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Beneath Cherry Blossoms - The Lilliput Review Blog

Thursday, 29 November 2007

New Posting at Issa's Untidy Hut


 

There is a new posting this morning at Issa's Untidy Hut .  In order to subscribe to the new RSS feed for Issa's Untidy Hut , you can cut and paste the following into your feed reader:

http://lilliputreview.blogspot.com/rss.xml

All future posts will be to the new blog.  Please make note of the above and I hope to hear from you at the new spot.

best,

Don


Posted by donw714 at 07:55 EST | Post Comment | Permalink
Updated: Thursday, 29 November 2007 07:59 EST

Saturday, 24 November 2007

New Blog ... Issa's Untidy Hut


It seems it is time to give up on the Tripod blogging service and move along to Blogger.  There has been myriad difficulties with Tripod, both technical and stylistic.  Suffice it to say, I’ve had it.

 

All future postings will be at the new Lilliput blog,  Issa's Untidy Hut.  Here is the url:

 

 http://lilliputreview.blogspot.com/  

 

My apologies for the change so soon after beginning.  You can imagine how I feel about it.  In any case, I believe the new blog will be much more amenable to what I want to do, has a nicer presentation, and is, huzzah, ad free.

 

Hope you follow me over.  I will continue to post sample poems from back issues, as well as general announcements, news and musings.  I’d love to hear from you in the comments section.

 

best,

Don

 

 

cherry blossoms scatter--

a nightingale sings

I cry

Issa

translated by David Lanoue

 

 


 

 

 


Posted by donw714 at 10:02 EST | Post Comment | Permalink
Updated: Saturday, 24 November 2007 10:04 EST

Thursday, 22 November 2007

Over to "Issa's Untidy Hut"


 

Well, this morning I wrestled two out of three falls with posting here at "Tripod" and lost.  So, instead of compromising, I've posted this morning at the back up blog

Issa's Untidy Hut

Just click through ... Don

 


Posted by donw714 at 07:22 EST | Post Comment | Permalink
Updated: Thursday, 22 November 2007 07:23 EST

Saturday, 17 November 2007

Chocolate Jesus, T. S. Eliot & the Half-Eaten Moon


 

 

Since there was a week missed while I was away, I thought I’d make up with an extra posting.  The true prompting for this was my stumbling on the Tom Waits' performance of “Chocolate Jesus” on Late Night, posted on YouTube.  Just way too good not to share.

 

 

In addition, I was struck by the following paragraph by James Longenbach in his review of the Hollander’s translation of Dante’s Paradiso in Sunday November 11th New York Times Book Review:

 

“T. S. Eliot said that poetry is a form of punctuation.  To divide sentences in lines (units that cut against the natural syntax of sentences) is to control the pacing and intonation of words in a way that grammatical procedures alone cannot.  Lines create patterns of sound that seduce our ears, making us linger over sonic fragments, while the ongoing sentences lure our brains forward.  A rhymed poem highlights this tension, since rhyme encourages us to hear where lines end.”

            

 

I’m not sure I totally agree with the last line; that is to say, it is true but, like a two-edged sword, may cut both ways.  Rhyme may lull us from this very purpose.  All in all, though, I found this observation cogent.

 

 

Since this is an additional posting, I thought I would dip back into issue #129 and see if there isn’t a little something more to be mined there:

 

 

 

 

            falling leaves

            deep deep seeing

            Buddha

                             ~Taneda Santoka

                               translated by Scott Watson

 

 

 

 

 

 

between rain showers¾

the letters making up the name

worn off the headstone

                                        ~ Gary Hotham

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

                        Manna

-- the morning birds have

            eaten half the moon –

                                  leaving plenty for us

         ~ Tim Robbins

 

 

 

 

 

Till next week …    Don              

 

 


     


Posted by donw714 at 07:07 EST | Post Comment | View Comments (1) | Permalink
Updated: Saturday, 17 November 2007 08:56 EST

Thursday, 15 November 2007

Disappearing "Beneath Cherry Blossoms" reappears ...


Imagine my surprise at coming back from vacation to find Beneath Cherry Blossoms gone.   Kaput.  Vanished.  No more (insert dead parrot routine here).   So I quickly scampered off to Blogger, with much twitching, swearing and likewise bizarre behavior, and started a new blog, Issa's Untidy Hut.  

And, of course, after all that, my email to tech people at Lycos seems to have done the trick and Beneath Cherry Blossoms has reappeared.  Rather than retype the whole thing, for this week's post I'll send you directly to

Issa's Untidy Hut

and call it a morning.  All future posts will continue to be here at BCN, with Issa's Untidy Hut serving as backup. 

Now, where's that pint of warm beer?


