JIMMY SCOTT ~

1967 ~

R E A D     M E

KENNETH KOCH & JOHN ASHBERY ~

SLIM HARPO ~

PHILIPPE JACCOTTET ~

Seagull Books

2017

DECEMBER

Pull back this curtain of snow . . .

JANUARY

The stream: an advancing murmur, escorted by that

of the trees, of the birds hidden along its edges.

   In Atoms of Silence, Hubert Reeves writes that

time passes more slowly at the bottom of a valley than

on the top of a mountain.

   Of the pilgrim, he says: 'He must be taught to live

in the space between knowledge and vision, and to

take the precise steps that will lead him to the truth.'

There was that late winter, saturated with frigid

lights as if we were already being pursued by a

swarm of hail with most tender stings.

   Then the knot of brooks came undone

like a braid.

   The hail lived in the trees for a short

time . . .

DECEMBER

The comet, sparkling, observed yesterday in the icy

night:  nothing more than a dandelion's feathery

sphere.

JUNE

Afternoon heat. The sky almost incandescent just

above the rooftops, light blue higher up, where even

the swifts appear calmer, less greedy, almost always

taking time to glide.

'The cold season.' It could be a title. Nothing that

burns, nothing that devours. As when we leave, and

naturally it's the case, whether we like it or not.

Nevertheless, the world is still there; the foliage

shines; the light on the morning horizon is a white

haze. The spider webs are also shining in the window, 

fragile and tenacious — exemplary in this. There is no

way to feign 'perfect joy'.

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Philippe Jaccottet

ASTRAL WEEKS ~

This is musician and spirit Mel Lyman

(look him up)

Finally, a handsomely researched book on the Boston

music scene — folk to rock — circa 1968.

Van Morrison is the big cookie in this book

but Mel Lyman and followers is the jam

center.

The Velvet Underground show up

ditto Leary and Alpert at Harvard

&

LSD

and how could one forget The Boston Strangler ~

Astral

DOWN IN JOE BUSSARD'S BASEMENT ~

HUNTER S. THOMPSON ~

R E A D     M E

Melville House

2018

ROBERT NIGHTHAWK ~

NEW LONGHOUSE BOOKLETS! ~

All new from Longhouse this year
 in their fold-out splendor ~

Julia Older translates Boris Vian and Salvatore Quasimodo

two accordion booklets available with wrap around bands

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TWO LONG POEM BOOKLETS BY

GEORGE EVANS

&

ROBALD BAATZ

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Each foldout booklet with wrap around band

$10 postpaid in the USA ~

Overseas please inquire

OR

Take ALL six booklets for $45

postpaid

We accept a check or please use Paypal with our email — poetry@sover.net

We'd be happy to Paypal invoice you upon request

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L O N G H O U S E
P.O. Box 2454
West Brattleboro
Vermont
05303

GLADE ~

Glade

                                           for SEA

the woodcutter

never gets it —

while he sleeps

firewood seasons

Where the tall hemlock

crashed down in the woods

taking away its shade

now a sunshine

with only benevolence

runs along its spine

work clothes off

back into a skirt

you show me

at supper where

the log today

bruised your shin

right behind

and nearly under 

the truck we spread

the Mexican blanket

to take a nap be-

tween cutting wood

because the sunshine is there

the apple today

isn’t as tasty as

the apple yesterday

you packed for me

at lunch when we 

break from wood-

cutting and the two

chocolate kisses you

never forget to bring

the same time

we are cutting

all this wood

the tomatoes

back at home

are ripening

the ash trees by the truck

are so willowy and tall I

hate to cut them down

to dry that way through

fall, winter, spring and I

will visit them again by

summer with my saw

meaning business

I can’t help but stop

to rest and sink my

woodsmear hands

while hugging you

down inside your

overalls and now

your smile at my

touch of the 

silkiest things

without looking —

too busy with axe

chain saw, wooded ground tumble

we hear hawk, bluejay, sparrow, owl

chickadee & a few things unknown

It’s a glade we rough out from

blowndown oak and maple trees

woodcut and hand-split circle

of sunshine and scrabble

we could almost call it home

before we hiked in for a look

then drove in getting serious

with chain saw and tools

everything was just fine

(and rotting)

I said

we could make love

right on the tailgate

33 years

somehow never done

she said she would

but in the deepest green woods

someone could be watching

I can split red oak on the run

rock maple with three whacks

I dream about it now

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BOB ARNOLD

I'm In Love With You

Who Is In Love With Me

Longhouse 2012

 

JACKIE WILSON'S WORKOUT ~

HIT THE NAIL ON THE HEAD ~

"It's fun how values can waver"

BARBARA DANE ~

COLD MOUNTAIN ~

JAIME BROCKETT ~

Jerry Jeff Walker wrote the song

but I always liked Brockett's version

off his debut album in 1968

'Remember the Wind and the Rain'

LOUISE GLUCK ~

JO NESBØ ~

Yes, it's a formulaic crime novel,

but there are some surprises,

and at least one head rolls

Knopf 2015

WHEN SPRING COMES. . . ~

D O U G L A S      C R A S E

When Spring Comes First
To West 21st Street


The day we discovered the world
Was the day it had also been there all the time,
Furious to be documented in the seasons which grow on us
So unnoticeably. At Montauk the lighthouse again
Is closer to the sea and above Dyckman Street
The nets have been spread to catch the running shad,
Fewer though not less vigorous than they used to be.
In the bookstores even the lichens are said
To be in danger now (the lichens, think of that)
But in the city we've got the sparrows going at it
Flagrante deluxe before our eyes, apparently
Unembarrassed by DDT. It must be spring
And the blood badgering underneath the skin
Is one of the spring ephemerals perking up
Before the overpowering shade of summer does it in.
Considering its circumstance, the smell of sweet bay
In the Bronx is close to sickening in sentiment:
What have we done? Is it true the English
Could have called Long Island as they did, Eden?
Anyway, if the seas keep warming up it will all be gone
And it may be our sense of this that unlocks the day,
Bringing trout lilies and marsh marigolds into mind
As the last of the concerts are letting out uptown,
And this that brings 800 to watch the egrets
In Jamaica Bay (one hundredth of a percent:
Viewed thus, "population per capita" is really small).
Stolen, our love of the world
Must be stolen from the world the way hepaticas
Steal light from the climax forest
Where alone they are able to grow. Too much with us
And too soon, the world extends its canopy
To alter the feel as well as color of the air.
How much time we have is hard to say
But, swift as the camera's shutter when it flowers,
That's how swift we're going to have to be
As the bloom of swamp maples reddens into the past
Just like the sun. The speed of the seasons
And their slant remain untouched and unidentified
Until the beauty of something beautiful makes the day.


—————————
Douglas Crase
The Revisionist
Litte, Brown 1981

ROBERT DUNCAN & JOHN WIENERS ~