and people in Vermont towns. Bright eyes. A smile that worked well. Acne. I smiled and said, "Okay" and just kept on looking through the LPs. We were alone. Sunny sidewalk. People passing by and the slowed down midtown traffic. I heard her camera shutter work six times before she had enough and then she said, "Thank you", still smiling. I said, "Good luck."


b.

After town today, and all the errands, we came home to work in the woods. I hand split all the cherry tree that was waiting down in the woodlot. It's a huge pile. Spread through the sun. It'll be three truck loads to get it home on Wednesday. Now you know what will happen on Wednesday when Junior Pilot, our son’s puppy, is back again with us and the cherry wood comes home and gets stacked. We made this plan sitting on a stump taking a breather while we each ate an apple Sweetheart brought from the house in a bag with a bottle of cold water.


c.

Then came evening, after supper, Sweetheart fell asleep by the fire still dogged by the lyme disease and still making the most of every day. Sunshine in the face, hard at work daytime pushing it through, and I’ve got more stovewood to bring in for this fire. I tell myself this. The woodfire (a friend) always tells me this. Should I check into the Angels and the Yankees game, or Phillies? and I get to neither. Instead I look and read through the new and big beautiful book of Jim Marshall’s photographs with Janis blue sky on the cover. San Jose shot, 1968; a wonderful memory and in Marshall’s eye not gone at all, not gone at all. And when I’m done with the book the phone rings like a fire engine in the night within these small rooms of woodfire and lamplight. It’s Janine Vega to tell me her very good friend and her poetry a very good friend to me Lenore Kandel has passed away. Janine once went to Hawaii with Lenore, when they were both young. Flying into and with that blue sky San Jose day.

GOODBYE GOODBYE

LENORE KANDEL

POET


1932-2009



…the face of all the gods

and beautiful demons

WHAT IS OCTOBER










a


little


rain





a


little


shine







this is the sort of poem that has to be found at the right-time, otherwise there are millions out there and I could be one who sez aloud: what in the world does he think it's all about out here, we're hurting, we're broke, we've just been fired, the hospital visit sucked, the snow tires can't be found, the puppy made a mess on the floor, the day's going to the dogs and rain, and the donuts were stale and nothing hurts more than a stale donut Sunday morning, so get this itsy-bitsy stupid poem out of my face. And you dare it anyway.

“If it sounds like writing, rewrite it.”— Elmore Leonard

10 AM




in full sun —



catbird

phoebe

hummingbird
(between the two)



on the telephone wire

as still as






It is now October and Bob Arnold hears the catbird hanging around, the phoebe gone, and the hummingbird is memory

QUESTIONS THAT ANSWER




INDOORS



Is it raining out?

Are the leaves moving?






OUTDOORS



Is it raining out?

Are you wet?





Bob Arnold says be practical — don’t answer the phone before answering the door.









RETURN TO THE EARTH



When the one I love drives away in the morning
I blow her a kiss


When I see the oriole fly from apple tree to maple tree
I love the world


Impending rain clouds darkening the hillside to the east
— that’s morning!


I have a bathroom with a rotted floor and all facilities in place
Get down to work


I have a bathroom that used to be an outhouse
Built over an earthen floor


The house is 220 years old, what did you expect?
Return to the earth


Friends write to me this morning from all over the world
We have come this far


But it is now raining
The oriole has gone hidden


I think of friends
Standing on earth






Bob Arnold says — It don’t mean a thing / if it ain’t got that friend (swing)

JONATHAN GREENE





This is a calling-out to all to give a full embrace right now to our good friend Jonathan Greene — rushed this morning into a Kentucky hospital for brain surgery. This is the moment, we are its time.



Friday PM update: We hear from Dobree — Jonathan has come through surgery and is resting. Terrific news.



For further active information: http://www.caringbridge.org/visit/jonathangreene/journal

Bob and Susan Arnold

WORKING THE AUTUMNAL WOODS
Vermont

Here we are / here you are

setting up the villa of bucked stumps to hand-split, all rock maple






taking care of our son's puppy Junior Pilot, a kiss






a full tree split, stacked cairn, walk the ground






tools of the trade & helper





an apple a day....






in the bowl of sunshine





maple splits & a little beech added in



finis




all photographs by Bob Arnold except where he appears, then Susan Arnold took over. October woods c/o of Vermont. Planet Earth. No cellphones, no roads, tell time by the sky. Wood cut and split for winter 2011.

