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"A note to Pound in heaven: Only one mistake, Ezra! You should have talked to women"
--George Oppen, _Twenty Six Fragments_
Archives:
xoxo Hey, E-Mail Me! xoxo
ManY PoETiKaL HaTs LisT:
Michael Helsem's Gray Wyvern NOLA Fedora.
Duchamp's Rrose Selavy's flirting hat.
Max Ernst's Hats of The Hat Makes the Man.
Jordan Davis' The Hat!
poetry. hks' smelly head baseball cap.
Samuel Beckett's Lucky's
Black bowler hat,
giving his oration
on what's questionable in mankind,
in *Waiting for 'God-ot'*.
my friend John Phillips's 1969
dove gray fedora w/ wild feather.
Bob Dylan's mystery lover's Panama Hat.
Bob Creeley's Black Mountain Felt Boater Hat.
Duke Ellington's Satin
Top Hat. Acorn Hats of Tree.
Freud's 1950 City Fedora.
Joseph Brodsky's Sailor Cap.
Harry K Stammer's Copper Hat
Hell. Lewis LaCook's bowler hat(s).
Tom Beckett's Bad Hair Day
Furry Pimp Hat. Daughter Holly's black beret.
harry k stammer's fez. Cat
in the Hat's Hat & best
hat, Googling Texfiles:
crocheted hat with flames.
Harry K Stammer's tinseled berets.
Tex's 10 gallon Gary Cooper felt Stetson cowboy hat.
Jordan Davis's fedora.
Dali's High-heel Shoe Hat. Harry K Stammer's en-blog LAPD Hat
& aluminum baseball cap. cap'n caps. NY-Yankees caps. the HKS-in-person-caps
are blue or green no logos nor captions.
Ma Skanky Possum 10's nighttime cap.
moose antler hat. propeller beenie hat.
doo rag. knit face mask hat. Bob Dylan's & photographer Laziz
Hamani's panama hats. Mark Weiss's Publisher's Hat.
Rebecca Loudon's Seattle-TX-Hats'n'boots.
Ever-Evolving Links:
Dominic Rivron
Unidentified
Br Tom @ One & Plainer
Dan Waber: ars poetica anthology
Dan Waber: altered books anthology
chris daniels: Notes to a Fellow Traveller
Chris Daniels: Toward an Anti-Capitalist Poetry
David Daniels: The Gates Of Paradise
subterranean poets: Beijing Poetry Group
Charles Alexander/Chax Press: Chaxblog
Headlines Poetry: the latest weblog entries
Henry Gould's AlephoeBooks
Julie Choffel's Understory
Tom Murphy's former one
Jean Vengua's New Okir
Roger Pao's Asian-American Poetry
Tom Lisk: Oilcloth and Linoleum
Kevin Doran
Reb Livingston's Cackling Jackal Blog
Janet Holmes: Humanophone
Lorna Dee Cervantes
Mark Young's gamma ways
Brian Campbell: Out of the Woodwork
Shanna's DIY Publishing Blog
Galatea Resurrects: a Poetry Review
Tom Beckett
John Sakkis: BOTH BOTH
New Francois Luong:Voices in Utter Dark, KaBlow!sm is...
Old Francois Luong: Voices in Utter Dark
Margin Walker: Andrew Lundwall
Free Space Comix: the latest BK Stefans blog
Adam Lockhart, Experimentalist Composer
Antic View: Alan Bramhall & Jeff Harrison
lookouchblog: Jessica Smith
MiPOradio
Web Log -- Charles Bernstein
Google Poem Generator: Leevi Lehto
Marie Mutsuki Mockett
Feral Scholar: Stan Goff
worderos: Tom Beckett
In Galatea's Purse
Japundit
Quiet Desperation: Jim Ryal
Luca Antara: Martin Edmond
Brief Epigrams: Ryan Alexander MacDonald
Radio My Vocabulary: 4 pm Sunday Poetry Streams
Mark Lamoreaux: [[[0{:}0]]]
Hot Whiskey Blog
louder
Nick Bruno: They Shoot Poets Don't They?
Joe Massey: Rooted Fool
Kate Greenstreet: every other day
heuriskein: Tom Orange
Chiaroscuro Metropoli: Tom Beckett
Behrle's latest spout!
