LIVINGDYING ~

"The day after his mother's death in October 1977, Roland Barthes began a diary of mourning."

from MOURNING DIARY
(October 26, 1977-September 15, 1979)


October 27


Who knows? Maybe something valuable in these notes?




November 5th

Sad afternoon. Shopping. Purchase (frivolity) of a tea cake at the bakery. Taking care of the customer ahead of me, the girl behind the counter says Voilà. The expression I used when I brought maman something, when I was taking care of her. Once, toward the end, half-conscious, she repeated, faintly, Voilà (I'm here, a word we used with each other all our lives).

The word spoken by the girl at the bakery brought tears to my eyes. I kept on crying quite a while back in the silent apartment.

That's how I can grasp my mourning.

Not directly in solitude, empirically, etc.; I seem to have a kind of ease, of control that makes people think I'm suffering less than they would have imagined. But it comes over me when our love for each other is torn apart once again. The most painful point at the most abstract moment...

November 18

Not to manifest mourning (or at least to be indifferent to it) but to impose the public right to the loving relation it implies.




November 19


A trip from Paris to Tunis. A series of airplane breakdowns. Endless sojourns in airports among crowds of Tunisians coming come for Aid Kebir. Why does the ominous effect of this day of breakdowns suit mourning so well?




November 26


What I find utterly terrifying is mourning's discontinuous character.




November 28


To whom could I put this question (with any hope of an answer)?

Does being able to live without someone you loved mean you loved her less than you thought. . .?




February 16, 1978


This morning, more snow, and lieder broadcast on the radio. How sad! — I think of the mornings when I was sick and didn't go to school, and when I had the joy of staying with her.




April 18, 1978 Marrakesh


Now that maman is no more, I no longer have that impression of freedom I had on my trips (when I would leave her for short periods of time).




May 18, 1978


Maman's death: perhaps it is the one thing in my life that I have not responded to neurotically. My grief has not been hysterical, scarcely visible to others (perhaps because the notion of "theatralizing" my mother's death would have been intolerable); and doubtless, more hysterically parading my depression, driving everyone away, ceasing to live socially, I would have been less unhappy. And I see that the non-neurotic is not good, not the right thing at all.




June 13, 1978


Not to suppress mourning (suffering) (the stupid notion that time will do away with such a thing) but to change it, transform it, to shift it from a static stage (statis, obstruction, recurrences of the same thing) to a fluid state.



June 24, 1978


Virtually no sign of an internalized mourning.

This is the fulfillment of absolute internalization. All judicious societies, however, have prescribed and codified the externalization of mourning.

Uneasiness of ours insofar as it denies mourning.




July 18, 1978


Each of us has his own rhythm of suffering.




July 29, 1978


(Saw a Hitchcock film, Under Capricorn)


Ingrid Bergman (around 1946): I don't know why, nor how to express it: this actress, this actress's body moves me, touches something in me which reminds me of maman: her complexion, her lovely, simple hands, an impression of freshness, a non-narcissistic femininity...




Paris, July 31, 1978


I live in my suffering and that makes me happy.

Anything that keeps me from living in my suffering is unbearable to me.




August 18, 1978


The locality of the room where she was sick, where she died, and where I now live, the wall against which the head of her bed rested where I have placed an icon — not out of faith — and still put flowers on a table next to it. I have reached the point of no longer wanting to travel in order to be here, so that the flowers here will always be fresh.




January 20, 1979


Maman's photo as a little girl, in the distance — in front of me on my desk. It was enough for me to look at it, to apprehend the suchness of her being (which I struggle to describe) in order to be reinvented by, immersed in, invaded, inundated by her goodness.




January 30, 1979


We don't forget,

but something vacant settles in us.




March 18, 1979


Each time I dream about her (and I dream only of her), it is in order to see her, believe her to be alive, but other, separate.




May 1, 1979


I was not like her, since I did not die with (at the same time as) her.

