SONGS OF THE CIVIL WAR TONIGHT ~

 

    Columbia

LYN HEJINIAN ~

 

R E A D   M E

     Wesleyan University Press

     2025

ALL ALONG THE WATCHTOWER (DEAD) ~

 

Provided to YouTube by Grateful Dead/Rhino All Along the Watchtower (Live at Knickerbocker Arena, Albany, NY, March 1990) · Grateful Dead Dozin' at the Knick: Knickerbocker Arena ℗ 2004 Grateful Dead Productions, Inc. Arranger, Producer: Bill Kreutzmann Drums, Percussion: Bill Kreutzmann Arranger, Producer: Bob Weir Guitar, Vocals: Bob Weir Arranger, Producer: Brent Mydland Bodhran, Keyboards, Vocals: Brent Mydland Producer: David Lemieux Producer: Doran Tyson Arranger, Producer: Jerry Garcia Guitar, Vocals: Jerry Garcia Mixing Engineer: John Cutler Producer: Mark Pinkus Arranger, Producer: Mickey Hart Drums, Percussion: Mickey Hart Arranger, Producer: Phil Lesh Bass Guitar: Phil Lesh Vocals: Phil Lesh Writer: Bob Dylan

JOHN BERRYMAN ~

 

"MAN?  BEWILDERED, HENRY STARED AT

THE WORLD OPPOSITE"

Man?  Bewildered, Henry stared at the world opposite

and took up Intractable Problem: Am I part of it?

—(Yeah, man!)

— There's all that zealous; whereas he lean back.

There's all that competent; whereas he lack

a minimal plan.

Let's think of his nature as a kind of mist,

which cares through, and has been known to insist,

and frequent' does hurt,

and caves in, and recovers to open air.

There are the common opinions he declare

in the rapid of his 'art.

Oh his 'art thrashes.  It will come to nix.

In time, in time, Henry will be towed away

as having counter-parked.

Devil a love will bail him from that fix.

Dispersing mist before the heat of day

in a corner of one galaxy.

_______________________________

John Berryman

Only Sing

152 Uncollected Dream Songs

Farrar, Straus, Giroux 2025

GEORGE HARRISON ALL DAY ~

 

SONYA COHEN CRAMER TONIGHT ~

 

Townes Van Zandt's song from one of

the loveliest folk albums in a 

long while; the daughter

of New Lost City Rambler John Cohen

Sonya was a newborn and at Newport

with her parents when Bob Dylan

went electric. She headed

for the hills.

BOB ARNOLD ~ MORNING LETTER. . .~

 

Morning Letter to Friends

They are calling it a “bomb cyclone.” The word Blizzard doesn’t seem to be enough. Is it the weather that is out-of-control, or the weather forecasters. All the forecasters. I step out onto the long sideways porch living room of the “Ojai" and see all the snow blown across eight feet, and over the old rug, and right up to the side of the house. I sweep off the rug and call it clean. Snow is a cleanser. Often we have taken our rugs, wool included, out into the fresh snow and given them all a thorough cleaning. It works. They almost stand up and applaud when brought back indoors and set back down. Brighter. Even startled.

The red squirrel (one), black squirrel (one), gray squirrel (one) all at the feeder with juncos, chickadees etc and this time, in the cyclone, the juncos don’t wait to scavenge seed sent down from the feeders by the robust chickadees but are right up into the two feeders with everyone. Everyone sharing. Mankind remains at a loss. Not enough watching the animals, the birds, the weather. Our town plow ventures down the road and into the cyclone gingerly, opens about a one lane road. Tomorrow the sun may shine, the cyclone off over the Atlantic, I’ll have drifts to contend with breaking open the long snowshoe tract building to building. All 9 buildings in the brunt of blizzard. I built each building. They can take it.

Reading Di Prima's journals of when her friend Freddie leapt out a 5th floor window. Junkie. As Lenore Kandel once sayeth, “too many of my friends are junkies.” The Italian Di Prima, always down to earth, friend of both Pound and Olson, shares the history the junkies (including Janine) couldn’t or wouldn’t want to quite remember. Di Prima, lover of LeRoi Jones ("Roi") and printing the first issues of Floating Bear, my very own inspiration. 

Susan tablet weaving on the sofa in the living room all of it on her lap.

The best firewood saved for today: rock maple. I remember this tree I made the firewood from. There is more, blown down over the winter, up in the woodlot, waiting for me and Spring. I’ve many times snowshoed past the fell'd trees. Half of my work is already done.

The woods take this blizzard like nothing to it. They know one another.

I work on my forthcoming selected short poems, 50 years worth, 250 pages, and move a space, add a space, there are 400 short poems not in there. One day I’ll get to the longer poems. Cover all designed, poems all chosen. I just wait now months to see what is going to appear. Or what will tire and to be removed. We’re all about lasting. Me, we, and the poems.