 

 

 


Posted by donw714 at 07:46 EST | Post Comment | View Comments (1) | Permalink
Updated: Thursday, 15 November 2007 13:04 EST

Friday, 2 November 2007

Thomas Hardy, Obscenity, Poetry


 

 

Today is the anniversary of the publication of Jude the Obscure by Thomas Hardy, for which he was largely pilloried.  In fact it was the final straw for Hardy; he turned to poetry and never published another novel.  The background story to this can be read at Today in LiteratureI would add the story James Joyce used to tell of sending his little brother, Stanislaus, to the local lending library for a copy, which he was denied when he asked for "Jude the Obscene." 

 

The promised new issues, #'s 159 & 160, will begin going out in two weeks to contributors after some much needed r & r, with the rest of the run following shortly thereafter.  As a result of the r & r, there will be no posting next week.  I may try to sneak another in this week if the time presents itself.

Meanwhile, today's selection of archived poetry comes from, Lilliput #128.  The last two works deal sumi-e art, a Japanese style of brushwork.

 

 

a crowd of faces - -

who can identify

the back of their own head?

-- Jason Heroux

 

 

being an iris,

attending to poetry.

-- Basho

    rendered by Scott Watson 

 

 

 

 

 

loading a brush

sound of a circle

-- Ed Baker

 

 

 

 

 

making do with fro-

zen dew.  my brush full

of empty.

-- Basho

    rendered by Scott Watson

  


   

 

 

 


Posted by donw714 at 10:30 EDT | Post Comment | Permalink
Updated: Friday, 2 November 2007 10:32 EDT

Wednesday, 24 October 2007

New issues , Pamela Miller Ness, Marvin Bell and more ...


 

It seems the older I get, the more time there is between issues.  The new issues will be rolling out in November and December, contributor copies going out first and then the full run of subscribers.  Issue numbers 159 and 160 will feature the work of John Martone and Yosano Akiko, newly translated by Dennis Maloney. 

It is very exciting to see up and online a pdf version of Origin: Sixth Series, from Longhouse and featuring the work of the selfsame John Martone and continuing the fine editiorial of the late Cid Corman.  This 370 page journal is a model of both poetry and Internet publishing and is not to be missed.

 

 

 

 

 

This week's issue is #127 (November 2002), with a cover by Harland Ristau.  Harland was a great correspondent, artist and poet, whose work had its origins in the Beats.   His recent passing has left an unfillable gap for those who knew him.   From this issue, the following:

 

About Me

I can see parts of myself

I never saw before

now that the leaves

are gone.

Like I can see

cut rows of corn

with pecking black birds

behind the loosely

woven trees of November.

              --- Carlo D'Ambrosi

 

 

Dancing Ganesha

god with elephant head,

lend me

your tusk dipped in ink, let me

write long, long as the Ganges

--- Pamela Miller Ness

 

 

To Him:

You have buffed

and waxed poetic,

until your conscience is so clear

it is invisible.

--- Jen Hawkins

 

 

sleep on the road.

listen to the autumn wind

you'll know what I mean

--- Basho

      Rendered by Scott Watson 

 

 

Finally if  you have a chance, check out Marvin Bell's poem A Campus in Wartime, as read by Garrison Keillor on The Writer's Almanac this past Wednesday.

It seems we always need reminding.

 



Posted by donw714 at 06:34 EDT | Post Comment | Permalink
Updated: Saturday, 3 November 2007 06:32 EDT

Thursday, 18 October 2007

Moby Grape's Don Stevenson and Lilliput #126

 

This week saw the birthday of Don Stevenson, drummer of the legendary Moby Grape, pictured above flashing all of us the secret sign.   Ah, such an innocent time, indeed, when flagging the high sign could be an act of revolution, celebration and immaturity all delightfully wrapped into one.  In any case, this, Moby Grape's first album, remains to this day one of the finest album to come out of the 60's and still remains listenable in a way that elicits nary a cringe.  Check out the live performance on the The Mike Douglas Show (Douglas introduces them as "The Moby Grapes"): the 2 numbers perfectly highlight how they could rock (despite some bad mic-ing) and also write and perform a timeless ballad ("8:05").  What the heck, here's two more that illustrate exactly the same thing with two different songs ("Hey Grandma" and "Sitting by the Window," the former with the fine lyric "Robitussin makes me feel so fine, Robitussen and elderberry wine") from there seminal first album.

Here's some selections from the next issue in our Lilliput Review tour, #126.

 

 

           In the drunk's

            "Bless you"

the priest he could've been

- Pat Sweeney

 

 

butterfly

wrapping

me

around

her

finger

- Ed Baker

 

 

a line of ants

carrying the butterfly-

metamorphosis

- Brian Henderson

 


 

 

Old Man In The TV Room

There he slumps

an alluvial fan

that once was

a tall mountain.