Fluffy Dollars: Michelle Detorie
Jane Dark's Sugar High!
The Katherine Anne Porter Literary Center
(Charles) Olson Now: Michael Kellaher & Ammiel Alcalay
kari edwards' TranssubMUTATION
Notes on the Revival: Jeremy Hawkins
PurPur: Petrus Pokus
Snapper Missives: Scott Pierce
A Sad Day for Sad Birds II: Gina Meyers
Great Works: Peter Philpot
zafusy: experimental poetry journal
Writeboard: a collaborative writing tool
John Latta: Rue Hazard
KP Harris: Croissant Factory
Stephanie Young's New Site
Stephen Vincent's New Site
Portable Press@Yo~Yo Labs
Square America
Amy King's blog
Robert: Peyoetry Hut
Muisti Kirja: Karri Kokko
Karri Kokko's Blonde on Blonde
Yummeee Blog (recipes)
Nice Guy Syndrome: Tim Botta
Left Hook
Del Ray Cross: anachronizms
Juan Cole: Informed Comment
BuzzFlash - Daily Headlines, Breaking News, Links
Aaron McCollough
Chris Lott's Cosmopoetica
Chad Parenteau
Little Emerson
Fever, Light--by Sawako Nakayasu
Second Wish
Nomadics
Alison Croggon
Radical Druid
Ron is Ron: the Ron Silliman Cartoon by Jim Behrle
Dagzine: Positions, Poetics, Populations: Gary Norris
Shadows within Shadows: Tom Beckett
Self Similar Writing: Jukka Pekka Kervinen
The Little Workshop: Cassie Lewis
Sky Bright: Jay Rosevear
Poesy Galore: Emily Lloyd
Lisa Jarnot's Blog
Poetry Hut: Jilly Dybka (has moved here)
Pornfeld: Michael Hoerman
Seven Apples: Justin Ulmer
Hi Spirits: Andrew Burke
Bacon Bargain!: Joe Massey
Ivy is here: Ivy Alvarez
Whimsy Speaks: Jeff Bahr
Umbrella: Jeff Wietor
Chicanas! (Susana L. Gallardo)
Masters of Photography
Blog of Disquiet: Gary Norris' Teaching Blog
Suzanna Gig Jig
Bad with Titles: Jay Thomas
Spaceship Tumblers! Tony Tost
Desert City: Ken Rumble
E-Po
Zotz!
Optative Mood: Tim Morris
ecritures bleues: Laura Carter
The Ingredient: Alli Warren
Skanky Possum Pouch
Slight Publications
Jewishy-Irishy: Laurel Snyder
Sea-Camel: Alberto Romero Bermo
Growing Nations: Jordan Stempleman
Tom Raworth
Entropy and Me: Hal Johnson
Scott Pierce: Snapper's Junk
Chicano Poet: Reyes Cardenas
Semio-Karl M&M
Stephen Vincent
Hoa Nguyen/Teacher's & Writers
a New Word Placements
Narcissus Works: Anny Ballardini
Richard Lopez
Tributary: Allen Bramhall
The_Delay: Chris Vitiello
Jukka Pekka Kervinen: Nonlinear Poetry
Lanny Quarles: Phaneronoemikon
Clifford Duffy: Fictions of Deleuze & Guattari
DagZine
Carrboro Poetry Festival
Steve Evans: Third Factory
DEBORAH PATILLO
SKANKY POSSUM PRESS
Tim Peterson: Mappemunde
WOOD'S LOT
Geof Huth: DBQP
Ann Marie Eldon
Jim Behrle: The Jim Side
Ray Bianchi:Postmodern Collage Poetry
Never Mind the Beasts
Diaryo
New Broom
Flingdump Scattershot
Tony Tost: Unquiet Grave
Grapez
SB POET
Mark Young's Pelican Dreaming
|||AS/IS2|||
Li's A Private Studio
Anny Ballardini's Poet's Corner
Tom Beckett: Vanishing Points
Dumbfoundry
BadGurrrlNest
Jean Vengua's Okir
Hear-it dot org: info on hearing problems
Tim Yu's Tympan
James Yeager's Modern Lives
Tony Robinson: Geneva Convention
Daniel Nestor's Unpleasant Event
Ex-Lion Tamer
Carlos Arribas: Scriptorium
David Nemeth
Ela's Incertain Plume
Mairead Byrne's Heaven
Catherine Daly
Black Spring
Br.Tom's Finish Yr Phrase
Shin Yu Pai: makura-no-soshi
Harry K. Stammer: Downtown LA
Corina's Fledgling Wordsmith
Jilly Dybka's Poetry Hut
Ben Basan's Luminations
Katey: Chewing on Pencils
YaY!! Eileen Tabios: Chatelaine Poetics !