NO WAY OUT

I was with Sweetheart yesterday on the rounds between NH-VT hospitals and the battery of her tests. This is all a ragged trail continuation for a year and a half now fighting Lyme disease and one mysterious ailment followed by another that has come with the bugger. You'd rather not be a head-case, if you don't mind, but you are. I am, perhaps, more than Sweetheart as I try to protect her, get her to appointments, swim salmon up-river with the medical riff-raff. More tests tomorrow: a CAT scan. Next week the colonoscopy. The staff are all middle-aged women and devoted, the doctors are these things locked in their cells. They won't give an inch until they've supplied the insurance companies with a galaxy of costs and put the patient under the proverbial thumb. The new-fangled hospitals are all like cheap coated luxury motels. The elderly decked out on the mezzanine floor in box seats, piped in music of some sort, shit head carpet, junk art on all the walls. The whole contraption just breathing in and exhaling out two scummy words: heart and cancer. There's no evidence of real heart anywhere, just the flagging one. But like I say, the ton of pleasant professional women as receptionists and nurses etc are holding the whole place up. And probably back at home, too. They are truly a new salt of the earth quality all to themselves. There's a million ways into the place, wide glassy doors, but no way out.

(so get playful)

I went into another hospital two days later and gave three vials of blood. It should do me for the next 4-5 years or so, except for the prostate which I stay up on. Though I am reading more on the iffy of all prostate tests. I decided to do all the tests to be a good sport while Sweetheart is dragged into her own test after test — be a true companion during this miserable rut. The nurse on call was extremely pleasant. She saw the new Flannery O'Connor biography I had as traveler with me for all the waiting I would be doing that morning and asked immediately what I was reading. I put Flannery down on the bench nearby and pointed back at the book and said "Flannery O'Connor", the same way Columbus said "America". With pride. She said O I don't know her work, should I? I said you most definitely should, but later I realized as with Celine or Beckett even Flannery has to ride with a footnote: can you take artificial niggers and the violent who bear it away? If not, don't go reading. She then asked me why I would read such a book...was I a teacher or?...and the words stopped there and her eyes widened as she searched mine. The coast looked clear so I told her I was a writer. Being a very pleasant woman she said "Oh" and really meant it. She then asked if it was possible to find my books in the local libraries and I told her it would be and I drew a map on my palm just where the books were in the library, what shelf, last dusted and how long the books have sat there untouched. I told her there were a few libraries in the area with said books of this blood giver. I also offered that the fine book store on Main Street had my books. She didn't look ready for me to tell her the store also had Cid's selected poems and it's been there for two years. Untouched. Even after Sweetheart put it on display (taking down someone like Heaney who has had enough exposure). All the while this was going on the poor woman couldn't find my vein. Well she found it, but it kept "slipping away". She dug deeper and poked a bit harder. I saw her walk in at 9:30 and she took me in at 9:40 so I was her first patient and I was only sorry she had to get a slippery one so early in the day. She told me I would probably bruise and I smiled knowing she was going off at the end of the day to buy all my books and start her poetry library...what's a bruise?

Bob Arnold says, if you can muster it, go to a doctor with a song in your heart

JOHN LEVY

Rory Fingerlin Reading

Last night the American poet Rory Fingerlin read at Thompson Hall. This reading was co-sponsored by The English Department and The University’s Legalize Pot Now Association (LPNA). Fingerlin, author of the poetry volumes FINGERLIN IS FINGER-LICKING GOOD (1992) and KAFKA FOR DUMMIES AND OTHER INSTRUCTIONAL MANUALS (2002), read new poems from his work in progress, IF I PLACED MY IDEAS IN CARDBOARD BOXES AND DROPPED THE BOXES IN QUICKSAND WOULD THEY GO ANYWHERE DIFFERENT?

Fingerlin was introduced by Michael Butler Smith, who praised Fingerlin’s poetry for its “zany unpredictability” and its “extraordinary noise-scapes, possibly the most musical poetry written in English in the last decade.” Near the end of Smith’s lengthy introduction he read Fingerlin’s poem, “Hot Air Balloon Filled with Llamas and Ostriches Floats Above Pot-Smoking Tourists Visiting Mount Rushmore” in its entirety. Smith ended his introduction by singing a song he wrote about Fingerlin’s poetry, accompanying himself on banjo.