Years like rain.

- Taylor Graham

 

 

 

And two by Mr. Huffstickler:

 

 

We have to learn

not to replace

perception with knowledge.

Forget science.

Pierced by starlight,

I know what a star is.

 

 

 

Write on my tombstone:

Once so easily distracted,

now focused.

- Albert Huffstickler.

 



Posted by donw714 at 08:28 EDT | Post Comment | Permalink
Updated: Sunday, 21 October 2007 13:28 EDT

Thursday, 11 October 2007

Harold Pinter and Cid Corman

 


October seems to be crunch month.  There is so much to do, truly so little time.  Besides teaching a poetry class, there are two guest lecture spots I need to do, all this from someone who became a librarian because he didn't want to teach.  Zip drive crashes, two new issues to get out and, oh, yeah, that pesky full-time job.  So it goes, indeed.

This week was Harold Pinter's birthday and he reminds us how truly awful the state of the world is.  If you have not seen his Nobel Prize lecture, Art, Truth & Politics, it is a must.  Steel yourself for the truth, because that is what you will get and it is doesn't get any uglier.     

 

 

Issue #125 of Lilliput Review was something of a celebration of the truth: a broadside by the master poet, Cid Corman.  I've talked about Cid in previous posting and his generosity to even the humblest of publications.  So, rather than belabor you further with my inadequate musings, I'll let him speak for himself.  The broadside was entitled Only.

 

You're going

to have to

 

die.  Let life

prepare you.

 

 

There are reasons for

reasons excuses excuse

and there you are - here.

 

 

DYINGLIVING

To feel what it is

was to be or have been this

only this moment.

 


 


Posted by donw714 at 08:50 EDT | Post Comment | View Comments (4) | Permalink
Updated: Friday, 26 October 2007 08:13 EDT

Thursday, 4 October 2007

Laurence Sterne ... Wallace Stevens ... Allen Ginsberg ... Lilliput Review

 

In the latest reverberations of the current administrations' Draconian policies, the legendary New York radio station WBAI has decided to reverse their decision to play Allen Ginsberg's Howl on the air during this the 50th anniversary year of its publication.   The outrage is well beyond ludicrous; one hardly can blame BAI, a public radio station around since before the Flood , since the amount of the fines now levied by the FCC for "obscenity" could threaten their very existence.

Still, one would hope that someone would take these bastards to court.  I suppose the prosecution team would see their poker buddies presiding, with little chance for real justice.

In lighter fare, I'm currently reading Tristram Shandy by Laurence Sterne and it is, unequivocably, the funniest book I've ever read.   Swift brings the laughs, but Gulliver is all about satire.  Sterne brings the satire but, truly, Tristram is all about the laughs.

There is a very interesting version of Shandy up on the web here.   It is a hypertext version, that takes you to criticism at specific points and all manner of interesting Sterneiana as well as e-texts on arts, fashion, history, language, music etc., all pertaining to Sterne and his times.  Really, this is the web at its best, at least from a scholarly point of view. 

If this, however, is all too much and you're just in it for the laughs, there is a version in Google Books (a blurry scan of a New York Public Library book, highlighting what's wrong with Google books, hence no link provided here) and a standard e-text version at Project Gutenberg.  For reading purposes, I recommend the standard Penguin version, specifically for the informative notes appended.

As noted on The Writer's Almanac this week, it was the birthday of Wallace Stevens.   One of the great short poems that directly shows the influence of the East and its influence on the Imagists, Thirteen Ways of Looking at a Blackbird is one (or more, actually) of the truly great short poems.

The Lilliput issue of the week is #124, with a cover by the late great Harland Ristau.  Here are a few highlights.

 

we slide her casket out-

the small loose stones

under our feet

~ Gary Hotham

 

 

Something about voyages,

how the body itself

is not the voyager

but the voyage.

~ Albert Huffstickler

 

 

        A click beetle

      Looks both ways

On a page of philosophy

~ Patrick Sweeney

 

 

In the house of rain

there are many mansions

~ Albert Huffstickler

 


 


Posted by donw714 at 11:02 EDT | Post Comment | View Comments (2) | Permalink
Updated: Friday, 5 October 2007 07:00 EDT

Friday, 28 September 2007

On the run ...


An extremely busy week here in Pittsburgh; I taught a lifelong learning class on poetry at the University of Pittsburgh, sponsored by our local library association (ACLA), am busy making plans for some hiking in the woods and the usual Lilliput things.  Also, some film reviews for the website Fulvue Drive-In, one on Marco Polo and the other on the House of Usher.  Both were pretty horrific, and not in a good way, which, of course made writing the reviews all the more fun.

So, I'll keep it brief.  Today is a day when losers everywhere pause to commemorate the great Arnold Stang.  Here is an interview with him because, well, it's the web and here's an interview ... with delightful picture.

