CESARIA EVORA ~

KATHY ACKER ~

M O R E !

Semiotext(e)

2017

STEVE YOUNG ~

MEMORY BABES ~

J A N      K E R O U A C

LU     A N N E     H E N D E R S O N

G E R A L D     N I C O S I A

Bring Memory Babe back in print

JAZZ ~

An ideal primer by a sharp, passionate jazz lover —

Miles Davis (but then maybe too much Miles Davis) I would

have dropped the final essay and all would have

been quite joyous with jazz in the park; leave

the reader dancing in the aisles with the author.

Good stuff on Hank Mobley, Sonny Clark, Wardell Gray,

Lee Morgan, and important tributes on the forgotten —

like Jutta Hipp and Lorraine Geller.

I salute this writer for those last two.

NO OTHER ~

FERLINGHETTI ~

New Directions

2017

edited by Nancy J. Peters

————————————

Rough Song of Animals Dying

(Lawrence Ferlinghetti)





In a dream within a dream I dreamt a dream of the reality of existence
inside the ultimate computer
which is the universe
in which the Arrow of Time
flies both ways
through bent space
In a dream within a dream I dreamt a dream of all the animals dying
all animals everywhere
dying & dying
the wild animals the longhaired animals
winged animals feathered animals
clawed & scaled & furry animals
rutting & dying & dying
In a dream within a dream I dreamt a dream
of creatures everywhere dying out
in shrinking rainforests
in piney woods & high sierras
on shrinking prairies & tumbleweed mesas
captured beaten strapped starved & stunned cornered & traded
species not meant to be nomadic
wandering rootless as man
In a dream within a dream I dreamt a dream
of all the animals crying out
in their hidden places
in the still silent places left to them
slinking away & crawling about
through the dense underbrush
the last Great Thickets
beyond the mountains
crisscrossed with switchbacks
beyond the marshes
beyond the plains & fences
(the West won with barbed-wire machines)
in the high country
in the low country
crisscrossed with highways
In a dream within a dream I dreamt a dream
of how they feed & rut & run & hide
In a dream within a dream I saw
how seals are beaten on the ice-fields
the soft white furry seals with eggshell skulls
the Great Green turtles beaten & eaten
exotic birds netted & caged & tethered
rare wild beasts & strange reptiles & weird woozoos hunted down for zoos
by bearded blackmarketeers
who afterwards ride around Singapore
in German limousines
In a dream within a dream I dreamt a dream
of the earth heating up & drying out
in the famous Greenhouse Effect
under its canopy of carbon dioxide
breathed out by a billion
infernal combustion engines
mixed with the sweet smell of burning flesh
In a dream within a dream I dreamt a dream
of animals calling to each other
in codes we never understand
The seal and steer cry out
in the same voice
as they are clubbed
in Chicago stockyards & Newfoundland snowfields It is the same cry
The wounds never heal
in the commonweal of animals
We steal their lives
to feed our own
and with their lives
our dreams are sown
In a dream within a deam I dreamt a dream
of the daily scrimmage for existence
in the wind-up model of the universe
the spinning meat-wheel world
in which I was a fish who eats his tail
in which I was a claw upon a beach
in which I was a snake upon a tree
in which I was a serpent's egg
a yin-yang yolk of good and evil
about to consume itself 


F E R L I N G H E T T I

LUCKY ~

Heavenly Ring

Tonight —

because of her

because of me

& the telescope

I bought for her

birthday and she

has become so adept

she calls me out into

the chill spring eve to

look straight up

through lenses to a

miraculous visitation

with Saturn, of all places

ABC Of Love

Once a sassy woman student

Asked me during a reading

If I ever had a leech

On my penis knowing

I lived in the woods

And bathed in a river

The class of women

All held their breaths —

When my wife arrived smiling

And radiant ready to meet

The class for the first time

She answered the question

Immediate Family

for Cid

Either sentimental

Or superstitious &

Maybe both while

Finishing a day

Tree cutting I

Kneel to level

A last ash stump

Which throws up

Two wet leaves onto

The fresh wood &

Seeing that add

One more leaf be-

Tween the two

Making sure

All touch

Lucky

She is right, this woman

I love, it has been a windy

Fall. And her blonde hair slips

Apart in long strands and with

One hand she combs it away from

Her face and she is smiling. For

Lunch she eats an apple and suns

Her legs, a summer skirt raised.