Jill Jones: Ruby Street
Geoffrey Gatza's BlazeVox
Bill Allegrezza's P-Ramblings
Gary Sullivan's Elsewhere
GoldenRuleJones
Poetry_Heat
Bookslut
Chickee's SuperDeluxeGoodPoems
As-Is !
John Latta's Hotel Point
Sawako Nakayasu's Ongoing Show
Shanna Compton's Brand New Insects
Crag Hill
kari edwards: transdada
Fluss
Michael Helsem's Gray Wyvern
Word Placement
Bogue's Blog
Jordan Davis: Equanimity
Robert Flach's Unadulterated Text
Michelle Bautista
Ironic Cinema
Mike Snider
Farewell Tonio!
In Through the Out Door
The Blonde Brunette
Awake at Dawn on Someone's Couch is Toast
Jukka-Pekka Kervinen:Non-Linear
Xpress(ed) !
Chris Lott's Ruminate
Venepoetics
Laura: Yellowslip
Stick Poet Super Hero
Mighty Jens!
Radio UTA: Toni's Thursday Poetry Show
Tim Morris: Lection
Gabe Gudding
Constant Critic
Sappho's Breathing
Waves of Reading
Jhananin's Insite
Fanaticus
AdvExpo
Stephen Vincent
Stephanie Young: New Well Nourished Moon
Kasey Silem Mohammad's Newest Limetree
Lanny Quarles: (solipsis)//:phaneronoemikon
States Writes
Rebecca's Pocket
Simulacro
Braincase Links
Sentence
Sor Juana
73 Urban Bus Journeys
Poeta Empirica
poetry for the people: canwehaveourballback?
Ernesto Priego's Never Neutral
Nick Piombino's Fait Accompli
Weekly Incite blogresearch
Jim Behrle's first monkey
Jim Behrle's Monkey's Gone to Heaven
David Kirschenbaum's Boog City
Not Nick Moudry
Laurable
David Hess Heathens in Heat
Jack Kimball's Pantaloons
Li Bloom's Abolone
Ron Silliman
Chris Sullivan's Bloggchaff
Chris Sullivan's Slight Publications
Chris Sullivan's Department of Culture
Kasey S. Mohammad's Old-New Limetree
Kasey's Old Limetree
James Meetze: Brutal Kittens
Cassie Lewis: The Jetty
Joseph Mosconi's Harlequin Knights
Nada Gordon's Ululate
ultimate: Stephanie Young's First Well Nourished Moon
Steve Evans: Third Factory
Noah Eli Gordon's Human Verb
Jean Vengua's Blue Kangaroo
Sawako Nakayasu: Texture Notes
Free Space Comix: BK Stefans
Crosfader
Malcolm Davidson's eeksy peeksy
Marsh Hawk Press group
Catherine Meng's Porthole Redux
Josh Corey's Cahiers de Corey
Very Nice! Shampoopoetry
UTA's Lit Mag: ZNine
Wild Honey Press
Jacket
JFK's Poetinresidence
Malcolm Davidson's Tram Spark poems
HYepez: RealiTi
HYpez: Mexperimental
Aimee Nez's Gila Monster
BestMaX: Jim Behrle's jismblog
Cori Copp's Littleshirleybean
Jordan Davis: Million Poems
Eileen Tabios: Corpsepoetics [see Chatelaine above]
YaY! Liz's Thirdwish
Ultra Linking
Henry Gould's HG Poetics
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Friday, October 31, 2003
Happy Halloween!