~

Mourning Diary by Roland Barthes
translated and with an afterword by Richard Howard
(Hill and Wang)

photo: RB and his mother in Bayonne, circa 1923

EARTH ~

john clare (1793-1864)

Lost in a wilderness of listening leaves



John Clare had his doubts about John Keats, a poet he had never met.


"In spite of all this his descriptions of scenery are often very fine but as it is the case with other inhabitants of great cities he often described nature as she appeared to his fancies & not as he would have described her had he witnessed the things he described."


An age old tale between the bumpkin and the flatlander.





john keats (1795-1821)


I live in the eye



Here is Keats at Ambleside water fall (England's Lake District); the first water fall he had ever seen:

"We afterwards moved away a space, and saw nearly the whole more mild, streaming silverly through the trees. What astonishes me more than any thing is the tone, the coloring, the slate, the stone, the moss, the rock-weed; or, if I may so say, the intellect, the countenance of such places.The space, the magnitude of mountains and waterfalls are well imagined before one sees them; but this countenance or intellectual tone must surpass every imagination and defy any remembrance. I shall learn poetry here."


You want to hug him with that last line.






robert frost & wallace stevens, key west 1940


Yet I am the necessary angel of earth



"I have seen cowboys; I have seen prairie dogs; hundreds of wild ducks, Indians in camp with smoke coming through their discolored tent-tops; I have seen mountains swimming in clouds and basking in snow; and cascades, and gulches."


...says Wallace Stevens the future executive from Hartford, Connecticut, freshly peeled off from a Harvard graduation and New York Law School and piercing through Canada's wild landscape aboard the Canadian Pacific Railroad in 1903, exhorting to the "character of mountains above timber-line."


It was part of a six-week hunting trip, and the images and bounty of it stayed with the poet through all of his poetry and to his deathbed.


"Downward to darkness, on extended wings."





photo: frost/stevens c/o alfred knopf

WITH ME ~

... right now

Thelonious Monk, piano
Oscar Pettiford, bass
Kenny Clarke, drums

recorded: 1955 / Riverside LP

a Webster / Ellington tune

RAILROAD EARTH ~

Finn Wilcox

Finn Wilcox might not mind if he was referred to as a railroad bum, since he's been riding the rails since 1969. Finn explains it had something to do with Charlie Manson, the paranoia of the hitchhikers highway, and where he left the road and took to the trains. He's written a classic of this mode of life with the photographer Steven Johnson called Here Among the Sacrificed; two other books of poems have since followed Nine Flower Mountain (Tangram), and Lesson Learned: Love Poems, from Empty Bowl Press (2010).

Finn worked in the Northwest’s forests for over twenty years. It's been said he planted over a million trees. With his co-editor Jerry Gorsline, they gathered a world of similar workers and writers for the anthology Working the Woods, Working the Sea: an Anthology of Northwest Writing.

Finn has lived with his family in the Port Townsend region for the last three decades. Recently he gave a great reading which you can link to below. Be sure you use "see all" to watch the whole show. This is Mike O'Connor, poet and translator of Chinese masters, introducing Finn.

http://www.youtube.com/user/TheAnderfitz

ONCE IN VERMONT ~

Working the woods together, much like today. From Greece, Iannis Xenakis joins us.

camera : susan arnold

Longhouse Special Special ~

In less than a month Longhouse will be 40 years old !
A day hasn't gone by where we haven't worked at it.


To help celebrate the 40th anniversary
(and to get to the 50th)
we are offering a treasure chest to draw from

=

Send $50 and we will send to you 8 publications
of our choosing from the Longhouse treasure chest...


One-of-a-kind
Booklets, cards, broadsides for framing, books !


And on top of that we'll pay for shipping, too!

International orders the only exception so please inquire.


With this, you can gift yourself, or better:
have the bundle shipped to someone else.


Just tell us where to send the gift and we will.


