Sunday, February 17, 2019
Saturday, February 16, 2019
RYOKAN ~
Written In My Hermitage
On A Snowy Evening
For more than seventy years, I have been making
Myself dizzy observing men.
I have abandoned trying to penetrate men's good and bad actions.
Coming and going is a sign of weakness.
Heavy snow in the dead of night —
Under the weather-beaten window, once incense stick.
Light rain — the mountain forest is wrapped in mist.
Slowly the fog changes to clouds and haze.
Along the boundless river bank, many crows.
I walk to a hill overlooking the valley to sit in zazen.
After spending the day begging in town,
I now sit peacefully under a cliff in the evening cool.
Alone, with one robe and one bowl —
The life of a Zen monk is truly the best!
_____________________
Ryokan
One Robe, One Bowl
translated by John Stevens
Friday, February 15, 2019
ADAM ZAGAJEWSKI ~
Mandelstam in Theodosia
Let me go; I wasn't made for jail.
—OSIP MANDELSTAM
(arrested in Theodosia in 1920
Mandelstam was not mistaken, he wasn't made
for jail, but jails were made
for him, countless camps and prisons
waited for him patiently, freight trains
and filthy barracks, railroad switches and
gloomy waiting rooms kept waiting
till he came, secret police in leather
jackets waited for him and party
hacks with ruddy faces.
"I will not see the famous Phaedra,"
he wrote. The Black Sea didn't shed
black tears, pebbles on the shore
tumbled submissively, as the wave desired,
clouds sailed swiftly across the inattentive earth.
July
July, the blackbirds have stopped singing.
I sit on a bench by the bank of a slow river,
I hear the hate-filled quarreling of lovers,
whom I don't know and never will.
Sweaty athletes run along the avenue.
The morning sun shines indifferently
on the calm dark water
that is apathy personified.
A little boy carries a plastic bag
bearing the garish logo Men's Health,
souls almost never meet,
bodies do battle cloaked in darkness.
A rain frail as haiku arrives in the night.
Light bells mumble at dawn.
While we're alive.
Sandals
The sandals I bought many years ago
for twenty eros
in the Greek village of Theologos
on the island of Thassos
haven't work out at all,
they're just like new.
I must have gotten,
quite accidentally,
a hermit's, a saint's sandals.
How they must suffer
carrying an ordinary sinner.
__________________________
ADAM ZAGAJEWSKI
Asymmetry
translated from the Polish
by Clare Cavanagh
Farrar, Straus and Giroux2018
Thursday, February 14, 2019
POLISH IMMIGRANTS ~
Polish Immigrants
how do they break away from the land
where even stones take root
how do two languages share one mouth
like two women in one kitchen
how do they bring their bloody bodies
wrapped in accordions instead of bandage
through Security
do new hotels remind them
of boxes of german chocolate
is it true that their pillows
are stuffed with soil
softer than any feather
their faces differ from the locals'
by the number of wrinkles
as if they started
sculpturing something new out of their skin
but then stopped having changed their minds
and never finished their reincarnation
the tiny wrinkles in the corners of their eyes
twisted and shiny from sweat
like bonbon wrappers
but when you look into those eyes
you are looking down the barrel of a gun —
what do you need
in the territory of their city
painted on the wall of the restaurant
Taste of Europe
and there
that very taste
fills your eyes with saliva
————————————
Valzhyna Mort
Factory of Tears
Copper Canyon Press
2008
Wednesday, February 13, 2019
CLIVE FAUST ~
"Light flickers on and off ruffled layers of leaves."
A modest size book of what Clive terms
"Minims, Thoughts, Essayettes
and Mini-Descriptions"
and I leave it to you
to find the many
dozens of excellent
haiku
Shearsman Books
U.K.
2018
Tuesday, February 12, 2019
HEAVEN LAKE (20) ~
Hair Song
My son’s hair is
More than mine
Longer than mine
Prettier than mine
Not mine but his
I Keep
I keep a small
hatch door I built
in my work room
ajar to hear my
wife and son talk in
the kitchen where all
the best talking has
always been done
11 Years Old
I see how much
He has grown when
Bending to kiss him
As he sleeps an arm
Out of the covers
Is very very long
Out In The Woods
Young son
waits
patiently
this
summer
with
tele-
scope
for one
more
plane
to fly
over
Needs
In the bakery
dad carries out
a trim white box
of Sunday delicacies
his little daughter
follows, white cap
ignored, holding a
cookie to her nose
—————————————
Bob Arnold
Heaven Lake
Longhouse 2018
Monday, February 11, 2019
Sunday, February 10, 2019
POETS WHO SLEEP by BOB ARNOLD ~
! See !
Bob Arnold's Big Book of Drawn Poets' Portraits
"Poets Who Sleep"
The complete Poets Who Sleep by Bob Arnold
is available as a print limited edition
6" x 8" ~ perfect bound
576 pages!
$75
plus shipping
plus shipping
Paypal ~ use our email of poetry@sover.net
_______________
All orders, please inquire :
longhousepoetry@gmail.com
Saturday, February 9, 2019
KOON WOON ~ NEW FROM LONGHOUSE 2019 ~
Koon Woon
I Name You
Longhouse, 2019
First edition
New and limited
A Longhouse limited edition
four page foldout
with decorative label
Signed by the poet
Poetry
$20
Buy now
with Paypal,
please use our email
poetry@sover.net
Check or money order ~
Longhouse
PO Box 2454
West Brattleboro, Vermont
05303
Friday, February 8, 2019
Thursday, February 7, 2019
Wednesday, February 6, 2019
GEORGES BATAILLE ~
I lose you in the wind
I count you among the dead
a necessary rope
between wind and heart
I have nothing to do with this world
if not to burn
I love you in dying
Your absence of repose
a mad wind whistles in your head
you are sick to have laughed
you fled me for a better void
that tore your heart
Tear me up if you want to
my eyes find you in the night
burning with fever
I'm cold at heart I tremble
from the depths of suffering I call you
with an inhuman cry
as if I gave birth
You strangle me like death
I know this miserably
I find you only in agony
you are beautiful like death
All words strangle me
Star pieces the sky
cry like death
strangle
I don't want life
strangling me is a kindness
the star that rises
is cold like a dead woman
Excite me, eyes
I love the night
my heart is black
Push me into the night
everything is false
I suffer
The world feels death
birds fly eyes slashed open
you are somber as a black sky
The festival will begin
in filth and fear
The stars will fall
when death approaches.
You are the horror of the night
I love you like a death rattle
you are weak like death
I love you like delirium
you know that my head dies
you are the immensity the fear
You are beautiful like slaughter
enormous heart I suffocate
your stomach is naked as the night.
You bring me straight to the end
the agony has begun
I have nothing more to tell you
I speak from the grave
and the dead are silent.
Limpid from head to toe
fragile as the dawn
the wind has shattered the heart
For the duration of anguish
the black night is a church
wherein one slaughters a pig
Trembling from head to toe
fragile as death
agony my great sister
You are colder than the earth.
____________________
Georges Bataille (1897 - 1962 )
The Poetry of Georges Bataille
translated and introduction by Stuart Kendall
SUNY Press / NY 2018
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