___________________________

Bob Arnold

Green River

Vermont

23 Feb 2026

THE ROLLING STONES NOW! TONIGHT ~

 

The Rolling Stones, Now! ℗ 1965 ABKCO Music & Records Inc. Released on: 1965-02-12 Composer Lyricist: Bert Berns Composer Lyricist: Burke Composer Lyricist: Gerald Wexler

EDWARD HOAGLAND ~

 

E D W A R D   H O A G L A N D

        Burlington Free Press

SUSAN SHEEHAN ~

 

S U S A N   S H E E H A N

DUO DUO ~

 

Map

Midnight, there are people beyond the window enticing you

Cigarette butts, like silkworms start clambering

On the table, a glass of water also starts to churn

You pull open a drawer, inside are forty years of snow

A voice, someone's voice, asks: Is it true the sky's a map?

You recognize the pitch-black lips of the one who cries out

You recognize him

In fact it's you, it's that old you

You recognize your head

Just as it's coughed out into the distance from a hospital window

On the far horizon, blacksmith and saboteur move together

Those fighting fires squeeze onto a postage stamp

As they madly splash out the ocean

Swimmers in the water are splashing one another

Their swimming trunks are flour sacks

Printed with the words: Saboteurs far from the motherland

A whiff of a pungent odor

You sniff out the earliest news of the storm

Like a cloud, following the butcher's hooks you float out the

butcher's back window

Behind you, there's a leg still sitting on the butcher's block

You recognize it as your very own leg

Since you passed over that step

1990

___________________________

Duo Duo

The Boy Who Catches Wasps

translated by Gregory B. Lee

Zephyr Press, 2002

BLIND WILLIE JOHNSON ALL DAY ~

 

MARGARET ATWOOD RUMPLED & WISE ~

 

L I S T E N

00:53 Intro 03:58 Margaret Atwood’s new memoir 12:21 How Margaret Atwood became a poet and novelist 19:37 Career themes 28:07 How Atwood’s personal life has influenced her writing 33:54 Can Margaret Atwood predict the future? 39:28 The state of politics today 48:32 Attacks from the right and left 52:21 Swedish Death Cleaning 58:38 Why Margaret Atwood loves birding

PRISON WORKSONGS ALL DAY ~

 

℗ 1997 Smithsonian Folkways Recordings. Originally released on Arhoolie Records.

WHITE COUNTRY BLUES ALL DAY ~

 

BLIND WILLIE MCTELL ALL DAY ~

 

℗ Originally Released 1934 SONY BMG MUSIC ENTERTAINMENT

LIL' SON JACKSON ALL DAY ~

 

    Arhoolie Records

MEMPHIS MINNIE ALL DAY ~

 

Hoodoo Lady (1933-1937)

FAREWELL ~

 

R O B E R T   D U V A L L

F R E D E R I C K   W I S E M A N

      Tony Cenicola/The New York Times

         Caitlin Ochs for The New York Times

ANNA MALIHON ~

 

A Tale of Burnt Skin

carry me through the forest in your throat

there in the dark blue grass ants crawl over yellow bones

and bright sweet strawberries grow among corpses spilling a sweet smell

but let me collect the wild strawberries

God I really want to stay alive

don't breathe don't speak

you are the girl who tamed the Steppenwolf

didn't they tell you that you shouldn't burn skin

bitch where is your red scalp go remove his sticky promises

on the black twisted trunks by bygone trees

couldn't you wake him when he fell asleep with gum in his mouth

for it was already the apocalypse

now take a jar and strain your poisoned milk

over your cold first born

the one who doesn't know the way never gets lost

I carved maps on your back when I started to come

and kept the scars for myself

let them not judge those who were sentenced to death let them judge me

your venous arterial one . . .

lose me lost I am so tired of going back . . .

somewhere in a magical kingdom there lived a boy with a dimple in his chin

with a crater in his chest

with insects on his head: one half of the world — for mother

the other half — for father

he played the flute  put birds in a box

but from his music wild berries sprouted

something quiet and unnoticeable like the creation of dust

happens in the hours when you let me go

the rain finally becomes rain and happily soaks into the earth

the sand cleverly stirs and grasps shoes in its lips

a wolf embroidered in cross-stitch is nailed above the bed for protection

until the time I am jarred awake again

carry me through the forest

the music broke out beat rustled

better never-ending music came from birds' eyes

in the blockaded space

and the one who initiated it

couldn't stop the blood

_________________________

Anna Malihon

Girl With A Bullet

translated from Ukrainian by Olena Jennings

World Poetry 2025