Don't even ask what publications will be sent, that's half the fun.
We're capable of fitting in some real surprises and sizes.


You may pay by credit card, personal check, money order,
or use the easy Paypal account below.


Got a great friend you want to make even greater —
here's your chance.


Mom, Dad, brother, sister, kids, neighbor : "hate poetry"
— try this gift on them.


While supplies last!

Send info, pay us, we'll take care of the rest.

CZECH IV ~

a scene from I Served the King of England

Come ahead, watch yourself a magical film.

Netflix says 2 stars, I say star-bright!

Again, from the wizardry mind of Bohumil Hrabal
and director Jiří Menzel


A person becomes most human, often against his own will

When he begins to founder

When he is derailed or deprived of order

TOUCHED ~

I came up from a nap in the evening, 5 degrees and Orion clear as bell over the woods river, and began to read this piece in the Dec 13, 2010 The New Yorker by Joyce Carol Oates. The last book I read by her was many years ago, the thin one on boxing. A pretty good one. The New Yorker for too many years now has engulfed itself with frantic, scare issue pieces on dying, modern medicine, doctoring or not, one misery after another.

This one is a love story and its loss. It's also a woman's piece, beautifully done.

I would read it.

"A Widow's Story", the New Yorker, page 70. Dec. 13, 2010





photo: Joyce Carol Oates and Raymond Smith by Bernard Gotfryd

EARTH ~

CZECH III ~

Milan Kundera

You know what it's like when your friendly stubble-finger mechanic turns out to be a crackerjack banjo picker in the off hours (are there still "off hours"?) ...well that's what Milan Kundera is to me. A wonder. A grounded novelist, activist, man of letters, and supreme gliding essayist. As much as his writing, there are the subjects he chooses, or which choose him to speak. He's up to job.

~ EXILE AS LIBERATION ACCORDING TO VERA LINHARTOVA ~

In the 1960s Vera Linhartova was one of the most admired writers in Czechoslovakia, the poetess of a prose that was meditative, hermetic, beyond category. Having left the country for Paris after 1968, she began to write and publish in French. Known for her solitary nature, she astonished all her friends when, in the early 1990s, she accepted the invitation of the French Institute of Prague and, on the occasion of a colloquium on the issue of exile, she delivered a paper. I have never read anything on the subject more nonconformist and more clearsighted.

The second half of the past century has made everyone extremely sensitive to the fate of people forced out of their own homelands. This compassionate sensitivity has befogged the problem of exile with a tear-stained moralism, and obscured the actual nature of life for the exile, who according to Linhartova has often managed to transform his banishment into a liberating launch "toward another place, an elsewhere, by definition unknown and open to all sorts of possibilities." Of course she is right a thousand times over! Otherwise how are we to understand the fact that after the end of Communism, almost none of the great emigre artists hurried back to their home countries? Why was that? Did the end of Communism not spur them to celebrate the "Great Return" in their native lands? And even if, despite the disappointment of their audience, that return was not what they wanted, wasn't it their moral obligation? Said Linhartova: "The writer is above all a free person, and the obligation to preserve his independence against all constraints comes before any other consideration. And I mean not only the insane constraints imposed by an abusive political power, but the restrictions—all the harder to evade because they are well-intentioned—that cite a sense of duty to one's country." In fact people chew over cliches about human rights, and at the same time persist in considering the individual to be the property of his nation.

She goes further still: "So I chose the place where I wanted to live, but I have also chosen the language I wanted to speak." People will protest: sure, a writer is a free person, but is he not the custodian of his language? Isn't that the very meaning of a writer's mission? Linhartova: "It is often asserted that a writer has less freedom of movement than anyone else, for he remains bound to his language by an indissoluble tie. I believe this is another of those myths that serve as excuse for timid folks." For: "The writer is not a prisoner of any one language." A great liberating sentence. Only the brevity of life keeps a writer from drawing all the conclusions from this invitation to freedom.

