Monday, September 28, 2015

THE ANCHOR'S LONG CHAIN ~











Yves Bonnefoy
 
The Anchor’s Long Chain (Ales Stenar)
translated by Beverley Bie Brahic 

 
I

They say
Boats appear in the sky
And from some of them
The anchor’s long chain may rattle down,
Down towards our furtive land.
The anchor bobs over our fields and trees
Seeking a place to moor,
But soon a wish from above yanks it free; 
The ship of elsewhere has no use for here,
Its horizon lies in another dream.

It may however come to pass
That the anchor is heavy, unusually so,
And rakes the ground, rumpling the trees.
Someone saw it snag a church door,
Catch the arch where our hope fades,
And a sailor had to shinny down
The taut, jerking chain,
And free his heaven from our night.



Friday, September 25, 2015

FRANK O'HARA ~










Y E T   A N O T H E R   F A N





It's a great shame

Madame Mallarme

that to sad us your

hands seem swans

on tortoises drifting

elegant in the sea



While birds whine

at the sun we lay

our aching eyes in

your lap and an iron

balustrade holds

firm round our heart



Gently white planes

rove the horizon

as your wings beat

to earth and trample

our freckles into

coral and grass


 _________________

F R A N K   O' H A R A 


 






Wednesday, September 23, 2015

SLY ~







SLY

 


By truck we were
 

Heading home the same
 

Time we saw fox heading
 

Home by the side of the road
 

Muddy legs like quick
 

Moving boots he made
 

His way and I swear
 

We looked at him
 

And he looked at us
 

And the Earth was whole


_____________________ 

© Bob Arnold
The Woodcutter Talks
LONGHOUSE 2015



Monday, September 21, 2015

A LOVING GESTURE ~








Dear K —

This old nondrinker notices just how much drinking is in your letter from this gala event you attended. How our society depends on the drink to grease the gears, to get us through. To get everyone involved through. It’s the non-drinker, trust me, they have no idea what to do with.

 

Somewhere out there someone has a video of you on their cell phone doing “Chain, chain, chain, chain of fools” in a conga line.

 

It’s customary to think we are now all in the chain of fools since we are all drunk. Have to be. Unless we aren’t getting through.

 

My father would be uncomfortable with me, who wasn’t drinking, while he was drinking. Finally when he was loose and relaxed enough, he’d cozy up to Sweetheart and me and take out his forever shirt pocket notebook filled with lumber scribbles and house information, cabinets to order for a kitchen job he recently measured up for a young couple eager for their first home, and he’d write down just what it would cost to get us tickets for an Amtrak train trip since he had been listening to us prattle along about a long cross-country voyage and it sounded like fun. Into the notebook went all the information, which of course looked like nonsense to him when he sobered up. Sweetheart still remembers this sort of sad testimony about the man. Nothing ever came of it, not that we expected any, the guy was just relaxed and feeling happy.

 

A close friend felt more like himself when he finally got me to drink down two bottles of red wine with him the very last time he visited here. He didn't know all I wanted was to see him smile. I must have felt somewhere in the soul this could be a last visit, although I would have never predicted it. My friend, to us, would live many years longer. He brought the two bottles of wine (which he drank the most from), Breyers ice cream, and a jar of unsalted old man peanuts that he seemed to relish. A loving gesture.

 

The stout Jack Daniels bottle sits on our kitchen shelf not quite polished off after a very long winter and chilly spring, along a dreary episode with the flu. Neither of us wanted any of the whiskey. But the bottle label looks dignified like a Harley Davidson emblem. We tried the hot-toddys and got nowhere with them but sipped them down like medicine. Sweetheart only once. Me every night for a week. I’m not sure it cut a lick but I gave it a try for the first time. It all still tastes like gasoline to me, as does wine, very foreign, but nothing matches the stuff I used to swill down when I was with a Chinese foot doctor for a few years and the concoctions he insisted I swallow I’m sure were part bark, roots, dirt, animal droppings, insect wings and bat guano. Pretty pink pig ear grease. The squiggles of homemade calligraphy down into my gut.

