JOAN JETT ~

ERNST MEISTER ~

Still to

tell, still to

tell . . . my

memory

asks me, and I

stare at it.

Am I alive?

I ask my room, —

I ask

the space in the expanse

and lastly:

Are you, space,

what I know?

-

When we're

stripped right

down to

clay, then

the talk of

what's singable

is right.

The man who is born,

thought through to the end —

it echoes back.

-

Many

have no language.

Were I not myself

replete with misery, I

would not

move my tongue.

-

If we would once again

be given eyes

after some time

in the corpse, in death . . .

As we made love,

you examined

my cranium

very closely.

-

Look into the opened hand.

Departure

keeps showing up there.

A sound is present

and doesn't end

against the edges of the hills.

-

At the end of days,

what kind

of stammering will come

from mankind's mouth,

when difficulty

becomes a cripple,

if anything at all,

and the heavens' coldness

freezes the acts over.

Language formally,

this romance,

when the song already

lost its head.

-

Someday,

when the last ones

are doing well for themselves

above the ashes,

when love

is the most blind

since the times, when those

who themselves forgot,

children of untimed,

are completely forgotten . . .

we — you all

in the unstoppable

starry

misfortune.

-

Think, in the

quintillionth year

you won't

be allowed to be homesick

for person and Earth.

THIS, that you

were a child

of the universe,

is gone,

and where

is the unholy one,

the mother with her

wits about her,

and where

the star that shone for us?

I'm reeling.

I also wished,

before it ended, I'd see

a dream.

-

Wisdom, the idle wise,

might even a cut go

sharply across the eyes.

Unable —

all that love and guilt, all

that honor.

Also never to be ashamed,

as on days that

taste good.

———————————————

Ernst Meister

Of Entirety Say the Sentence

Wave Books

translated from the German by

Graham Foust, Samuel Frederick

CONSCIENCE IS OUR GUIDE ~

NOAM  CHOMSKY

R E A D      M E

BEI DAO ~

R E V I E W

New Directions 2017

translated from the Chinese by Jeffrey Yang

BERTIE KOLLER ~

ELFRIEDE JELINEK ~

R E V I E W

Seagull Books

2017

THEATER

POETRY

EARNED HERMITAGE ~

Letter To The Next Landowner

You won’t keep it up like we did

Not to worry — we did it for a half century

The stone hut, the sturdiest looking, will go first

I built it for our son — earth to earth

The house we re-built from ground to ridge

All the time it made the most perfect sense

A minister and his wife owned the house before we did

He not only sold us the house, he married us

The land was cut & mowed & planted & moved & loved

Every day of our lives, but don’t believe it

The land will tell you —

We are buried here

Our bones are the stones to be found

Wait for the wind

She & Me

She even stands with

me when I pump

the gas

Whippoorwill

About two minutes of a steady rowing mating call

Out of a blossoming apple tree —

Then the deadliest silence imaginable

Earned Hermitage

Shunned by

nearly everyone

on the road

————————————— 

Bob Arnold

BEAUTIFUL   DAYS

Longhouse

WRECK OF THE OLD '97 ~

John Mellencamp

FAREWELL ~

F a r e w e l l

H E A T H C O T E       W I L L I A M S

C h a m p i o n

Born	John Henley Heathcote-Williams 15 November 1941 Helsby, Cheshire, England, UK
Died	1 July 2017 (aged 75) Oxford, England

Poet, actor, playwright, activist

friend to Longhouse and many

many others — 

we already miss him


M O R E !

GRACE PALEY ~

R E V I E W

An honest appreciation to this marvelous short story writer —

I have read all her stories but it was only after I heard Grace Paley read one of her stories, in a small town church never mind,

that I figured I wouldn't have to go back and read the stories again. I have Grace in my mind. The poems are at-ease and communal, the essays come straight from one barricade or another, quite poignant.

George Saunders is always unusually focused dead-on his subject. The Vietnam soldier and poet Kevin Bowen is the ideal craftsman to locate this book, and Paley's daughter Nora brings it all home.

Don't hesitate.

[ BA ]

HEAVEN ~

PAUL KAHN ~

You Used To Dance To Thelonious Monk


This is a picture of a view near Tassajara Springs. You can
see the creek falling down through the gorge toward the
sulfur springs. As I walked down the hill with a student at
the monastery there we discussed the kind of poem we both
admired. The rush of words that completely captures the
moment; the embody in that precise arrangement far more
than the words themselves could ever mean. Like the pulse felt
by the musician — it's always there. They said of Monk that he
heard music all the time. Craft is the ability to reveal it, let it
come through you for the moment, then let it go. Craft is a love
so large that it's lonely.

It was very lonely up there where I took this picture. When
you're out there doing that solo under the lights, who can you
love more than anyone else in the world? The truth is no one.
The truth is such distinctions become unfelt. How did the man
die who was hit by the train? Was he being chased?


At moments like this you're all alone with the world.





Thinking About Your Body


I am thinking of your body
I am envisioning the relationship
between your clothing and your skin.
The contrast of your hair,
its mixture of blond, brown and grey,
and the colors if your temples, pink and blue,
your eyes a hazel shade with lines that sparkle.
Black shoes.
A triangle of black lycra.
A beaded scarf and the flesh of your leg.

The back of my hand is pink with blue threads
like the back of your hand. I am thinking of how similar
the back of your hand is to the back of my hand,
though your fingers are so different.
In the sunlight I imagine I can see
the cells of my own skin, the texture of age.
Years repeat and numbers are abstract:
thirty, forty, fifty. These numbers
are actuary tables on life insurance policies.
I am thinking about the silhouette of your back,
how you appear walking away from me naked.
The human mind grasps first
a bold exterior shape, my teacher tells me.





An Angel in Saint' Ambrogio


Let not the last moment of your days
stand before a smoking angel
idling outside the venue where
a deity will perform
eventually
too late for the likes of you, my friend,
look at her,
that angel is the daughter of
a woman you once walked behind
closely admiring the snake tattoo
pricked along her neck.

Let not this moment pass without
becoming, a leap across the outflow,
those outstretched wings, those talons
coming down to pierce the skin
of water separating this world
and the next.

Paul Kahn

—————————————————————————

This has to be the thinnest spine I have ever seen for a "selected poems"

that covers 45 years, and I don't mean "thinnest" as in ability, but a modest

and well-studied showing from the poet. Every poem is a keeper. Try to top that.

I'm showing you three. I could have kept on typing.
The former editor of BEZOAR does not let us down.

SAM SHEPARD ~

PEGGY LEE ~

BIRD SHADOW ~

a new chapbook is now in hand by Ronald Baatz 
and typically for me with Ronald Baatz 
I can't help but begin to type up a handful of poems
 from an exquisite letterpress collection to share with you

_____________________________

Covered with road dust

peonies blind and beautiful

and remembering thunder

Returning alone from the dance

thinking about what

I'm going to tell the dog

I hire a fool to write my poems

but discover I can do the job

better myself

As a newborn I was brought home

from the hospital in a black car

followed by other black cars

In the morning

the hatless

squirrel

Listen!

you can tell that cricket is on its

last leg

This whole infuriating life

not overwhelming

old pajamas

Thoughts~

they come like birds

I have no seeds for



__________________

Ronald Baatz
BIRD SHADOW
Bottle of Smoke Press
PO BOX 12589
Wallkill, NY 12589
www.bospress.net