Linhartova: "My sympathies lie with the nomads, I haven't the soul of a sedentary myself. So I am now entitled to say that my own exile has fulfilled what was always my dearest wish: to live elsewhere." When Linhartova writes in French, is she still a Czech writer? No. Does she become a French writer? No, not that either. She is elsewhere. Elsewhere as Chopin was in his time, elsewhere as, later, each in his own fashion, were Nabokov, Beckett, Stravinsky, Gombrowicz. Of course each of them lived his exile in his own inimitable way, and Linhartova's experience is an extreme case. Yet after her radical, luminous declaration, we can no longer speak of exile as we have done up till now.

Milan Kundera

Vera Linhartova

EARTH ~

LEARNING TO SPEAK


As a child running loose,

I said it this way: Bird.

Bird, a startled sound at field's edge.

The sound my mouth makes, pushing away the cold.

So, at the end of this quiet afternoon,

wanting to write the love poems I've never written,

I turn from the shadow in the cottonwood

and say blackbird, as if to you.

There is the blackbird. Black bird, until its darkness

is the darkness of a woman's hair falling

across my upturned face.

And I go on speaking into the night.

The oriole, the flicker,

the gold finch. . . .

This is a new version of a classic book of poems — narrow spine, not so many pages, and every poem to remember. Atheneum first published the collection in the early 70s when it won the Lamont Poetry Prize in 1972. If it hadn't been for the re-issue, the book was on its way to disappearing. Many have, many fine ones.

It's our job to pull things back.

Peter Everwine was born in Detroit, raised in western Pennslyvania, educated in the midwest, and settled down for decades in California. When not writing his own poems he is translating from Hebrew and interpretations from Nahuatl.


~

BACK FROM THE FIELDS


Until nightfall my son ran in the fields,

looking for God knows what.

Flowers, perhaps. Odd birds on the wing.

Something to fill an empty spot.

Maybe a luminous angel

or country girl with a secret dark.

He came back empty-handed,

or so I thought.



Now I find them:

thistles, goatheads

the barbed weeds

all those with hooks or horns

the snaggle-toothed, the grinning ones

those wearing lantern jaws

old ones in beards

leapers in silk leggins

the multiple pocked moons

and spiny satellites, all those

with juices and saps

like the fingers of thieves

nation after nation of grasses

that dig in, that burrow, that hug winds

and grab handholds

in whatever lean place.



It's been a good day.





JUST BEFORE SLEEP


In the poem that comes just before sleep,

I am walking out into

the darkness of summer fields,

drawing it close about me.

What I wanted to say

was the silence of olive groves,

the longing of a road white with dust.

I speak an old language, love —

the fields rising and falling,

the small beards of light

nodding over the earth.

I am entering your hair,

coming home.





LOOKING INTO THINGS CLEARLY


The doctor smiles and comes toward me.

In a room so pure I can hardly breathe,

he opens my robe and touches the fragile

bones of my wings. "I'm glad you've come," he says

and I know I'm sick.



Something is wrong with me upstairs.

A neighbor's mouth tears like a wound, so dark

I think of a spring cupped in black roots.

The phone rings and another village is burning.

My head dreams of escaping into white stone.



"It's almost painless," he says, hiding

his hand behind his blue coat.

Only I can't see him clearly.

When I squint he seems to be

my father sidling through the halls of banks,



he is a bruised face, he is the President,

the drifting blue haze of factories,

of my own breath hovering over me.

I reach to touch him, but my fingers

enter and pass through —



he blossoms around them in a red flower of light,

petal after petal of light opens out:

I'm a window looking into a backyard.

Some men are digging what looks like a grave,

about the size of a child's.





NIGHT


In the lamplight falling

on the white tablecloth

my plate,

my shining loaf of quietness.



I sit down.

Through the open door

all the absent I love enter

and we eat.