Squatter and Cracky are waking up. It must be about the environmental temps. I just checked at yahoo to see, and it's almost 80 degrees here. They must be liking this...
chris at
10:42 AM
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YaY!! Announcing a new publication:
xStream -- Issue #15
xStream Issue #15 is online:
1. Regular: Works from 6 poets
(Crag Hill, AnnMarie Eldon, Chris Murray,
Andrew Lundwall, Mark Young and Peter Ganick)
2. Autoissue: Computer-generated poems from Issue #15 texts,
the whole autoissue is generated in "real-time", every refresh.
Check it Out!
xStream
"Submissions are welcome, please send to
xstream@xpressed.org.
Jukka-Pekka Kervinen
Editor
xStream"
chris at
3:05 AM
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Thursday, October 30, 2003
Apparently there is still some email trouble with my UTA address. If trying to reach me, use one or all (!) of these:
cmrry88@aol.com
cmurray88@yahoo.com
yaomingsmeow@netscape.net
**Also, don't forget: Today is Radio UTA day, 5 p.m., just click on the link over on my blogroll.
And if you are here, or closeby, then do join us at the Coffee Haus on Mesquite St. here in Arlington after the radio show : )
chris at
9:22 PM
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From Michael Joyce : **
"For I am, for the present at least, at my limit, i.e., seeing change, as they say on the 'nets,' FTF, face to face. And FTF with this impossibly bright transparent void I am sometimes unable to cope, finding myself driven to Dante to find an adequate image of all this. Even so, what might at first seem a hell, increasingly discloses itself as paradise, the place where, according to Beatrice, 'All things whatsoever have order among themselves, and ... here the higher creatures see the impress of the Eternal Excellence, which is the end for which that system itself is made.'
...
"In shaping for ourselves, we ourselves are shaped. This is the reciprocal relationship. It is likewise the elemental insight of the fractal geometry--that each contour is itself an expression of itself in finer grain. ... "
(119)
** Michael Joyce, "New Teaching," in Of Two Minds. Ann Arbor: Univ of Mich Press, 1995.
chris at
8:44 PM
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From Joseph Brodsky: **
Constancy
Constancy is an evolution of one's living quarters into
a thought: a continuation of a paralellogram or a rectangle
by means--as Clausewitz would have put it--
of the voice and, ultimately, the gray matter.
Ah, shrunken to the size of a brain-cell parlor
with a lampshade, an armoire in the "Slavic
Glory" fashion, four studded chairs, a sofa,
a bed, a bedside table with
little medicine bottles left there standing like
a kremlin, or better yet, a manhattan.
To die, to abandon a family, to go away for good,
to change hemispheres, to let new ovals
be painted into the square--the more
volubly will the gray cell insist
on its actual measurements, demanding
daily sacrifice from the new locale,
from the furniture, from the silhouette in a yellow
dress; in the end--from your very self.
A spider revels in shading especially the fifth corner.
Evolution is not a species'
adjustment to a new environment but one's memories'
triumph over reality, the ichthyosaurus pining
for the amoeba, the slack vertabrae of a train
thundering in the darkness, past
the mussel shells, tightly shut for the night, with their
spineless, soggy, pearl-shrouding contents.
(363)
** Joseph Brodsky, Collected Poems in English. New York: Farrar, Straus, Giroux, 2000
chris at
8:07 PM
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Wednesday, October 29, 2003
Mostly They Sleep, Squatter and Cracky:
the Shameless Update on my birthday Hermit Crabs
Mostly they sleep, these fabulous critters new to my environs and I to theirs (I am ever so conscious of pronouns, ya kno?). Day and night (well... that tells you how exciting I am to be around, in case you hadn't figured it out yet by reading here... um ... no! I'm lot's of fun, really!) If these two were human I would have had them to the MD, the dentist (all that exoshell must need continued electro-Pepsodent, right?), the marriage counselor, Head Start!, and the neo-Freudians two days ago (not really: I'm both too skeptical and too irresponsible-lackadaisical for those regimented, floppy limbs of systems in the western episteme to make much of an impression on me).
Day and night, hibernating their finely curved and un-Hamlet-jointed, exoskeletal Mel-Gibsoned-Ids from sight. Although Squatter did get brave today: it (see what I mean: don't we have a better pronoun than that for something so meaningful?--we suck!--language sucks!--damn when will we see what a brain is for?)--well, "it" let a little skirt of jointed legs show, ya kno? Cracky grunted and pawed the plastic wall. Oh well. And they hadn't even been over to the corner bar.
