CATO ~

B U R T     K W O U K     IS     G O N E

HOAGY LANDS ~

WOODCUTTER, Part 3 ~

"Hands"

photo ~ bob arnold 

may 2016

Many Times

There is the absolute way

Of doing it, and we have done it

Many times and again —

How I will come to you

How you will meet me

The early morning sun

Perfect on the bed, and

Stripes in the Mexican blanket

Like blood, the sea, yellow iris petals —

And it is a silly lovers ritual of ours,

I hug you and you hug me and step onto

My boots, and I walk you and me around the

Sunlit room, the sway of patchouli in your hair,

And your face smooth against my lips

Like the inside of your hands

The Skin of Her Neck

Tonight, because her hand is in pain, the small finger

Swollen, yes, I’ll stir the

Batter, although she is better

And first taught me how

Something is done right.

And I came from behind

And smelled the skin of

Her neck, the long blonde

Hairs alive and the blouse

White and rough, tucked into

A thin summer skirt.

Winter, near Christmas,

3 feet of snow and her

Body moves across the

Cabin room with summer,

A clay bowl with

Colored stripes in her

Arms, the fresh heat

Of the flat iron stove.

Redtail

By the river I found her —

Long and short feathers matted by weeks of rain,

A soft spotted down on her chest,

The whole body twisted in the crotch of an ironwood

This hawk hung and not a right way to die.

Nudged out with my axe handle it fell with no life,

Eyes gone and the rotting smell of blood and grease.

I cut the claws for the first time, others I’ve left —

One talon broken off and the muscular flex of skin

No different than a man’s, except for the ruggedness,

The pale yellow of it, but a companion to my own.

And the tail feathers — still a beautiful tan — pinned

Open for flight on rough pine boards inside our cabin,

I only buried some of her.

The Woodcutter Talks

I’ve got to go pretty soon

So I’ll take my boots off

And shake out the snow,

Sit close to the fire you

Have built, then left for me.

I’m in no hurry until the sun comes up.

My snowshoes need new leather straps

But for now they’ll have to do,

Carry me to the woods where I work

Thinning out the half bowl of a hillside —

That’s what it looks like — and sometimes

I rest and watch it for what it is, with my

Wet gloves off, the clearness above me.



_____________________________

Bob Arnold
WHERE RIVERS MEET

FINALLY, ED ABBEY'S DREAM ~

The Glen Canyon Dam

UNPLUGGING THE COLORADO RIVER

ny times

BOBBY CHARLES ~

THE REAL THING ~

Remembering John Herald

The World of John Herald

SMALL TOWN TALK ~

DaCapo Press, 2016

Along with Joe Boyd's White Bicycles

Hoskyns Small Town Talk

is one of the few enthralling books

on the subject of 60s popular music
from a small town like no other

and its cast of characters.

Hoskyns hits his stride from one

legendary pivot to the other: Albert Grossman,

Bob Dylan, The Band, Janis Joplin, various music

studios, producers, hometown local folkies

at the time Maria Muldaur, Jim Rooney, John Herald,

the drifters in and out like Jesse Winchester, Karen Dalton and Paul Butterfield

plus the diehard comments when needed by Ed Sanders.

You want a book that comes in and takes off its coat,

kicks off its boots, rolls up its sleeves and knows how to visit.

Here's the book.

BARNEY HOSKYNS SMALL TOWN TALK

JORGE CARRERA ANDRADE ~

JORGE  CARRERA  ANDRADE

Imprisoned beneath the leaf

an anemone watches

the world's sadness pass


Y A H A








The cicada.

Nothing in its song reveals

that tomorrow it must die.


B A S H O








Closed house:

Around the paper lantern

the bats dance.


R A N S E T S U








Beneath the vast snowfall

many hidden seeds

wait for spring.


I N E M S O








In this everything ends:

The skeleton of a fan

when the autumn wind blows.


O T S U Y U








The dead leaf

landing caresses

the stone tomb.


R A N S E T S U








Wild goose, wild goose

how old were you

when you first cut loose?


I S S A








Spring dies

and filled with tears

are the eyes of fish.