Continuing our leisurely sampling of back issues of Lilliput Review, it's time to skip forward to #123.  #122 is a one poem broadside by David Chorlton entitled And, which would be criminal to excerpt, so I won't.  It is available for a mere buck ... but enough with the plugs, on with the poems.

 

One Small Poem

  can take you

  a long way

 

  think how far

  you've come

 

  to find

  this one.

                       ~ Bart Solarczyk

 

INTERLUDE

  IN THE MORNING

  WE SAID THINGS

  RARELY SPOKEN BEFORE

  3 AM

  & OUR HEARTS BEAT

  LIKE THIS THIS THIS.

~ Lonnie Sherman

 

Nearing

the face of the child

a snowflake quickens

~ Patrick Sweeney

 

And the indomitable Albert Huffstickler:

 

I wanted to understand

so much all at once

but learned:

to understand everything,

begin with one breath.

 



Posted by donw714 at 10:06 EDT | Post Comment | View Comments (4) | Permalink

Thursday, 20 September 2007

Kesey, Hendrix, Yeats and all ...

 


 

This week saw anniversaries for Ken Kesey (birth) and Jimi Hendrix (death).  Known, of course, for Cuckoo's Nest, Kesey's Sometimes a Great Notion is a book worth revisting and, in fact, may be every bit as great, if not quite as universal.  From one of chapter headnotes, for which he seems be nodding back to Hemingway, is one of those moments one finds sprinkled throughout Kesey's work as often as that of, say, Thomas Hardy:

 

   "Time overlaps itself.  A breath breathed from a passing

breeze is not the whole wind, neither is it just the last of

what has passed and the first of what will come, but is

more - let me see - more like a single point plucked on a

single strand of a vast spider web of winds, setting the

whole scene atingle.  That way; it overlaps ..."

 

And Hendrix, Jimi Hendrix, what can be said that hasn't been already. Well, there are the lyrics, for instance.  Take Voodoo Chile (Slight Return):

 

Well, I stand up next to a mountain

And I chop it down with the edge of my hand.

Well, I stand up next to a mountain

Chop it down with the edge of my hand.

Well, I pick up all the pieces and make an island,

Might even raise a little sand.

Cause I'm a voodoo chile,

Lord knows, I'm a voodoo chile.

 

I didn't mean to take up all your sweet time,

I'll give it right back to you one of these days.

I said I didn't mean to take up all  our sweet time,

I'll give it right back one of these days.

And if I don't meet you no more in this world,

Then I'll meet you in the next one and don't be late,

Don't be late.

Cause I'm a voodoo chile, voodoo chile.

Lord knows, I'm a voodoo chile, hey, hey, hey.

I'm a voodoo chile, baby.

 

And this, Up From the Skies, from his arguable masterpiece, Axis: Bold as Love:

 

I just want to talk to you,

I won't do you know harm.

I just want to know about your different lives

On this here people farm.

I heard some of you got  your families

Living in cages, tall and cold.

And some just stay there and dust away,

Past the age of old.

Is this true?

Please let me talk to you.

 

I just wanna know about

The rooms behind your minds.

Do you see a vacuum there

Or am I going blind?

Or is it just, uh, remains of vibrations

And echoes long ago?

Things like love the world

And, uh, let your fancy flow?

Is this true?

Please let me talk to you,

Let me talk to you.

 

I have lived here before

The days of ice

And of course this is why

I'm so concerned.

And I come back to find

The stars misplaced

And the smell of a world

That has burned,

The smell of a world

That has burned.

 

Yeh, well, maybe, hmm,

Maybe it's just a ...

Change of climate.

Well I can dig it,

I can dig it, baby,

I just want to see ...

 

So, where do I purchase my ticket?

I'd just like to have a ringside seat.

I want to know about the new Mother Earth.

I want to hear and see everything.

I want to hear and see everything.

I want to hear and see everything.

 

Aw, shucks,

If my daddy could see me now.

 

 

Issue #121 starts off in something of an enigmatic mood, prompted by the always challenging, probing work of John Harter.

 

THE PRESENT IS WAY OUT

IT IS BLACK AND WHITE

THERE IS NOTHING TO

BACK IT UP      NO FUTURE

IN IT

NO SHADOW NO SILHOUETTE

OBSCURITY

THE PRESENT IS A WAY OUT

~ John Harter

 

 

Shadows on the wall,

flickering reminders of

my heart without you.

~ Linda Joan Zeiser

 

 

THE SHADOW OF  YOUR

RAIN DROPS FALLING ON

THE SOUND OF YOUR

OWN WHEELS

~ John Harter

 

And, finally, Huff, perhaps pointing us back to his broadside featured in the last posting, with this poignant poem:

 

And now your shadow 

falling across the page.