(from the meadow: selected and new poems)





TWO POEMS BY AYOCUAN CUETZPALTZIN


I

Let the earth last

And the forests stand a long time


Ayocuan Cuetzpaltzin said this, traveling

The road to Tlaxcala

The road to Huexotzinco


Let field after field

Unfold with brown corn

Flowers of cacao


Let the earth last



II


We live in the country where things go away

Is it like this

In that country the dead wander?

Are some happy there

Among old friends?

Or is it here only that passing a face

We look into it

And speak its name?


( translated by PE from "The Aztec Poems" )





from Collecting the Animals
Peter Everwine
Atheneum, 1972

SAILOR ~

Poppa Neutrino's trans-Atlantic raft constructed of trash

Poppa Neutrino (William David Pearlman), spent his early years in San Francisco. At that time he saw a documentary on nomadic aborigines, and made up his mind: "That's the way I want to live; I never want anything more." Throughout his seven decades PN has been a young soldier, outsider/rascal/highway-department-official, circus performer, father, church founder, nomad, band and street performer, designer, raft builder, and nautical record breaker.

In the late 1990s Poppa Neutrino became the second man in history to cross the Atlantic Ocean on a raft, but his vessel was made of trash, and that's a first.

In 2008 Poppa Neutrino moved to Burlington, Vermont to set-up life and shop. This time he built a raft on Lake Champlain.

When his vessel was ready, the plan was to circumnavigation the globe, sailing away from Burlington heading south to Florida with three sailors and three dogs. They would be aboard a new craft — a 37 foot trimaran rigged with two outboards, a supplied pilot house and four cabins.

On November 9th their raft was washed onto rocks at Thompson's Point, Vermont on Lake Champlain. Everyone was rescued.

Stay tuned. And while waiting, perhaps read Alec Wilkinson's book The Happiest Man in the World. It's all about the great Poppa.

Poppa Neutrino





photo: poppa neutrino: floatingneutrinos.com

THINK BACK, PILGRIM XI

KANETO SHINDO

KEISUKE KINOSHITO

HIROSHI TESHIGHARA

EARTH ~

KENJI MIYAZAWA


This is one of my favorite poets, always was, always will be.

I found his work when a very young man in Gary Snyder's The Back Country and nothing in poetry for me has ever been the same. I loved dearly the Han-Shan translated by Snyder in Riprap, though nothing touched me as fully as the Kenji.

It was the story behind the poems and the man, the story felt within the pulse of the poems. I went and found every book I could find translated into English for years to come. I'm still looking.

I may still get Hiro Sato, the kind one, to one day allow one of his Kenji stories or group of poems to be published. Gerry Hausman did send to us a beautiful little group he translated with a Japanese friend. We put that into a glove of golden papers.

Kenji Miyazawa was born in Hanamaki, Iwate, Japan in 1896 and passed away in the same place 37 years later . Even struggling for years with pleurisy he hiked the fields he loved.

This poem has been in my tool room so long I had completely forgotten it was there. It's right even with the vise.




KENJI MIYAZAWA






photo © bob arnold
old.japanfocus.org

WITH ME ~

Nightlife. . .

written & arranged by John Zorn
in collaboration w/ a cast of characters
On golden LP: elektra/nonesuch

MAN'S BEST FRIEND ~

Sweetheart reminded me of this favorite cartoon I like stapled onto a post in my tool room. My father drew cartoons who taught me and I taught my son and I still draw and have my weekly favorites from magazines and elsewhere. Few, for me, top this one out of an old New Yorker.

If you can read the cartoonist's name — I can't — please drop me a line.

