Saturday, November 30, 2013


Wooden Shjips
(pronounced "Ships" ~ San Francisco)

Erik "Ripley" Johnson
Dusty Jermier
Nash Whalen
Omar Ahsanuddin

selections compiled by bob arnold from the albums below


    (2007) Wooden Shjips (Holy Mountain)
    (2008) Vol. 1 (compilation of hard-to-find singles) (Holy Mountain)
    (2009) Dos (Holy Mountain)
    (2010) Vol. 2 (compilation of hard-to-find singles) (Holy Mountain)
    (2011) West (Thrill Jockey)
    (2013) Back to Land (Thrill Jockey)

Friday, November 29, 2013


Stone Hut is the revised and much expanded edition of Bob Arnold’s book On Stone — with twelve additional chapters added since the first book was published in 1988, including commentary about her reading of On Stone by homesteader Helen Nearing. The original photographs are here, now in color, plus a virtual photo album of job sites and stone structures built by Bob Arnold over forty years. It also remains a family book, with the birth of a granddaughter, furthering the telling.

Stone Hut


Doubled in size from its original edition published by Origin Press in 1988

Expanded chapters on stone work by Bob Arnold

With its original introduction by Cid Corman

160 photographs all in color

Limited to 100 copies in this first edition

plus $3.95 s/h to U.S. addresses

Order now with Paypal, US orders postpaid & International (with shipping)

Choose US order or International order


Longhouse Publishers & Booksellers
PO Box 2454

 West Brattleboro, Vermont 05303

Thursday, November 28, 2013


"Silver Stairs is the name of a fairytale falls which graces
the mountainside with liquid lace between Essex and Summit
on Montana U.S. 2 just south of Glacier National Park.
The "stairs" are tiers of black granite, and the water
tumbling down them is a springtime phenomenon, a
highwater treat for early season visitors."
photograph by Gene Bachteler


Deer Season

If I am a deer

No one will find me

I’m gone —

There are still places
No one man has been

I would turn the color of oak leaves
When I move into sunlight I am sunlight


As always I will hear the voices of
Hunters breaking through the woodlot


They sound lost
Look disfigured


I can standstill for as long as 
It takes for them to walk by


I’m invisible —


The deepness 
Of lakes


Bob Arnold

photo : peter miller


Bob stenciling stone sun room floor
November 2013


 photo © susan arnold

Wednesday, November 27, 2013


Having a father that ditched her mother, and Adele at age 2 (b. 1988), in U.K., much like Quentin Tarantino's beginnings (and neither have forgiven their fathers) there are millions of girls and young women and fellows who strut around with the songs, conduct, and images of these two jungling and comforting their minds. Adele has terrific range, self-taught by studying from The Spice Girls and Pink to Etta James and Ella Fitzgerald, she is also a graduate, as was Amy Winehouse, from The BRIT School for Performing Arts & Technology. This multi-platnium singer owns her place. Wait until her auto-didactic self discovers Nina Simone and Patsy Cline.

Adele by Susan Arnold on Grooveshark

selections compiled by bob arnold from the albums below



 19 (2008)
 21 (2011)


artist : Caleb Feakes

To Where I Walk

Memory, alone, warming
your shirt, white wind
through like pine, old snow
falling through split rails.

No Stoplights in This County

I grew up in a creaking house,
knew roads by their river names,

winter camped on the Cranberry
and the Little Flagg, they all led to Lake,

and married a man with a .45
and a trunk

full of rods.  Driftwood up from snow
lit itself.  The night wind held

to let ash rise straight from the heat
of wet popple sticks,

set space to see
the canine stomp,

wolves between trees
in an arc for us.

I'm nodding rod.

He's pacing the .45,

says it might be better
to take the frozen bay next turn.

This year I augured a place for him,
set him down

in these ashes.
Kneeling, and snow falling

as iced-over lilacs.

Though not the one I fished from.

Port Wing, Lake Superior

Wood floret, sour oak, turn of the screw set
in heart downed for board foot,
bar oil thinning

in blue smoke, our arms crossing our faces
from each air further into the lungs
as chain slips then slows into the lemon grain.