Where are you?

Why have you abandoned

your shadow?

~ Albert Huffstickler 

 


 

 

 

 


Posted by donw714 at 07:34 EDT | Post Comment | Permalink
Updated: Friday, 28 September 2007 09:38 EDT

Saturday, 15 September 2007

James Fenimore Cooper and the Death of Susie Bowers


 

James Fenimore Cooper is remembered for quite a few things, not the least of which is his mind cramping, turgid prose that killed the joy of reading for many a high school student.  Fortunately, we have Mark Twain, whose brilliant response has perhaps saved a few of those students from a book-less future (in those little connections the mind makes, I thought of Bono's inspired battle-cry in a similar situation: "Charles Manson stole this song from the Beatles.  Now we're stealing it back."). 

In perverse celebration of JFC's birthday (as noted in this morning's Writer's Almanac), here is Mark Twain's Fenimore Cooper's Literary Offenses (which were not noted in Writer's Almanac).

In defense of Cooper, who has since high school actually given me some occasional moments of reading pleasure, here is the homepage of the James Fenimore Cooper Society, dedicated to the study of his life and works.

Today is also the birthday of the famed conductor, Bruno Walter.  Though his recording of Beethoven's symphonies have long since passed as the standard to measure others by, call me a romantic, they still remain my personal favorites.  Here is the Second movement of the 9th Symphony, conducted by Walter. 

Issue #120 of Lilliput Review is a broadside by Albert Huffstickler, entitled Dearly Departed.  This sequence of poems was written in memory of fellow poet/artist Susie Bowers, who had taken her own life very recently.  Susie and Huff were close and Huff had his own issues with self destruction and so this hit him as hard as it can.  As was usually the case, Huff talked himself through it in his poems and this was perhaps the best sequence he ever wrote, in my opinion.  The following are from that sequence.

 

People always want

to know why.

Why is just why.

It doesn't tell you

anything

 

 

Suicide is a

great responsibility:

you take from others

so many things that

were never yours

to begin with.

 

 

I don't mind

my own solitude

but now you've

left me with yours.    

 

 

If you think life

holds a lot of surprises

wait till you see death.

 

 

I don't think I want

to understand why you did it.

I can't even deal with

not understanding.

 

 

And here we are

and here you go

leaving me

as you found me:

heart divided

words on paper.

 

 

                              Artwork

       Susie by Huff                   Huff by Susie

 

 


 

                     


Posted by donw714 at 11:50 EDT | Post Comment | Permalink
Updated: Sunday, 16 September 2007 06:50 EDT

Thursday, 13 September 2007

DHL ... & autumn ...


 

This week was the birthday of D. H. Lawrence.  Often forgotten is the fact that Lawrence was a master poet, really a poet first, as was Hermann Hesse.  He excelled at all lengths, but was perhaps one of the finest poets ever in the short form.  Here are two examples:

 

Nothing to Save

 

 There is nothing to save, now all is lost

 but a tiny core of stillness in the heart

 like the eye of the violet.

 

 

Self Pity

 

 I never saw a wild thing

 sorry for itself.

 A small bird will drop frozen from a bough

 without ever having felt sorry for itself.

 

Nothing to Save is reminiscent of another great short poem, one of my personal favorites, by James Wright:

 

The Jewel

 

 There is this cave

 In the air behind my body

 That nobody is going to touch.

 A cloister, a silence

 Closing around a blossom of fire.

 When I stand upright in the wind,

 My bones turn to dark emeralds.

 

Taking a look backward this week at Lilliput #119, which nicely coincides with the season.  Here are three short subjects on the coming (and past) fall season:

 

Sycamore

 

 One day all the leaves blow away.

 I have been worrying

 about the wrong things.

                               ~ Ray Skjelbred

 

 

fall colors -

at the end of balloon strings

balloons

                 ~ Barry George

 

 

autumn rain 

memories of love

fall into the sea

~ Lee Gurga

 

 



Posted by donw714 at 08:35 EDT | Post Comment | Permalink
Updated: Friday, 14 September 2007 07:43 EDT

Friday, 7 September 2007

Persevering and Other Things


 

Persevering with Charles Wright's Scar Tissue has paid off; as with many a poetry volume, a gem or two may be found here or there. 

 

The Woodpecker Pecks, but the Hole Does Not Appear

 

 It's hard to imagine how unremembered we all become

 How quickly all that we've done 

 Is unremembered and unforgiven,

                                                                  how quickly

 Bog lillies and yellow clover flashlight our footfalls,

 How quickly and finally landscape subsumes us,

 And everything that we are becomes what we are not.