I guess--these little lovables (truly) they are--must be about the farthest living things from my experience (maybe, since I'm human and the human track record with vulnerable others is not so good, it's better for them that they are outside most of my experience?). I know more about pill-bug- roly-polies under porch steps from 20 years ago in time, than I do about these hermit crabs right here, right now. What a hopeless romantic! I'm trying, tho. There is an instruction sheet. I promptly lifted several phrases off it and stuck them in a poem (tho not one that I posted here), ie., "they also love chewing... on bark ... except pine and cedar [might be a tad too spicy?]". See how I am?--incorrigible.
After sleeping they crawl around on top of each other (!--but beyond the obvious in that, I will say what they do amounts to something non threatening, it seems to me, but I could be wrong: what they do this way could be prelim to either love or war, or any gesture-else in-between or outside that worn hive of word & woe, for all I know) as if body talking ("Um Hi, Slick!--How are ya? ME?--oh, just fine Knuckle-shine, hows 'bout U, & oooo nice new shoulder pad ya got there?"). Probably they are all (only?) body talk. Who needs a damn body, anyway, when you can just dress yr no-back-bone flesh into somebody's idea of armor and go for broke, buy a new house, vote Republican, listen to Rush, feel all comfy in your ADOT fenced yard, put up a pointy picket fence, love yr neighbor from a distance, right?
Next: they sorta circle their many-selved legs into covered wagon imitations and attack the gold mine: water sponge. It fires back with Clint Eastwood wise cracks (a little dingy but hey we're used to it by now). Anyway, that's what life is like when you are both thirsty and aspire to being more than mayor of a rich quaintness co-existing next to something that should have been a best-seller on all mall candy lists: Carmel. Or so I belabor it after the fact.
By then they are ready to sample the crumbly bits of pet-store food the kids got for them. I'm going down there to stage a sit-in: to do the only decent thing about that despicable co-optation of the meaning and name, "food." : I will start giving these poor crabs lettuce, tomato, or apple bits. Sheesh! A crab's gotta have something more appetizing than "Florida-Marine-Research's Land Hermit Crab Food," that stuff just does not sound right. It sounds like Walmart had a hand in its reason for being. And we all know what that means. Any day now it's broccolini, ya kno?
And this "food" looks just like termite doo-doo or is it sawdust, or just plain leavings?--whatever it is that is left on the ground after termites have squirreled deep into the main beam of your house :( .
Next item?--the penultimate-- yes, sir or ma'm, next on the list of things to do when you are a hermit crab who just woke up after sleeping for 20 hours straight inside your brightly pastelled, human-hand painted nautilus shell, is to rhythmically paw at the clear plastic walls of your terrarium. Corners are primo real estate for this pastime, believe me. We are talkin agents in white patent leather shoes. We will provide the taps if you want to dance!
Um, better view at the corner,I guess. And all that deep pink dyed sand! Who would dare say not just beautiful!
But finally, next on the list? Go back to sleep for another 20 hours (Squatter and Cracky Van Winkle?). Not to gloat misplacedly or anything, but it is kinda nicer to be human rather than a land hermit crab, I guess, I mean if given a choice. But really, who would know?
chris at
4:36 AM
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Ruskin Answers the Question, Just How "Nugatory" Are Those "Catallactics," Anyway?