Hung-maple under ship bell wick
minnowing the light to fish sheller sulk,
trees tied under the height

of cap gill bower, four arms pushing north at the trunk
leaning south from the light row.  Straight
cut and a bevel follow,

blade slowed the day to all night,
to all mayflies
flawing the light

to all night in the black lines of the butterfly
on late Archean stones, to sacrifice, to husk
of the dead notch, to edge

of the blocked clouds
leaving the forest,
to heeled blade bound inside the trees toward otherwise,

to our four arms covered in a graceful silt,
to a beam we've based to till the sky into a kettle
of hepatica, opening to us sending up the red oak,
baby is a kicking in the bark, my body hulling out
in trees downing to a calyx at the root,
chain set to loosing wood stars from the lowest circling walls,

to take them home to Port Wing,
where May waves carried yellow tinder
from our clothes.  Lake, you let him hold me there

and this baby in my body grown, you bend us three
into a treble hook, caught in the white and tressing grass
and rising into clouds.

The Barrens

Apple tree, May, my son, a monarch wing-torn
color in the river, a robin under the feeder

is your soul again.  Hay clung to your lace
from the ploughman's thrash, it holds a straw

marked and burned to time the living.
The rubble stack rusts letters
from a cast iron door

as the barrens force the owl sounds
into clearings.

Apple tree, May, my son, a monarch wing-torn
color in the river.

A robin under the feeder is your soul again.

Stars like black shapes

of a song you hum,

nearby, a doe arcs her fawn.

North of 29

A little ditch vased now, bergamot,
gayfeather, with a few from the bed,
quick lift and a look under

the boat tarp, home and washing out
our shirts with the sleeves still up,
children on the floor

seeing how far a coin can roll.
Someone at the door?
Spiders backing further

into soffit,
red pine rising out the eaves
to point toward

water falling off.
Strangers on our porch
waiting it out.

You're telling a story
of your mother
and the long green path

she made on Madeline each year,
taking low-ground berries from the bay.

They talk of moving here someday.


Ran the groundstone
blade, trimmed

the cylinder star-tip

from the stick. 
Said the weight
is best measured

by the thin slice.
too much garlic,
find another butcher.

A book with the matter

splayed like a 52 against
the table.  Said the old

made it from

scent-measured handfuls

from bare silver cans.

Now running along
the outer rings of an old tin,

rubbed sage burred upward
to the hollow,

how much, Father,
do I lift?


As I low down across the schist
and iron ore caught in potential quarry
saw a spirit in a cut of water flowing out

from stones I didn't know, its breath
coming from the rock
through bluejoint fish and watershed
from a mineral trench water-scratched
like a running face I didn't know.

It perched upon an oystered stick,
a birch and visible weapon bent
by shovel hound, attendant to subaltern work,
balanced on that tree, saying,

So... do you think
I'm a good one or a bad one?
From above that cliff or below?

And low I dreamed
that if I slept
within an unmade pit of metallic height
uprising against a drilling heat,
I'd rest my head onto the marsh,

and the rice would flame like prayer wicks,
and all the mineral
that makes this spirit small,
less than a watered pulpwood lace
of child's scissor snow.

I'd walk the bottom of the mine,
still trapped beneath
Penokee quake, mumbling
like an idling stall,

How deep will you go to find me?


To where I walk now you are
holding a stone

beneath the surface of the water
the row moving over it

and under it, the light
your mirrors and ceilings

not divided by so many shadows.
I wanted the water to answer me.

I took its handfuls of sand
from under its waves

to hold something.
What moved in the masts living
is still alive,

seeds passed through the water

are still alive.
That baby out of me
is still, in the tide, they say

a lake suddenly lupine,

gone through a water,

the weight of a child
from one bed
to another.

To Siskiwit

Snow fluted along a County C,
like everywhere I went was with me,

the sky a sound missed in a see,
I tried to look into a snow

lost quickly to my heat.
Where fishline burned into a knot

to place a heart to snow collecting,
I stand you, sand on basalt,

water sticks, white clingstone drops
into the lake whitecapping

from cresting boughs
over brownstone cliffs, a quiet

snow strung branch harp falling
into a fragile water lift.