Fingerlin mounted the stage and surprised the audience by announcing that he is studying tap dance and wanted to perform a dance he had just finished creating a few days earlier. After what can only be called a stunning performance, with a number of brush steps and flea hops, Fingerlin informed us that what we had seen and heard was based on the meter of two of his favorite Shakespeare sonnets.

Fingerlin then read “A Dozen Written In Tiny Spaces Above Earth,” a suite of twelve poems that he wrote in air plane bathrooms this last month as he flew from campus to campus on his latest whirlwind reading tour. He said he set himself the following challenge: he would enter the bathroom and write furiously until the moment someone knocked and/or pounded on the door. Some of the poems end mid-word.

All twelve of these poems begin with self-portraits written as he looks at himself in the bathroom mirror. The poems proceed in wild and varied streams of consciousness, full of peculiar images and rhymes and insightful (frequently Freudian) reflections on his fellow passengers. After Fingerlin finished reading the twelfth poem of this suite, he received a standing ovation which lasted two minutes and 41 seconds. In an interview I conducted with Fingerlin after the reading (to be published in the university literary magazine later this year) he said this suite of poems has received standing ovations after every reading and noted that our ovation lasted 17 seconds longer than any other standing ovation he has received this year. His wife, who accompanies him on all of his reading tours, is his time-keeper. She times not only any standing ovations but all tap dance performances. In addition, she signals to him when he has been on stage for exactly 90 minutes, at which time he finishes whatever he is doing and asks the audience for questions.

During the Q and A session following the reading, one member of the audience asked Fingerlin if he had created any other original tap dances. Fingerlin revealed that he has also finished a brief dance based on Kafka’s “The Metamorphosis.” After the same member of the audience pleaded with Fingerlin to perform it, Fingerlin obliged. The dance began with a 27-second soft shoe then accelerated with a 19-second patter after which Fingerlin dropped to all fours and joined a rattle with his shoes to a slow melancholy riff employing both his ring-studded hands. He rolled onto his back, appearing very much like a beetle on its back waving its appendages uselessly. The standing ovation for this performance lasted one minute and 23 seconds.

After getting back to his feet, Fingerlin responded to questions about the nature of inspiration, the state of the economy, his series of 84 haiku about Tiger Woods, his recent editorial (published by The New York Times) about thematic trends in contemporary American poetry, and the differences between metrical concerns in poetry and in tap dancing. Next he graciously thanked the overflow audience and did a remarkably rapid front shuffle step all the way out to the lobby, where he signed copies of his books for the next 52 minutes.

We have already begun trying to raise money to have Fingerlin return to the campus next year. Any and all interested donors should call LPNA between midnight and 2 a.m. any night (Sundays included).

~

John Levy makes his bread & butter as a public defender coming to the aid of those down & out in the Tucson Arizona region. His books of poetry & prose include Among the Consonants (Elizabeth Press),We Don't Kill Snakes Where We Come From (Querencia) Oblivion, Tyrants, Crumbs (First Intensity) and The Nightest (Longhouse). A family man, John is married to the artist Leslie Buchanan and is right this minute working on his first novel.

JONATHAN GREENE

NEW CONTEXTS FOR OLD WORDS

VIRGIN BACKS LONDON MARATHON

VEDANTA COULD STILL MINE

RICH PROFIT SEAM IN INDIA

KARMA COMES STANDARD

Not the Virgin Mary, but Sit Richard Branson’s Virgin Money, part of the Virgin Group, sponsoring the race for a five-year deal worth £17m, Weekly Telegraph, May 21-May 27, 2008, p. 31

Not the Hindu scriptures such as the Upanishads but the mining company, Vedanta Resources,

Weekly Telegraph, May 21-May 27, 2008, p. 33

Not karma as in Hindu and Buddhist thought, but software that is included when you buy

a Kanguru Eco Drive, MacConnection Catalogue, v.294c

Jonathan Greene has long been the proprieter, typographer, designer, and chief bottle washer with Dobree Adams at Gnomon Press from the Kentucky River watershed. His many books have been found in the best poetry collections since the 1960s. His skill at harvesting just the found-words, as above, is a craft shared with his once Appalachian neighbor and friend Jonathan Williams.