B A S H O


_________________________________

translated from the Spanish by Andrade
then from the Spanish by Joshua Beckman
and Alejandro de Acosta

WAVE BOOKS   Micrograms   2011 

IN A STATION (1968) ~

KATHERINE DUNN~

remembering

K A T H E R I N E     D U N N

(the young writer, then 24 years of age)

1945 ~ 2016

Katherine Dunn NY Times obituary

ON GROWING OLD IN SAN FRANCISCO ~

On Growing Old in San Francisco

Two girls barefoot walking in the rain

 
Both girls lovely, one of them is sane

 
Hurting me softly

 
Hurting me though

 
Two girls barefoot walking in the snow



Walking in the white snow



Walking in the black



Two girls barefoot never coming back




_____________________
J A C K     G I L B E R T

Views of Jeopardy
Yale Series of Younger Poets, volume 58
with a foreword by Dudley Fitts
Yale  University Press, 1962 


 

Long before Jack Gilbert was anywhere near old — President Jack Kennedy was still alive, Martin Luther King was alive, Malcolm X was here, The Beatles and Stones had yet to land in the USA,

so far a monkey had been shot into space, but Jack Kerouac had begun his decline, and Jack Gilbert wrote this poem. I heard him read the poem when it was both raining and snowing outdoors, early April, and now Jack Gilbert was very old, taking the stage, and this was one of the first poems he brought forth, maybe it was the first poem of the evening; by the way he presented the poem, with the smallest commanding voice, I recall nothing afterwards. It was as if an old man, very old man, had never forgotten these girls, that weather, those times, that sighting, and the very place, and we were nowhere near San Francisco. And yet with his declining powers, we were. The whole room. He looked up and paused after reading this short poem as if to see if people were really paying attention and did they hear what he had just read? It was from his very first book of poems. The best poets remember every poem they wrote.

JACK GILBERT'S PARIS REVIEW INTERVIEW

GUY CLARK ~

G U Y     C L A R K

November 6, 1941 – May 17, 2016

GUY CLARK ON FACEBOOK

SMALL TOWN BUILDER ~

THE HAND OF THE SMALL TOWN BUILDER

  a marvelous book, sometimes found remaindered so act accordingly,

on a disappearing architecture and lifestyle which has no

reason at all to disappear

the text is conscientious and savvy

the photographs are mouth-watering for any builder

WOODCUTTER, Part 2 ~

Work Gloves

On the garden gate

Left here with me —

Shape of her hands

 

I Have Been Told

Down on the river

There is a small place

Where there is no sound

Nothing, and I know it well

And I have been told

And since found

That when climbing back

Loaded with water

At the top of the rise

If you half turn your head

The river will tilt into your ear

 

Horse & Farmhand

Here is the slowness

Of afternoon and sun

A farmhand bending to lift

A sleeve of ice

From a trough

In the pasture

The horse that stands still

The snow we’ve been waiting for

 

Winter Day

I swore if you laid

Your cheek, wind

Blown red as any

Soft maple leaf

Onto the pond,

And looked down through

The half-foot of 

Ice, the rest was

Water flowing clear

Way back up to you —

The scales of depth

Catching your breath

___________________________

Bob Arnold
WHERE RIVERS MEET

TOM JONES MEETS JOHN LEE HOOKER ~

Can a 70 year old one-time Welsh pop star

Sing the Blues —

have a listen.

The two twins in the band

drive the train

(2010 )

THE TARBOX RAMBLERS ~

A Boston four-piece band
(or three)

that plays right out of the

railroad cinders

(Rounder, 2000)

REBECCA WOLFF ~

R E B E C C A     W O L F F

Man Tits




Look at that pair,



on the one over there.

He's young, skinny, low

muscle tone, poor, white, under-

educated . . . gazing

down

on a

path



in the little patch

of yard in front of his

unfavorably situated

rental where he stands, hands

on hips, mutable, conceivable

speculation on the next weekend

chore.



But his tits are the good

kind: fat, conical, pale against

the brown of his wife-beater tan,

nipples slightly shiny,

areolate. Bouncy, native tits



like the ones you came to see.






Admit No Impediment




I'm going to get up from the table

and go to the bathroom



When I get back,

if your napkin has moved

from the left side of your plate

to the right, I'll

know you want to.



There will be no need to speak.

Or, wait a minute,

maybe it should be if your napkin

hasn't moved.



I want to make this

as easy for you

as I can.






Parkeresque




I'd like a

lidless



Vicodin.

Oblivion.



Countless

sensation of him



leaving the room.

Come back soon.



It occurred to me

fait accompli.



Clinamen.

Phantom limb.



Black cat sleeping

(you used to be

next to me)

next to me



dreams our lost

telepathy.


____________________



Rebecca Wolff
One Morning —.
Wave Books, 2015

NUMBERS (15.60.75) ~

A seven-piece, three-sax band from Kent Ohio

led by lead singer-guitarist Robert Kidney

This was often the band's closing number

"Up the road I'm going," Jimmy Bell wails

("what road?")