 

 This is not new, the orange finch

 And the yellow and dun finch

                                                       picking the dry clay politely,

 The grasses asleep in their green slips

 Before the noon can roust them,

 The sweet oblivion of the everyday

                                                                  like a warm waistcoat

 Over the cold and endless body of memory.

 

 Cloud-scarce Montana morning.

 July, with its blue cheeks puffed out like a putto on an ancient map,

 Huffing the wind down from the northwest corner of things,

 Tweets on the evergreen stumps,

                                                                    swallows treading the air,

 The ravens hawking from tree to tree, not you, not you,

 Is all the world allows, and all one could wish for.

                                                                              ~ Charles Wright

 

 

 

And the last verse from a poem called Pilgrim's Progress

 

 

 In the end, of course, one's a small dog

 At night on the front porch,

                                                   barking into the darkness

 At what he can't see, but smells, somehow, and is suspicious of.

 Barking, poor thing, and barking,

 With no one at home to call him in,

                                                                  with no one to turn the light on.

                                                                       ~ Charles Wright

 

Yes, it was worth the slog through.  And, yes, it's probably time to pick it back up and start all over again.

 

When is a blog a journal?   When no one posts responses?  Hmn?

 

Back to the tour through back issues of Lilliput.  This time it is number 118, which was a broadside of the poet M. Kettner, entitled Highku.  A decidedly skewed take on the haiku form.   The out-of-body experience as prosody ...

 

#700

 high:

 aerial surveillance of self

 patent leather reflecting sun

 

# 795

 high:

 ocean breeze

      on a crate of oranges

 

#729

 straight all day:

 tar balls floating in water.

 dried bread crust behind the couch.

 

#511

 Secanol:

 Ping-Pong ball caught in a vacuum hose

 parking tickets unpaid

                                              ~ M. Kettner

 

Next time, homage to Issa - I  hope.   Or, maybe Whitman.  Or not.  Hmn.

 


 


Posted by donw714 at 16:34 EDT | Post Comment | View Comments (1) | Permalink
Updated: Friday, 7 September 2007 16:37 EDT

Friday, 31 August 2007

Within and Without: Revelation
31 August 2007 06:54 EDT | Posted by donw714

Within and Without: Revelation


 

As I mentioned before I've been struggling with Charles Wright's recent volume of poems, Scar Tissue.  This morning, Garrison Keillor highlights a fine poem by Wright in his Writer's Almanac: "After Reading T'ao Ch'ing, I wander Untethered Through the Short Grass," from his collection Appalachia.   Check it out, it's worth the click.

Today is the birthday of the Irish songwriter/bard Van Morrison.  Over the years, he has given the world such a wide array of quality music, from the cliched blue-eyed soul through the mystic to skiffle, country and beyond.  One of his least lauded but very best albums, at least for the poets in the crowd, is 1980's Common One.  It is simply, while simultaneously being about, revelation.  Here is "Summertime in England":

 

Can you meet me in the country
In the summertime in England
Will you meet me?
Will you meet me in the country
In the summertime in England
Will you meet me?
We'll go riding up to Kendal in the country
In the summertime in England.
Did you ever hear about
Did you ever hear about
Did you ever hear about
Wordsworth and Coleridge, baby?
Did you ever hear about Wordsworth and Coleridge?
They were smokin' up in Kendal
By the lakeside
Can you meet me in the country in the long grass
In the summertime in England
Will you meet me
With your red robe dangling all around your body
With your red robe dangling all around your body
Will you meet me
Did you ever hear about . . .
William Blake
T. S. Eliot
In the summer
In the countryside
They were smokin'
Summertime in England
Won't you meet me down Bristol
Meet me along by Bristol
We'll go ridin' down
Down by Avalon
Down by Avalon
Down by Avalon
In the countryside in England
With your red robe danglin' all around your body free
Let your red robe go.
Goin' ridin' down by Avalon
Would you meet me in the country
In the summertime in England
Would you meet me?
In the Church of St. John . . .
Down by Avalon . . . .
Holy Magnet
Give you attraction
Yea, I was attracted to you.
Your coat was old, ragged and worn
And you wore it down through the ages
Ah, the sufferin' did show in your eyes as we spoke
And the gospel music
The voice of Mahalia Jackson came through the ether
Oh my common one with the coat so old
And the light in the head
Said, daddy, don't stroke me
Call me the common one.
I said, oh, common one, my illuminated one.
Oh my high in the art of sufferin' one.
Take a walk with me
Take a walk with me down by Avalon
Oh, my common one with the coat so old
And the light in her head.
And the sufferin' so fine
Take a walk with me down by Avalon
And I will show you
It ain't why, why, why
It just is.
Would you meet me in the country
Can you meet me in the long grass
In the country in the summertime
Can you meet me in the long grass
Wait a minute
With your red robe . . .
Danglin' all around your body.
Yeats and Lady Gregory corresponded . . .
And James Joyce wrote streams of consciousness books . . .
T.S. Eliot chose England . . .
T.S. Eliot joined the ministry . . .
Did you ever hear about . . .
Wordsworth and Coleridge?
Smokin' up in Kendal
They were smokin' by the lakeside . . .
Let your red robe go . . .
Let your red robe dangle in the countryside in England
We'll go ridin' down by Avalon
In the country
In the summertime
With you by my side
Let your red robe go . . .
You'll be happy dancin' . . .
Let your red robe go . . .
Won't you meet me down by Avalon
In the summertime in England
In the Church of St. John . . .
Did you ever hear about Jesus walkin'
Jesus walkin' down by Avalon?
Can you feel the light in England?
Can you feel the light in England?
Oh, my common one with the light in her head
And the coat so old
And the sufferin' so fine
Take a walk with me
Oh, my common one,
Oh, my illuminated one
Down by Avalon . . .
Oh, my common one . . .
Oh, my storytime one
Oh, my treasury in the sunset
Take a walk with me
And I will show you
It ain't why . . .
It just is . . .
Oh, my common one
With the light in the head
And the coat so old
Oh, my high in the art of sufferin' one . . .
Oh, my common one
Take a walk with me
Down by Avalon
And I will show you
It ain't why . . .
It just is.
Oh, my common one with the light in her head
And the coat so fine
And the sufferin' so high . . .
All right now.
Oh, my common one . . .
It ain't why . . .
It just is . . .
That's all
That's all there is about it.
It just is.
Can you feel the light?
I want to go to church and say.
In your soul . . .
Ain't it high?
Oh, my common one
Oh, my storytime one
Oh, my high in the art of sufferin' one
Put your head on my shoulder . . .
And you listen to the silence.
Can you feel the silence?