and from the editor: In Memory today of Will Inman's passing

PURPLE JAPANESE IRIS

poem by bob arnold, art work by Jacqueline Laufman, photo © susan arnold

A sidewalk poem done right on the spot — one of Bob's poems as he read it and the musician and artist Jacqueline Laufman heard it and drew the poem onto the street. Just one of those heralded moments in an October once upon a time, when Dudley & Jacqueline came to town to read poetry and play music on the street with us that day to raise money for Katrina victims. Many years later and many are still waiting for recovery. The poem washed away by the rain. Where are we now?




PURPLE JAPANESE IRIS




Where you stand

They just about

Touch your lips




BOB ARNOLD

REMEMBERING MERCEDES SOSA

July 9, 1935 – October 4, 2009

photo © bob arnold

DAY OFF

Yesterday was wonderful after we left the hospital and dropped off one more of Sweetheart’s medical tests. Now the day was ours! We drove north to a college town and arrived at 9 a.m., just in time to freeze in a bakery that took all day to warm up. When we returned at 5 o’clock in the afternoon to find an evening sweet to share on the ride back home, the bakery was now too warm. Very Goldilocks. The town is the closest place we can think of to the film Pleasantville. It is all collegiate. There are no rough and ready folks anywhere, and if there are, they stand out. The streets are almost paved in gold. The Barnes & Noble was accepted by the town but it is not allowed to call itself Barnes & Noble; it remains The College Bookshop. Though it is not. The quality of books has gone downhill since it was The College Bookshop and all of the charm of old ivy league intellect and color has been misplaced by a bland Starbucks counter. What once smelled like books that Bennett Cerf once touched, now smells like Betty Crocker. Same initials, but.

All day we walked the streets, side neighborhoods, into the trees and sun-felt campus, nibbled foods, paged through a ton of new books — JG Ballard stories, photography by Eggleston whom I love, a Denis Johnson crime caper, Wendell Berry farming essays, and I scuttled through the new issue of Poetry (hit & miss) and Paris Review (pretty darn good). We then went back to the college campus and tracked down the exhibit room for Dr. Seuss, an alumnus. Nice room but really for that burst of Seussian energy, it's all bottled up. A friend recently told us the true outdoor world for Seuss is at the Springfield, Massachusetts museum quadrangle, a spot on earth jumping with Seuss characters. We’ll have to have a look. Believe it not, the shaggy Appalachian Trail plows right up through the main street, but it’s completely invisible, except when a starry-eyed wanderer is caught all bundled-up and booted on a street corner waiting for the light to change. In downtown Pleasantville. If you are ever in this town, and stuck, we can tell you where every free bathroom is.

A New England boy, Bob Arnold believes you love and fight to save the small town.

LAST MAN STANDING

photo © bob arnold

FARMER

A beautiful pickup truck with the fanciest side mirrors on both doors. It seemed like 3D. This is the truck the heavy set worker arrived in. The t-shirt was gray and molded over a barrel chest and double barrel gut. The arms the size of my thighs. Something happened along the years because he couldn’t hide the limp. He was coming to measure up a wood pellet furnace. I could tell he didn’t know all that much about the furnace except he burned pellets in his own wood pellet stove. He knew the pellets were shipped to the northeast from the Rockies, Pennsylvania and somewheres in Canada. Canada always gets a “somewheres”. It’s a big place. Since he didn’t know much about pellets, and his body was a steady workers, I asked him what he did before pellets. “Farmer.” One word sufficient. But said with the great tongue of a cow so it sounded like “Fah-mar”. I suddenly loved the word more than ever. He said he once had a farm called River Maple. And I said my wife and I for 35 years have passed the large barn sign for this place and always wondered why it wasn’t Maple River. “Well, which came first”, he asked me, “the river or the maple?” I said, “The river — it feeds the maples to grow.” He smiled at that, as if his grandfather who gave the farm this name once explained it to him this way when he was a boy. Yes, he suddenly looked boyish as we said goodbye when he left.

Bob Arnold likes the fact that every single word in this little yarn is true.