[An Expository Pow: Ultimate Victorian Patriarch Lecture Mode (outside of church):
How to Scold the "Science of Exchange" (just explain to it how "nugatory" its "catallactics" are... ) :] **
--John Ruskin must win the award for all time best guilt-trippin/scolding as handed out to anything called or trying to become a "science." Check this out :
"67. The Science of Exchange, or as I hear it has been proposed to call it, of "Catallactics" (a Richard Whatley term from _Lectures on Political Economy_), considered as one of gain, is, therefore, simply nugatory; but considered as one of acquisition, it is a very curious science, differing in its data and basis from every other science known. Thus:--If I can exchange a needle with a savage for a diamond, my power of doing so depends either on the savage's ignorance of social arrangements in Europe, or on his want of power to take advantage of them, by selling the diamond to any one else for more needles. If, farther, I make the bargain as completely advantageous to myslef as possible, by giving to the savage a needle with no eye in it (reaching, thus a sufficiently satisfactory tup of the perfect operation of catallactic science), the advantage to me in the entire transaction depends wholly upon the ignorance, powerlessness, or heedlessness of the person dealt with. Do away with these, and catallactic advantage becomes impossible. So far, therefore, as the science of exchange relates to the advantage of one of the exchanging partners only, it is founded on the ignorance or incapacity of the opposite person. Where these vanish, it also vanishes. It is therefore a science founded on nescience, and an art founded on artlessness. But all other sciences and arts, except this, have for their object the doing away with their opposite nescience and artlessness. This science, alone of sciences, must by all available means, promulgate and prolong its opposite nescience; otherwise the science itself is impossible. It is, therefore, peculiarly and alone the science of darkness; probably a bastard science--not by any means a divina scientia, but one begotten of another father, that father who advising his children to turn stones into bread, is himself employed in turning bread into stones, and who, if you ask a fish of him (fish not being producible on his estate), can but give you a serpent (cites Bible, New Testament, Matthew 7:10)."
(76-77)
--Where the heck did all those images--"savages," "diamonds," "needles" "eyes"--and the neat dichotomies (there is either "art," or "artlessness," and don't forget it!--come from (no kidding--I do know, it was just a bit of a shock to read them once again today) I think it's where the rhetoric starts to slip over into biblical allusion that it starts to sound like it came from not so much long ago as an entire other planet. I picture pounding on podiums and the like. But I think Ruskin was a pretty mild mannered fellow. Certainly he was packin' twisty rhetoric weapons, tho. Whatley's no slouch, either, so geez, guys, did ya get to kiss and make up over this or not?--
Okay, I'm weird. I love stuff like this.
** John Ruskin, Unto This Last. New York: Meredith Publ. Co., 1967
chris at
1:45 AM
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My email at UTA is straightened around now, so it's okay to use the address again.
cmurray@uta.edu
chris at
1:43 AM
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3371 students: the textbook problem is solved!
Kristen Prevallet's Scratch Sides is in now (again) at the UTA Bookstore. UTA sent it back and that caused a big problem. But thank goodness for a sharp employee over there, and for Dale Smith's willingness to go out of his way to be sure we had the books for today's class. Thanks, Dale Smith & Skanky Possum Press!
chris at
12:34 AM
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Tuesday, October 28, 2003
For You
Black enamel tea pot raising its orange
whistle to the kitchen clock--never a slip from its yellowing
newsy tick--& at the apple-red door, a moment,
a wedge-view: browning pecan tree slipping its hard
fruit & secrets past the children's violet attitude,
waiting palms, mothers' mint green aprons--
as you, lavender, enter the lavender upward rush
of our house full of creme light,
uneven, stir-painted walls
chris at
12:12 PM
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At last:
Master Agamben ! & so real people can understand him (scroll to the Friday, 17 Oct 03 post ) after, with great praise, he runs Walter Benjamin through the veggieprocessor. YeowZaahh!
But really, I am glad to see something thick, *expository,* on Agamben.
Especially this, which I like but will wait to endorse until tested more: "Agamben's basic point ... is that the line break, not stress patterning or phonetic patterning, is what the poem in all its myriad forms is really about. Also we can agree with him that the space it introduces is radical, especially as a means of undermining meaning, and that the end of the poem is not just a bigger line break but an ontological challenge to poetic presence, although not the only such challenge."--William Watkin's Blog, Tues. 14 Oct. 03.
Thanks, William Watkin, for taking on this problematic.
chris at
9:09 AM
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My email is still messed up. If trying to reach me, please use the aol addie:
cmrry88@aol.com
Thanks!
chris at
9:06 AM
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Trouvee
some would say
HD
but hey i do
particle more
to Gertrude
chris at
8:43 AM
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I just have to say, with no little joy! :
I'm finishing grading the most recent papers from my Engl.3371 course. They rock--I just had to say that. And that this may be the best 3371 bunch I've had here (and there have been many). This assignment is on descriptive writing--thick, holistic & Deleuzian description, commited: do it like you mean something in this life: in your first person. I"m hoping people will stretch their prose modes toward the poetic (I am partial to poetry widely defined, as they know) even while being acutely conscious of analytical poetics (their awareness of rhetoric: the rhetorical situation and epistemological capacity, as well as limits, of and for, the expository: Oh hell, who cares what you have to say?--can you explain what you mean?).