 

What will be left of us when the world is pulverized?

 

What I like about this Mexican hole in the wall restaurant where we eat is the owner is a limping long haired native with a wolf grin and wide striped shirt and he moves with the deliberation of a wise animal. And he owns the place and he’s owned the place a long time and he’s made it work. Congratulate the man! He hires women all in Spanish tongue, a bit of Indian shade to each of them, fluent in their tricky language and half may smile at you. Just their pacific faces beat out the entire history of most of the white customers that wait for their take-out orders.  There is little to speak of from this white world except consuming, Facebook, cell-phone, money making, bill paying and a rent to meet. Where’s the beef? Where’s the trail? Where’s the music? It’s MP3 and throw away the vinyl, the field recordings, the personal heavy boxes of records, so many journeys. The real heft that instills a real memory. The stuff that makes you feel hurt in places and so you are alive.

 

I listened to Boz Scaggs during an interview, and there’s the Texan musician looking a bit wasted after decades of road life, making a music out of this young man heart of once upon a time and somewhere in his serious litany of remembrance he suddenly turns me on and I really hear and see and bear down with what he’s trying to get across. It’s almost like he has the partial heart of Hank Williams and Jimmie Rodgers sincerely deep down in his bones. It is true. I can hear the cadence and the calmness of the dust trail and animal ploving and how slow both the Red River and Rio Grande can flow. Only a true Texan. Like you, he says, he was raised in Oklahoma and Texas. I like these guys. Always have. He has a new and very popular album now out. Try to play it at your music store job. Put a Texas blues into the Texas hallways, trap it into the book catacombs, drizzle it down into the store cafe. Sexify the styrofoam.

 

I have a steel wall to build today. Happy days are here again.

 

all’s well, Bob



Saturday, September 19, 2015

MILLIONAIRES ~








MILLIONAIRES





What to say to
 

A Mexican gal
 

Working high off
 

In the mountains
 

With a quick greeting
 

For us to step out
 

Back and see what
 

They do — dyeing
 

Wool over a cast
 

Iron pinyon fire —
 

The dyes stir with
 

Wool skeins in two
 

Deep tubs boiling
 

Out of control as
 

Bare armed she works
 

Ingenious pulleys to
 

Lift out and bleed
 

Magnificent colors,
 

Nothing like we see
 

Anywhere else in old
 

Town until we look up
 

To the sky, and another
 

Worker drapes the dipped
 

Wool over makeshift
 

Drying racks, neither
 

Women bothering much
 

To wear their masks
 

For the wicked vapors,
 

Since out of nowhere
 

In the smolder of heat
 

Poisons and probable
 

Embarrassment she says
 

They are both
 

Going to win the
 

Lottery — fast white
 

Grins — “Yep, going
 

To win big-time
 

A million bucks”


________________ 

 © Bob Arnold




Thursday, September 17, 2015

ANECDOTAGE ~






B R O A D S T O N E    B O O K S


 







MAURICE SCULLY ~







Baint an Fheir


Poem: Plod. Poem: What's left of your bones.

There, see. Poem: 'Blunder follows blunder'

he wrote, (tapping the floor) beginning again to

take note, and grow up. Little incidents connect

to make a afbric where air meets in its heat cold

too to the lip tangible in its flow, woven through,

walled in. The verb: gathering. The verb: locate.

The verb: stop. Acumen, praise. White is the colour

of your true love's hair — Wood Angelica, Butterbur,

Purple Loosestrife — now. Yes. The verb: to see.

                 The verb: to know. This then.

                                      So. 

__________________________ 

Maurice Scully
Several Dances
Shearsman, UK, 2014

 


Even Maurice admits it's been years & years and it has been years & years since we have been in touch, but poet's have a secret weapon, are you listening? they have books no one wants to read that they can send as gifts, and they do, and we who receive many of these books must be thankful. Often they will be the best books you will read all year, and the worst. Be thankful. Someone is sharing. Sharing has disappeared if you haven't noticed. Sharing now means something on computer stupidity and that's not what I mean by sharing. Maurice has sent his most recent book from Shearsman, that fine fiddle of a press in the U.K. Maurice won't believe me, you won't believe me, but I had been recently wanting to read something new by Maurice. No doubt he read my mind. I opened his new book that he sent as a gift and came upon an opening word by Frank Samperi who really never did anything wrong with a poem. No failures.