She is a mother. A small boy is

Napping upstairs in the house.

When awake he will chase

Leaves that fall down from the

Sky, that’s how he sees it.

He calls me daddy because I am.

When I was off at work this

Morning up river laying stone

Along the road in the village

A blonde woman and her young son

Visited me. Hands cold gripping

Wet stone, boots chalked. This

Woman carried her little boy

In her arms, his green sweater

Was like the one my son wears

His mother knitted, ah the love

Of mothers! and I gathered stone

By hand and thought of blue sky

Above, day clear as the river,

And why you must love what you do.

————————————

BOB ARNOLD

I'm In Love With You

Who Is In Love With Me

Longhouse 2012

VIRGINIA RODRIGUEZ ~

NEW RONALD BAATZ AT LONGHOUSE ~

For all of you free-loaders waiting for a free reading of the 

Longhouse foldout booklet of Ronald Baatz's long poem

— well, here it is! You knew I couldn't resist sharing

and it's such a beauty by Ronald

*

Those wishing to purchase a copy

can write here directly,

we're always home

*

Next up — a long poem foldout booklet

 by George Evans

*

And after that — a booklet of poems

by Salvatore Quasimodo

translated by Julia Older

*

Forget what the news says

this is the news

and it's grand

I          W O U L D          D I E          F O R
———————————————————

I would die for a music man of unwavering desire playing 

the marimba on a steamy night in Chili after a woman of 

beguiling shiny red smile had turned me into a frog the

smell of wild snow the dog under the bed the birth of

a star keeping a monkey awake.

I would die for endless drizzle for two flies sharing the 

same headache for all of the world's unfinished memoirs 

the waiter bringing a neon frog a drink in a cafe open all night 

the natives frying snakes in the kitchen the piranha 

stopping in to ask directions to the nearest racetrack 

because it's hungry for horses.

I would die for the seductiveness of costume jewelry on 

huge sailing ships and champagne showgirls telling me 

my life is the blissful consequence of illusions brought on

by the sun's extravagant fire storms being too close and 

the moon acting like a dreamy-eyed punk fool over rows

and rows of vacationing palm trees.

I would die for the wash still hanging on the line which 

a woman of laziness and raging desires gives no thought

as rain clouds take comfort in settling over the vast greenness 

of field her feet are running through high spidery-swaying

grasses as she flees from an overabundance of playful boys 

that summer brings to life with one easy snap of the fingers.

I would die for the lover's most special harvest in darkness 

the eyes' most beautiful bright skies the willowy hand moving 

fingers through my beard as my senses partake of the verities of 

small pink thornless roses climbing the fences of a hot mid-summer 

afternoon as it pauses in the garden of our o so eager and o so 

very alterable moods.

I would die for candles of endearing conversations and thoughts that 

go plop causing deep booming echoes through universes imparting 

a meaningful holiness to the fly in the window looking at the wind 

at birds that are remembering faraway trees the lovely shock of 

pears colliding with the earth or the smile of death that is just like 

the smile of a goat.

I would die for the ghosts of sparrows singing songs in fog that  

are just as quiet as fog the prowling solitude of a cat's collapsed stomach

the dew whispering on mud pies the cricket wishing farewell to summer 

the pumpkin rotting in frosty-dark sweetness the snowman choking 

on carrot fun the crazy indecipherable drunken talk of the prophet.

I would die for the lizard turning the sun into a pool of turquoise 

the ping pong game enchanting the mourning dove the long-distance

runner writing a novel in his head the tender blossomings of moons 

more than willing to be intimate with strangers the plums washed 

in clear images of peace bringing the world to a soothing standstill.

I would die for the sunrise lodged in a flea the worms singing in the 

open mouth of sunset the cute optimism of hummingbirds the 

new monks walking the streets with uncracked begging bowls the 

doe acknowledging the falling leaf the philosopher washing his face

while swatting the tiny buzzing mysteries of time.  

