daydreaming w/ Bob Arnold
"Why are we walking here, where to? Why aren't we sleeping in a bed,
in a house, a home, in the same room together; isn't it true
that we wake and sleep simultaneously? To love? Love
requires that we be at rest, that we settle down, that we
remain in the same place; motion is loneliness."
____________________________________
TOMAS ESPEDAL
TRAMP
Seagull Books
2010, 2022
[ LISTEN ]
On of the great literary biographies
of recent times — even with
Ellmann's James Joyce and
nicely aligned in scope and
adventure with
Kenner's The Pound Era
Liveright, 2021
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Spider Kiss
(2006 edition)
_______________
(original title)
1961
Think Elvis; Colonel Tom Parker
"the best novel ever written about rock 'n' roll."
Greil Marcus
Break My Heart
There are always flowers,
Love cries, or blood.
Someone is always leaving
By exile, death, or heartbreak.
The heart is a fist.
It pockets prayer or holds rage.
It's a timekeeper.
Music maker, or backstreet truth teller.
Baby, baby, baby
You can't say what's been said.
Before, though even words
Are creatures of habit.
You cannot force poetry
With a ruler, or jail it at a desk.
Mystery is blind, but wills you
To untie the cloth, in eternity.
Police with their guns
Cannot enter here to move us off our lands.
History will always find you, and wrap you
In its thousand arms.
Someone will lift from the earth
Without wings.
Another will fall from the sky
Through the knots of a tree.
Chaos is primordial.
All words have roots here.
You will never sleep again
Though you will never stop dreaming.
The end can only follow the beginning.
And it will zigzag through time, governments, and lovers.
Be who you are, even if it kills you.
It will. Over and over again.
Even as you live.
Break my heart, why don't you?
_____________________
Joy Harjo
An American Sunrise
Norton 2019
Although the translator wishes to be
a bit snippy about previous translations
of the Rene Char masterpiece — ignore him
and seek them out — likewise take this
new edition in hand and read it with
the same gusto & courage
of the poet
_____________________________
237
In the darkness of our lives, there is not one place
for Beauty. The whole place is for Beauty.
Rene Char,
Hypnos
1946
______________________________________________
The apple doesn't fall too far from the tree —
Nancy Perloff (daughter of Marjorie Perloff)
has edited an exceptional and dutifully global
appreciation of this diverse art form
with an expert introduction by Perloff, along with
marvelous showcases by Augusto de Campos,
Ian Hamilton Finlay, Eugen Gomringer,
and now Susan Howe has entered the
lexicon along with Dieter Roth and
many other naturals.
Too bad Aram Saroyan wasn't included —
the anthology is
missing that extra touch of play —
beautifully designed and with
fine detail on each biography.
The international breath
is the ticket.
{ BA }
eyeye
ARAM SAROYAN
From what I have read of
Michael Daley's work
I believe
Romance With the Unexpected
may be his best
— it sustains
______________________________
empty bowl
2022
Bob Dylan rehearsing for his performance at the 1965 Newport Folk Festival with, from left, Mike Bloomfield, Sam Lay, Jerome Arnold and Al Kooper.Credit...David Gahr/Getty Images
from Also in April
The year still young. I'm seized by a boisterous mood,
rainwater vat rhymes with sunshine in March
warming my back
and drying the moss-covered stone bench —
This springtime too will bring me by the by
plenty of quiet work round the garden.
What else?
Patience, Rainer, patience.
-
Not wanting to be part of it sometimes
making off into the underwood
past many a silly cow —
Then, lying in the elder shade, timeless,
not giving a damn
if one and one are three.
-
Surely the summer has other names
not just summer.
For instance Olea, a name
combining corn yellow, rye red,
meadow and forest green
in one.
-
To write a poem
without ballast
for instance late autumn
empty snail shell cobwebs
something falling silently
amid the whispers of the trees.
-
Free time working time dinner time
and the time to sleep —
The fast trains the slow trains
the coming and the going —
Early November and yet it seems
I heard the cuckoo just a little while ago.
-
A postcard from the Caribbean
taken out of the letter box —
oh well, Caribbean,
while I — all blessings come from heaven above —
have a white Black Forest in front of me.
-
Ten degrees below zero
and again a hearty
sneeze into the handkerchief
wiping my watering eyes
and skipping and hopping
until the ice puddle cracks
and a delicate spinet rings
persistently in my ears —
-
Never put to paper and yet unforgotten
the soft light of the gas lamps in the evening
the snowball fights won and lost
the downhill races on the wooden sledge
the roast hot chestnuts
in the newspaper cone
and the Hoorays in thoughtless songs.
Beauty of our childhood years, they won't come back.
translated by Esther Kinsky
______________________
Rainer Brambach
Collected Poems
Seagull Books, 2021
Rainer Brambach (1917-1983) grew up in Basel and left
school at the age of 14 to become a manual laborer.
He spent much of the Second World War in prison and
labor camps, an experience which greatly influenced his writing.
Recognition and awards notwithstanding, he remained an
outsider in the literary world and lived for many years in poverty.