Sunlight is
on things.






Wednesday, September 16, 2015

MULTITUDINOUS HEART ~





C A R L O S    D R U M M O N D    D E    A N D R A D E







M U L T I T U D I N O U S    H E A R T



It happened in Rio.

I was walking on the Avenida close to midnight.

Breasts were bouncing amid lights flashing countless stars.

The promise of the sea

and the jangle of streetcars

tempered the heat

that wafted in the wind

and the wind came from Minas Gerais.



My paralytic dreams the ennui of living

(life for me is the wish to die)

reduced me to a human barrel-organ remotely

in the shopping arcade of the Hotel Avenida sultry sultry

and since I knew no one, just the soft wind from Minas,

and didn't feel like drinking, I said: Let's end this.



But an excitement throbbed in the city its long buildings

cars with tops down zooming toward the sea

the sensuously roving heat

a thousand gifts of life for indifferent people,

and my heart beat violently, my useless eyes cried.



The sea was beating in my chest, no longer against the wharf.

The street ended, where did the trees go? the city is me

the city is me

I am the city

my love.



—————————————


Carlos Drummond de Andrade
MULTITUDINOUS HEART
Selected Poems
bilingual edition
translated by Richard Zenith 
Farrar, Straus and Giroux 2015 



Monday, September 14, 2015

THOSE WERE THE DAYS, MY FRIENDS ~





Bill Kasper, known as the Birdman, digging through the piles of his eclectic inventory at Rainbow Music on First Avenue in the East Village in New York City   
 Credit Richard Perry/The New York Times



nytimes



JOHN WIENERS ~





J O H N   W I E N E R S
W A L L A C E   B E R M A N
(photo)




Memories of You


Blown the fags in Central Park,
one after another, after midnight
in the snow; on park benches —
under the Japanese Pavilion.

Chased out of Bryant Park,
from behind the monument,
by a cop,with a big black buck.
I fingered his wedding ring
as I blew him. Fled to Boston

and the Esplanade where I was fucked
on the overpass by a student
while hundreds of cars raced by
below, unknowing of our ecstasy?

Returned to Bowery, where I found no one
except one man's hardon
in a doorway, facing the street

Thought of San Francisco, and Union Square,
nothing there and the park on top pf Nob Hill,
where I cruised all dawn until finally
a man came out and took me up the backstairs
of the Bachelor's Club and blew me in the bathroom,
I think, locked. In my self? and what use

of this, this purgation of senses. Back to Boston,
jerking off on trains, I gotta stop taking
that wheat germ oil; find a negro at poetry reading
and he fuck me in the "skyscraper" over Third Avenue.

Back to trees of Boston and Public Garden,
where I blew men all night long.
The stain is still on my face. How can I
face my brother, who first seduced me —
and my other brother, who I seduced —
and my mother and sister who prays for us all.

Now to Buffalo, where I do nothing —
but jerk off and think of Charles.
Bob Wilson blowing 78 men one weekend
on Fire Island where they serve an Olson martini.

Now back to New York and The Turkish Baths
which I find no fun, tho Frank O' Hara does,
and Allen Ginsberg sits in his white pajamas
and dreams of men as I do — and thinks of fame
at least used to but doesn't have to anymore,
as he is it. And I see what style this has degenerated into,

a vain pulling of my own prick and those of others.
When it was supposed to be a verbal blowjob of a poem.
And I have known women, too, laid beside them in the dawn —
but never balled them. Tho I want to.

Would some woman come up and give me enough of her flesh
so I could ball her and pretend she was a man,
For how else could I do it? For I have a woman's
mind in a man's body, and it would be lesbianism
otherwise, and it is a curse.