I'd like he or she to be credited.

coda: answer received from our good friend Annie in Canada:
the artist is Mike Twohy. Thank you Annie.







the new yorker

CZECH II ~

Dear G—

On a rain day this week I sat down again and watched Jan Wiener (1920-2010) in the film FIGHTER (2001) with Sweetheart this time. I figured I owed it to the man and his recent passing, your dear friend, and for us to watch this fascinating journey and story together. Curiously, while never once drifting in my respect and actual honor for JW, it's Arnost Lustig who holds up finer for me as a man and all-around individual. There is something festering in JW — no doubt his past — yet AL also had a brutal past and seems to have healed himself with a bit more humility, patience and an almost unbelievable sweetness for his often difficult friend.

The film is also deeply moving for its historical understanding and revelation. The filmmaker (Amir Bar-Lev) has an elegant and deft touch at voice-over while using impeccable choreography for the landscape, story and reasoning. There is both poetry (breadth and beauty) and terrible madness throughout the film.

Watching Jan Wiener at work, in his homeland and surroundings (Slovenia, Italy etc), one is quite taken with his tenacity at finding his way. It's a Holocaust film with two elder survivors of Hitler's invasion of Czechoslovakia backtracking in a half-century later. One stayed-put and took it on the chin, the other fought his way through an underground, and some would say became a spy, even a traitor, not a partisan. I say hold judgment and let the film and all individuals speak.

We are witnessing or suffering in current wars and perhaps via WikiLeaks fueled and stymied and surrounded by deceit — so much so we know wars never end.

CZECH ~

Bohumil Hrabal

Ah, the creator of the great "idiots" of world literature, often only slightly masqueraded as the author himself.

Hrabal was born in the province of old Moravia on 28 March 1914. He had a rough childhood. Milan Kundera, years later, would attend the same grammar school as Hrabal. During WW2 our hero studied law while working as a laborer in a war-torn era. The law degree came in 1946. The first book of poems in 1948, heavily influenced by the Surrealist poets. He worked at almost every basic and menial job and wrote and published prolifically, often pirated editions, mostso after the Soviets moved into Prague in the late 60s — many of his brethren went into exile, Hrabal hung in. Some accuse him of giving-in. But no, he was the wiliest of survivors. Josef Skvorecky thought Hrabal's world came from a well-oiled talk of Prague's bars & taverns. A well known raconteur who published at least fourteen volumes of a collected works, so few yet translated into English. Some of the better known (also made into films) are Closely Watched Trains (1965) and I Served the King of England (1989). Dancing Lessons for the Advanced in Age (1964) consists of a single sentence, book-length!

Like Kerouac, like Montaigne, Hrabal loved his cats. There is a mural in Prague showing him with his cats.

An imaginative and engaging satirist in a land of them — Kundera, Capek, Hasek, and close enough by, Gombrowicz (before South America).

A subversive to the end, in 1997, at age 82, while being tended to in a Bulovka hospital for back and joint pain, standing atop a table feeding the pigeons on a window sill, the table tipped and spilled our hero out the window five flights down to his death.

But nothing this good dies.

Hrabal's portraits on bottles of Postrizinske beers (BH was the stepson of a brewery manager)

Bohumil Hrabal from Too Loud A Solitude:

For thirty-five years I've been compacting old paper, and in that time I've had so many beautiful books thrown into my cellar that if I had three barns they'd all be full. Just after the war the second one - was over, somebody dumped a basket of the most exquisitely made books in my hydraulic press, and when I'd calmed down enough to open one of them, what did I see but the stamp of the Royal Prussian Library, and when next day I found the whole cellar overflowing with more of the same - leather-bound volumes, their gilt edges and titles flooding the air with light - I raced upstairs to see two fellows standing there, and what I managed to squeeze out of them was that somewhere in the vicinity of Nové Straseci there was a barn with so many books in the straw it made your eyes pop out of your head. So I went to see the army librarian, and the two of us took off for Nové Straseci, and there in the fields we found not one but three barns chock full of the Royal Prussian Library, and once we'd done oohing and ahing, we had a good talk, as a result of which a column of military vehicles spent a week transporting the books to a wing of the Ministry of Foreign Affairs in Prague, where they were to wait until things had simmered down and they could be sent back to their place of origin. But somebody leaked the hiding place and the Royal Prussian Library was declared official booty, so the column of military vehicles started transporting all the leatherbound volumes with their gilt edges and titles over to the railroad station, where they were loaded on flat-cars in the rain, and since it poured the whole week, what I saw when the last load of books pulled up was a constant stream of gold water cum pitch and printer's ink flowing down from the train. Well, I just stood there, leaning aginst a lamppost, flabbergasted, and as the last car disappeared into the mist, I felt the rain in my face merging with tears, [...]