I would die for the floating doughnut the robustness of coffee black 

the softness of yellow silk covering a breakfast table the imperfect 

but playful weather of a baby god the delicate chattering of birds in 

a neighborhood blessed with the chimerical calm of foggy annihilation

the boundless everyday life clinging to a moth.

I would die for the kisses of grandmother's big wet sloppy lips

the scratches found in grandfather's footprints as though he were 

being followed by a chicken the remarkable openness of rain

falling in the birdbath and nowhere else the bear hug of 

the sailor who smells from China the scented beliefs of lilacs.

I would die for underground culture the unknown mushroom the 

meatball on fire the sensuously gluey fish the size of grains of rice 

swimming in memory the working dogs the sporting dogs the toy dogs 

the herding dogs the confident hounds the ridiculous terriers that 

refuse even to admit they have a dog's life or that they'd gladly eat a 

birthday cake and all its bones at the drop of a hat.

I would die for the maple the birch the black oak the mountain gum 

the white ash the sycamore the silver linden the weeping willow the 

silverbell the hackberry the peach tree that the children play under 

the dog barking at the tree it is tied to the tree's licking the dark 

with its leaves the sun in red ants the moon in black ants the stars 

in the lake the stars damp as the tea leaves we need to believe.

I would die for the waterfall smelling good from fresh cloudbursts the 

barn swallow darting from sheer and grandiose and commanding 

nothingness to more of such nothingness the great horned owl washing

its eyeballs in lemon juice the lightning that without fail purifies

every Wednesday evening and causes ashes of indifference to fall on

sweet fields of corn.

I would die for the compassion of saints the mountains of struggling souls

the defiant child making a wrinkled face as summer ends its life on a note 

firm as baby fat the singing of lovers on the sprouting plateaus of crispy 

hearts the old raving fool inhaling the breath of ants that are like 

the tiniest of enthusiastic tourists gazing at stars.

I would die for dandelion wine dizzily fermenting in the basement

the fig seed on a napkin the voices in the trees the drop of ink in mist

the smashed watermelon the happiness of tomorrows crossing the

river on a dead leaf the old saying that says mud chokes no eels 

the drunken laughter of poets free from the constraints of  

the mind's lonely prison. 

SOAK IT IN ~

SYLVIA PLATH ~

        USA edition ( Harper )                                                                          U.K. edition ( Faber )

An astonishing collection — which will become her ultimate autobiography when the second volume is released to the world — this first volume of over 1300 pages brings us to Sylvia Plath, age 24.

R E V I E W

Sylvia Plath with typewriter in Yorkshire, September 1956

Photograph: Elinor Friedman Klein/Mortimer Rare Book Room, Smith College, Northampton, Massachusetts

CHESTER HIMES ~

READ  ME!

MORE !

XU LIZHI ~

I Know A Day Will Come


I know a day will come

when those I know and don't know

will enter my room

to collect my remains

and wash the darkened blood stains I've shed across the floor

rearrange the upturned able and chairs

toss out the moldering garbage

take in the clothing from the balcony

someone will help me write the poem I didn't have time to finish

someone will help me read the book I didn't have time to finish

someone will help me light the candle I didn't have time to light

last will be the curtains that haven't been opened for years

someone will help me open them, and let the sunlight in for a while

they will be closed again, and nailed there deathly tight

the whole process will be orderly and solemn

when everything is tidy

they will all line up to leave

and help me quietly shut the door


——————————————

from "Six Poems of Labor & Desperation"
translated from the Chinese by Eleanor Goodman

      XU LIZHI   (1990-2014)

THOMAS MANN ~

CreditSusan Walsh/Associated Press

—————————————————————

The past half century has witnessed a retrogression of humanity, a chilling atrophy of culture, a frightening decrease in civility, decency, sense of justice, loyalty and faith and of the most elementary trustworthiness. Two world wars, breeding brutality and rapacity, have catastrophically lowered the intellectual and moral level (the two are inseparable) and left behind a state of disorder which is a poor safeguard against the plunge into a third world war which would end everything."

T  H  O  M  A  S        M  A  N  N

—————————————————————