Unless some woman see and relieve me of this misery.



2



For I will go to Spoleto and blow them there,
travel back to San Francisco and blow them there,
"get fucked in the ass by saintly motorcyclists"
would it were so; cruise Boston streets again
with Billy Donahue, pretend it is all peaches and cream
while inwardly I scream and dream of the day
when I will be free
to marry
and breed more children
so I can seduce them
and they be seduced by
saintly motorcyclists in the dawn.


__________________

J O H N   W I E N E R S
Supplication
selected poems
edited by Joshua Beckman,  CA Conrad, Robert Dewhurst
W A V E   B O O K S

 http://www.wavepoetry.com/products/john-wieners

 

 

Friday, September 11, 2015

EDWARD THOMAS ~





E D W A R D    T H O M A S




Adlestrop

 
Yes. I remember Adlestrop—
The name, because one afternoon
Of heat the express-train drew up there
Unwontedly. It was late June.

The steam hissed. Someone cleared his throat.
No one left and no one came
On the bare platform. What I saw
Was Adlestrop—only the name

And willows, willow-herb, and grass,
And meadowsweet, and haycocks dry,
No whit less still and lonely fair
Than the high cloudlets in the sky.

And for that minute a blackbird sang
Close by, and round him, mistier,
Farther and farther, all the birds
Of Oxfordshire and Gloucestershire.






( Penguin Books )






Thursday, September 10, 2015

KAFKA — THE BLUE OCTAVO NOTEBOOKS ~


Edited by Max Brod
Translated by Ernst Kaiser, Eithne Wilkins
Exact Change
Franz Kafka
(3 July 1883 – 3 June 1924)



"The voices of the world becoming quieter and fewer."






young Franz Kafka



Before setting foot in the Holy of Holies you must take off your shoes,
yet not only your shoes, but everything; you must take off your traveling
garment and lay down your luggage; and under that you must shed your
nakedness and everything that is under the nakedness and everything that
hides beneath that, and then the core and the core and the core, then the
remainder and then the residue and then even the glimmer of the undying
fire. Only the fire itself us absorbed by the Holy of Holies and lets itself
be absorbed by it; neither can resist the other.

 

FK,  Prague


Two possibilities: making oneself infinitely small or being so. The second is perfection, that is to say, inactivity, the first is beginning, that is to say, action.

Towards the avoidance of a piece of verbal confusion: What is intended to be actively destroyed must first of all have been firmly grasped; what crumbles away crumbles away, but cannot be destroyed.




Franz Kafka with his fiancee Felice Bauer 1917


http://www.nybooks.com/articles/archives/2013/oct/24/different-kafka/




Wednesday, September 9, 2015

DEREK MAHON ~









Gipsies




for Nina Hutchinson


Once there was house and home

And books against the cold.

We are all gipsies now —

Pea-pickers, pickpockets,

Haters, procrastinators,

Wanderers in the salt dunes,

Tellers of strange fortunes,

Bathers in cold waters —

Sleeping, like John Clare,

With our feet to the pole star.






Canadian Pacific



From famine, pestilence and persecution

Those gaunt forefathers shipped abroad to find

Rough stone of heaven beyond the western ocean,

And staked their claim and pinned their faith.

Tonight their children whistle through the dark,

Frost chokes the windows. They will not have heard

The wild geese flying south over the lakes

While the lakes harden beyond grief and anger —

The eyes fanatical, rigid the soft necks,

The great wings sighting with a nameless hunger.







Recalling Aran



A dream of limestone in sea-light

Where gulls have placed their perfect prints.

Reflection in that final sky

Shames vision into simple sight —

Into pure sense, experience.

Four thousand miles away tonight,

Conceived beyond such innocence,

I clutch the memory still, and I

Have measured everything with it since.



———————————————

Derek Mahon
Night-Crossing
Oxford University Press 1968




The Paris Review: The Art of Poetry ~
http://www.theparisreview.org/interviews/732/the-art-of-poetry-no-82-derek-mahon