from James Wood, London Review of Books, 4 January 2001:

"And a great writer. His finest book, Too Loud a Solitude, enacts an even more acute modulation, from early buoyancy to late despair. Hrabal, who himself worked for a while as a trash-compactor, creates, in Hanta, his subtlest ‘idiot’. Hanta may also represent the closest Hrabal came to a self-portrait. (Hrabal, like Hanta, rescued books from the compacting machine, and built a library of them in the garage of his country cottage outside Prague.) Hanta’s wide reading allows Hrabal to use all the mental resources of his hero, however insanely, and the result is a free-flowing prose of extraordinary flexibility, a prose with many interiors within interiors, like some of the Dutch Masters – or perhaps many false bottoms. That would be the proper, unsolemn, Hrabalian image.

Hanta is put out of work, effectively, by the arrival, on the outskirts of Prague, of a much larger, industrial-scale trash-compactor. He visits it, and does not like what he sees. It is clear that this machine does not simply compact trash, with the occasional discarded book, as his small press does, but is swallowing thousands of books. The books are lined up on lorries. It is a giant metal censor, and the harbinger of a sinister new era. But although Skvorecky describes this novel as Hrabal’s ‘poetic condemnation of the banning of books’, this is too heavy a reading. For how nimbly Hrabal describes a comic crescent around obvious political allegory. Having seen this huge machine, what is Hanta’s response? He returns to his one-man press, and tries to increase his output by 50 per cent, so as to keep his job. As usual in Hrabal, political critique is slyly neutralised by the unreliability, indeed in this case the madness, of the narrator."

photos: czsk.net

wikicommons

corbisimages.com

WITH ME ~

Listening right now

STRAIGHT AHEAD
Oliver Nelson, alto/tenor sax, clarinet
Eric Dolphy, alto sax, bass clarinet, flute
Richard Wyands, piano
George Duvivier, bass
Roy Haynes, drums
On LP: Prestige

EARTH ~

Robert Francis


Born in Upland, Pennsylvania on August 12, 1901

Robert Francis moved to Amherst, Massachusetts in 1926

after graduating from Harvard. His first book of poems

Stand Here With Me appeared in 1936.

By 1940 he began building

his home Fort Juniper on the outskirts of town, which since

the poet's passing in 1987 has become a legendary spot

and home or studio for many other poets.

Collected Poems 1936-1976 makes a fine companion.

The poem below is drawn from that collection.

I have worked with this poem with every age group,

including with strangers when reading out on the street.

It chimes.


~

SILENT POEM


backroad----leafmold---- stonewall---- chipmunk
underbrush---- grapevine---- woodchuck---- shadblow



woodsmoke---- cowbarn ----honeysuckle---- woodpile
sawhorse---- bucksaw---- outhouse---- wellsweep



backdoor ----flagstone----bulkhead---- buttermilk
candlestick---- ragrug---- firedog---- brownbread



hilltop ----outcrop---- cowbell---- buttercup
whetstone---- thunderstorm---- pitchfork----steeplebush



gristmill---- millstone ----cornmeal ----waterwheel
watercress---- buckwheat---- firefly---- jewelweed



gravestone---- groundpine ----windbreak---- bedrock
weathercock ----snowfall---- starlight---- cockrow

I-VERMONT ~