Snow is here like someone,
like someone turned each shape of it.

Midge Tempi

Love, but never beyond revision,
the sun need only save the phenomenal,
spinning the cloudless flakes    
like dust through the salt-made light

rosined by a church window
where you think of gnats slightly touching water
under the leaves are seeming to repeat themselves
among the cloudless snow

like once
a love sagacious,
atomically scattered, or else kept
silent, a harmed air sent rising in the cold clear is

stopped.  We wake, to a shared haze
we wake.  Your body wakes elsewhere,
wakes by conditions counterfactual,
sends in each our bodies a slow white limb

of clouds, to a world were it other,
a place you or slightly
kept where two wings are or were
hovering the pond,

this world will end when snowballs reach the sun.


from To Where I Walk
© 2013 Krista Feakes
Publishers & Booksellers
Green River, Vermont

cover art by Caleb Feakes

To Where I Walk

Monday, November 25, 2013


Roberto Bolano

Ernesto Cardenal and I

I was out walking, sweaty and with hair plastered

to my face

and then I saw Ernesto Cardenal approaching

from the opposite direction

and by way of greeting I said:

Father, in the Kingdom of Heaven

that is communism,

is there a place for homosexuals?

Yes, he said.

And for impenitent masturbators?

For sex slaves?

For sex fools?

For sadomasochists, for whores, for those obsessed

with enemas,

for those who can't take it anymore, those who really truly

can't take it anymore?

And Cardenal said yes.

And I rasied my eyes

and the clouds looked like

the pale pink smiles of cats

and the trees cross-stitched on the hill

(the hill we've got to climb)

shook their branches.

Savage trees, as if saying

some day, sooner rather than later, you'll have to come

into my rubbery arms, into my scraggly arms,

into my cold arms. A botanical frigidity

that'll stand your hair on end.


Roberto Bolano
The Unknown University
translated by Laura Healy
New Directions, 2013

Ernesto Cardenal

Sunday, November 24, 2013




    2007: The Tingly Circus
    2008: Someday We Will Levitate
    2008: Samples for Handsome Animals
    2009: The World Tour EP
    2010: Mammoth Swoon
    2012: head is swimming (bedroom recordings)
    2012: Fall 2012 Tour
    2013: Ripely Pine

Lady Lamb the Beekeeper
(Brunswick, Maine ~ now Brooklyn, NY)

Saturday, November 23, 2013



In the wood nest

photo © bob arnold

Friday, November 22, 2013


Robert Johnson's grave marker, Mt. Zion Baptist Church
Morgan City, Mississippi
photograph Tom Rankin, 1993


“Text is now a verb,” E.L. Doctrow said. “More radically, a search engine is not an engine. A platform is not a platform. A bookmark is not a bookmark because an e-book is not a book.”
“Reading a book is the essence of interactivity,” he added, “bringing sentences to life in the mind.” 

Thursday, November 21, 2013


(February 1942 ~ March 1944)

Forsythia blooming

sun shining

the mind of the ancient

Things are refreshingly cool

a chicken

and his face

A cicada hole

around there

the fragrant color of earth

So full of

white clouds

I catch a grasshopper

I have potatoes to eat

I see a bamboo grove

from where I sit

I long for my home

my home

ice on a harvested field

It's May

the sun and a grove of young pines

are leaning

It's midwinter

there are many mountains

there is one lake

A summer-like mind

this placid water

reminds me of my home country

Living in a field

I bury the fire

deep in a brazier

I talk with a child

who hasn't caught

a single cicada yet

Pee-cho pee-cho

sings a bird

blue mountain comes near

        . . . . remembering Basho

A vast grassland

Basho comes all alone

after a wintry blast 

I look upon the surface

of one stone

spring light in a bamboo grove

By the fireside tonight

I think of ocean tide ebbing

on a moonlit night

Burning the fallen leaves

I feel infinitude

behind me

A rooster and I


over the frozen earth

I shall respond

to the mountain form shone

by the winter sun

My ears being frost-bitten

the sky is vast

these days

Being with the bare trees

I sleep at night

facing this direction

Ippekiro Nakatsuka (1887 ~ 1946)

from Cape Jasmine and Pomegranates
(the free-meter haiku of Ippekiro)
translated by Soichi Furuta
Mushinsha / Grossman 1974