 

Well, for a blog that should be highlighting the short poem, that's a stretch.  Today's selection of poems from a back issue of Lilliput Review comes from issue #117.  Perhaps there might be some revelation there:

 

within and without

same

    red tulip

~ Ed Baker

 

 

EVERYTHING          THE MYSTERY THE

WOOD   THE SMALL ANIMALS THE

BIRDS      DEEP BEDS OF PINE NEEDLES

EVERYTHING

~ John Harter

 

 

 

We forget we're

mostly water

till the rain falls

and every atom

in our body

starts to go home.

~ Albert Huffstickler

 

 



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Thursday, 30 August 2007

Robert Crumb, Buk and Lilliput Review #116

 


 

 

Today is the birthday of the artist Robert Crumb, whose work embodies the torturous passage of the generations who grew up in the 50's and 60's.   Truly a marriage made in hell, he did covers and artwork for a number of Charles Bukowski's books, one example being Bring Me Your Love, above.  In recent years, Buk's books are being published by Ecco Press, an imprint of HarperCollins.  Hardly reflective of his small press roots with Black Sparrow, but so it goes, as the poet said.

Continuing the tour of back issues that is the main purpose of Beneath Cherry Blossoms, here are some interesting poems from #116:

 

A fruit fly found me

up seven flights of marble staircases

one crooked hallway

inside a huge cavernous room

under a wooden beamed ceiling

in Rome

with one tomato.

~ Kathleen Serocki

 

 

 

museum alcove --

    incautious gum chewers

         lean closer to Shiva

~ Ross Figgins

 

 

 

Jacob's Hip (Gen. 32: 24-31)

 Angel of Issac's son

 Whose hip was bruised

 To forbid you part:

 

 Bright messenger,

 I wrestle too,

 But unlike Jacob

 Bruise my heart.

        ~ Tom Pratt

 



Posted by donw714 at 07:04 EDT | Post Comment | Permalink
Updated: Thursday, 30 August 2007 07:52 EDT

Saturday, 25 August 2007

Charles Wright, Charlie Mehrhoff and That One Nagging Question


 

Today is the birthday of the poet Charles Wright, whose recent volume, Scar Tissue, I am currently struggling with mightily.  More palatable, at least for me, is the poem " Last Supper" by Wright, from his collection The Wrong End of the Rainbow, and posted on the poets.org website.

For a decidedly more small press approach to things, you might want to check out the website of exemplary poet Charlie Mehrhoff, one of our finest practitioners of the short form and someone I've had the honor to publish both in Lilliput Review and as part of the Modest Proposal Chapbook series.   From his collection One Hand Clapping in that series comes the following:

 

Hammer your  begging bowl

into oblivion

 

hold that

up to the light.

 

And this:

 

All of the oceans,

all of the lakes

streams

and clouds

represent the sum of all written and oral

knowledge.