Wednesday, November 20, 2013



A Note on the Text 

This edition is based on the complete ARK published by Living Batch Press in 1996. The text has been checked for accuracy against typescripts and previous publications of the poem. Some corrections have been made accordingly, with several missing lines restored. 

Previous editions of the poem vary the leading to reflect single-and double-spacing in Johnson's typescript. However, for greater legibility, this edition adopts a basic leading that is uniform.

Peter O'Leary
editor of ARK

Ronald Johnson
Flood Editions, 2013

Tuesday, November 19, 2013


If you're close to Northampton, Massachusetts — or know someone in the region — encourage them to spend some time at A.P.E. Ltd. Gallery — big glassed main street nest where you can easily walk in off the sidewalk and stroll the Wendy Cross world

Monday, November 18, 2013


artist : kari percival

from Far North Beast Ghosts the Clearing

The truth is
I have mud on my hands
from digging roots

The truth is
I brought them to you

It is the truth
I worked to get them
and complained
while digging them up

The truth is
once I got back here
and saw your face
it didn't matter,

that work

Little snail
curled up

leaving a snail shape
in the blanket

when I lift you

If I popped out of the snow
with ten crows
tied to the top
of my head

you still would not wake

deepest sleeping one
I've ever seen

I'm no owl
don't you believe it

Just because my big
feather face
is so round
when you wake,
don't believe
I'll fly away
in the morning?

There's things I do
There's things I do

in happiness
of your arrival

Today I was out
stooping my shoulders
in the lily-pad water
with moose


so happy
it was all I could think
to do

sit down
shut up

can't you see
who's sleeping?

It's her
just born and not ready
to hear your crow noises yet

Sit down
shut up

I can't travel
away from you

rolling pine cone

Each time I go to leave
my shoes hide
in your dreams

All the warm nights
sleep in moonlight

keep letting it
go into you

do this
all your life

do this
you will shine outward
in old age

the moon will think
you are
the moon

Wild turkeys
on a mound of earth

and the moles
under them
"We know the earth
is loud
with turkeys again"

But you,
when I tap my fingers
on the mound over you

do you know who dances?

Old turtle
walked this far
to see


I'll pick you up
to see

here she is

wrinkled as you are


The Wishing Bone Cycle
gathered & translated by Howard Norman
Narrative Poems from the Swampy Cree Indians
Ross-Erikson 1976

One time
all the noises met.
All the noises in the world
met in one place
and I was there
because they met in my house.
My wife said, "Who sent them?"
I said, "Fox or Rabbit,
yes one of those two.
They're both out for tricking me back today.
Both of them
are mad at me.
Rabbit is mad because I pulled
his brother's ear
and held him up that way.
Then I ate him.
And Fox is mad because he wanted
to do those things first."

"Yes, then it had to be one of them,"
my wife said.

So, all the noises
were there.
These things happen.
Falling-tree noises were there.
Falling-rock noise was there.
Otter-mud- sliding noises was there.
All those noises, and more,
in my house.

"How long do you expect to stay?"
my wife asked them. "We need some sleep!"

They all answered at once!

That's why now my wife and I
sometimes can't hear well.
I should have wished them all away
first thing.

Sunday, November 17, 2013


Doris Lessing
( b. October 22, 1919, Kermanshah, Iran ~ November 17, 2013, London )

Doris Lessing spoke with reporters from her front porch in London after she won the 2007 Nobel Prize for Literature.
photo : Shaun Curry/Agence France-Presse — Getty Images

"Her themes have been universal and international. They ranged from the problems of post-colonial Africa to the politics of nuclear power, the emergence of a new woman's voice and the spiritual dimensions of 20th-century civilisation. Few writers have as broad a range of subject and sympathy.