The skin of the skin of a drop of dew evaporating

is what has been revealed to me,

is what overwhelms my being:

and so little of that am I capable of translating.

 

From issue #115 of Lillie, this little gem:

 

on the Conan Doyle shelf

my lost reading glasses

wiped clean

~ LeRoy Gorman

 

And, hopefully, committing these words to the page, an old poet friend went some of the distance to their denial

 

All those

I have mourned

will die

with my dying:

my mother's hopes,

and my father's doom:

all the faces,

all the rooms.

~ Albert Huffstickler

 

A number of Shakespeare sonnets, such as, and Shelley again (see the August 4th entry of this blog) ...

 



Posted by donw714 at 10:54 EDT | Post Comment | Permalink
Updated: Thursday, 30 August 2007 07:46 EDT

Wednesday, 22 August 2007

John Lee loves Dorothy ...


 

Birthdays on this day include John Lee Hooker and Dorothy Parker; if ever there was a blues singer who wrote poetry and a poet who had the cosmic blues, these two fit the bill.  Here's one by John Lee that Dorothy certainly could relate to:

One bourbon, one scotch, and one beer
One bourbon, one scotch, and one beer
Hey mister bartender come here
I want another drink and I want it now

My baby she gone, she been gone two night
I ain't seen my baby since night before last
One bourbon, one scotch, and one beer

(Spoken)
And then I sit there, gettin' high, mellow
Knocked out, feeling good and by the time
I looked on the wall at the old clock on the wall
By that time, it was ten thirty daddy

I looked down the bar, at the bartender
He said, "Now what do you want Johnny?"

One bourbon, one scotch, and one beer

Well my baby she gone, she been gone two night
I ain't seen my baby since night before last
I wanna get drunk till I'm off of my mind
One bourbon, one scotch, and one beer


And I sat there, gettin' high, stoned
Knocked out, and by the time
I looked on the wall, at the old clock again
And by that time, it was a quarter to two

Last call for alcohol, I said,
Hey mister bartender, what do you want?"

One bourbon, one scotch, and one beer
One bourbon, one scotch, and one beer
One bourbon, one scotch, and one beer

 

And here's one from Ms. Parker that John Lee could probably have tapped his feet to ...

 

A Very Short Song

 

Once when I was young and true

Someone left me sad -

Broke my brittle heart in two;

And that is very bad.

 

Love is for unlucky folk,

Love is but a curse.

Once there was a heart I broke;

And that I think is worse.

 

In keeping with the somewhat somber mood, two great short pieces by Albert Huffstickler from issue #113 of Lilliput Review:

 

Death has

my father's eyes

pale blue and crisp

as autumn mornings.

 

I will sit and

ponder till

the grass grows

into me,

tracking my veins

to my heart.

 


 

 


Posted by donw714 at 09:12 EDT | Post Comment | Permalink
Updated: Wednesday, 22 August 2007 09:14 EDT

Sunday, 19 August 2007

Small press icons and a Hugh Fox broadside


 

 

This past week saw anniversaries of three of the small presses' most influential icons: Charles Bukowski (born 1920), Ed Sanders (born 1939) and Jack Spicer (died 1965).  Also, today is the anniversary of the execution death of Federico Garcia Lorca.

Spicer translated some of Garcia Lorca's poems and a letter to him from Spicer on the art of translation may be found at the Spicer website at the University of Buffalo. 

Ed Sanders, a founding member of the influential folk/poetry group the Fugs, has become known in recent years for his book-length historical poems, such as 1968: A History in Verse.  There is an interesting interview  with Ed posted online by Billy Bob Hargus that's worth a look see.  One brilliant bit of short verse by him from Thirsting For Peace in a Raging Century: Selected Poems 1961-1985 follows:

 

Your Breath

Your breath

upon the pillow's lace

 

was like the wake

of a hummingbird's wings

 

on the wild columbine

 

And speaking of small press icons, issue #112 of Lilliput is a broadside of the work of Hugh Fox, entitled Slides.

 

5.

Going back to my forest

through the suburbs

that are only thirty or

forty years old but

look eternal, a white-

haired, white-bearded

man about sixty walks

out of one of the houses

he could be anyone.

 

9.

Driving back into the old

neighborhood a dulcimer

player on the radio, I remember

what's her name, Cow-Face,

who always came/comes on to me

like spring showers, we're both

always twenty years younger/

more beautiful than we really

are, it happens, but I can't

remember her name, keep

thinking Ludmilla Tcherina,

Babette Deutsch, Alicia

Alonso...home, dark, crickets,

the last day of moving, my head

full of names off old letters/

manuscripts/little mags/

tables of contents, the crickets

finally just crickets, the crickets,

the crickets...and the distant train.

 

As with all back issues of Lillie, this little ten slide broadside performance is available for $1.  

 

 



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