She is one of those rare writers whose work crosses frontiers, and her impressively large output constitutes a chronicle of our time. She has enlarged the territory both of the novel and of our consciousness."

~ Michael Holroyd
Lessing's biographer and executor


    The Grass is Singing (1950) (filmed as Killing Heat (1981))
    Retreat to Innocence (1956)
    The Golden Notebook (1962)
    Briefing for a Descent into Hell (1971)
    The Summer Before the Dark (1973)
    Memoirs of a Survivor (1974)
    The Diary of a Good Neighbour (as Jane Somers, 1983)
    If the Old Could... (as Jane Somers, 1984)
    The Good Terrorist (1985)
    The Fifth Child (1988)
    Love, Again (1996)
    Mara and Dann (1999)
    Ben, in the World (2000) – sequel to The Fifth Child
    The Sweetest Dream (2001)
    The Story of General Dann and Mara's Daughter, Griot and the Snow Dog (2005) –     sequel to Mara and Dann
    The Cleft (2007)
    Alfred and Emily (2008)

The Children of Violence series

    Martha Quest (1952)
    A Proper Marriage (1954)
    A Ripple from the Storm (1958)
    Landlocked (1965)
    The Four-Gated City (1969)

The Canopus in Argos: Archives series

    Shikasta (1979)
    The Marriages Between Zones Three, Four and Five (1980)
    The Sirian Experiments (1980)
    The Making of the Representative for Planet 8 (1982)
    The Sentimental Agents in the Volyen Empire (1983)

Opera libretti

    The Making of the Representative for Planet 8 (music by Philip Glass, 1986)
    The Marriages Between Zones Three, Four and Five (music by Philip Glass, 1997)


    Playing the Game (graphic novel illustrated by Charlie Adlard, 1995)


    Each His Own Wilderness (three plays, 1959)
    Play with a Tiger (1962)


    Fourteen Poems (1959)
    The Wolf People – INPOPA Anthology 2002 (poems by Lessing, Robert Twigger and T.H. Benson, 2002)

Short story collections

    Five Short Novels (1953)
    The Habit of Loving (1957)
    A Man and Two Women (1963)
    African Stories (1964)
    Winter in July (1966)
    The Black Madonna (1966)
    The Story of a Non-Marrying Man (1972)
    This Was the Old Chief's Country: Collected African Stories, Vol. 1 (1973)
    The Sun Between Their Feet: Collected African Stories, Vol. 2 (1973)
    To Room Nineteen: Collected Stories, Vol. 1 (1978)
    The Temptation of Jack Orkney: Collected Stories, Vol. 2 (1978)
    Through the Tunnel (1990)
    London Observed: Stories and Sketches (1992)
    The Real Thing: Stories and Sketches (1992)
    Spies I Have Known (1995)
    The Pit (1996)
    The Grandmothers: Four Short Novels (2003) (filmed as Two Mothers)

Cat Tales

    Particularly Cats (stories and nonfiction, 1967)
    Particularly Cats and Rufus the Survivor (stories and nonfiction, 1993)
    The Old Age of El Magnifico (stories and nonfiction, 2000)
    On Cats (2002) – omnibus edition containing the above three books

Autobiography and memoirs

    Going Home (memoir, 1957)
    African Laughter: Four Visits to Zimbabwe (memoir, 1992)
    Under My Skin: Volume One of My Autobiography, to 1949 (1994)
    Walking in the Shade: Volume Two of My Autobiography, 1949 to 1962 (1997)

Other non-fiction

    In Pursuit of the English (1960)
    Prisons We Choose to Live Inside (essays, 1987)
    The Wind Blows Away Our Words (1987)
    A Small Personal Voice (essays, 1994)
    Conversations (interviews, edited by Earl G. Ingersoll, 1994)
    Putting the Questions Differently (interviews, edited by Earl G. Ingersoll, 1996)
    Time Bites (essays, 2004)
    On Not Winning the Nobel Prize (Nobel Lecture, 2007, published 2008)