And now, Wow: they are doing just that: meeting both those purple, ever-fraying ends, and doing so incredibly: within reads I am completely drawn into--I so
like this!
But hey, I'm also taking breaks and galloping around po-bloggies in between readings of papers only to find: now, here, one of my all time favorite reads!
It is so beautiful to see
de Certeau
being
disseminated so willingly, so fluidly.
I am in love
with this text: The Practice of Everyday Life
(de Certeau's jumper cable from P. Bourdieu!)--
one of my all time best reading-as-learning
experiences... (on the other hand, Y'All know by now that I am in love with a lot of things, right?)
Ah well--to the point at hand:
Nick, Nick, so very
amazingly cool: Nick with this
is definitely *On* !!
chris at
7:48 AM
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Check out these favs when you get a chance:
Steve Evans's Third Factory, touring the po-bloggies a la *smorgasbord* (get yr topica here folks!) on Saturday. But also, skip down a bit to the description of the new translation of Proust, *and* a review of the new Clint Eastwood flick.
I love how Ironic Cinema rocks out over Proust (& many other authorial "n" things).
But hold on, now: my favorite new readings in po-bloggies are over at Gray Wyvern (Michael Helsem, who I heard read at the Sentence inauguration: his work is nitro--of the very fine slo-mo type--quiet tho absolute nitro). Here's what I mean:
"Wrong cold word baby--sands they ikon off like
a breeding streak unportrayable..." (" 'Thing 1' "--Sun. 10/26/03)
or
"... Consciousness is nature healing a split in humans"
&
"... It is time to say: Human is enough." (Mon. 10/27)
chris at
6:36 AM
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From Bertolt Brecht : **
The God of War
I saw the old god of war stand in a bog between chasm and rockface.
He smelled of free beer and carbolic and showed his testicles to adolescents, for he had been rejuvenated by several professors. In a hoarse wolfish voice he declared his love for everything young. Nearby stood a pregnant woman, trembling.
And without shame he talked on and presented himself as a great one for order. And he described how everywhere he put barns in order, by emptying them.
And as one throws crumbs to sparrows, he fed poor people with crusts of bread which he had taken away from poor people.
His voice was now loud, now soft, but always hoarse.
In a loud voice he spoke of great times to come, and in a soft voice he taught the women to cook crows and seagulls. Meanwhile his back was unquiet, and he kept looking round, as though afraid of being stabbed.
And every five minutes he assured his public that he would take up very little of their time.
(212)
from When Evil-Doing Comes Like Falling Rain
When crimes begin to pile up they become invisible. When sufferings become unendurable the cries are no longer heard. The cries, too, fall like rain in summer.
(213)
from A German War Primer
AMONGST THE HIGHLY PLACED
It is considered low to talk about food.
The fact is: they have
Already eaten.
...
IT IS NIGHT
The married couples
Lie in their beds. The young women
Will bear orphans.
GENERAL, YOUR TANK IS A POWERFUL VEHICLE
It smashes down forests and crushes a hundred men.
But it has one defect:
It needs a driver.
General, your bomber is powerful.
It flies faster than a storm and carries more than an elephant.
But it has one defect:
It needs a mechanic.
General, a man is very useful.
He can fly and he can kill.
But he has one defect:
He can think.
(215, 216)
** Bertolt Brecht, "World War II" in Against Forgetting. Carolyn Forche, ed. Norton, 1993.
chris at
12:40 AM
|
Monday, October 27, 2003
Cortazar, Hopscotch on Dichotomous Ways or Colors?
From Julio Cortazar's Hopscotch : **
(translated by Gregory Rabassa)
" 'Occidental dichotomies,' Oliveira said. 'Life and death, this side, and that side. ... In any case, it must be something more fluid, less categorized.'
" 'Look,' said Etienne, who was feeling remarkably well, even though the news that Oliveira had passed on to him was crawling around his insides like a crab and none of this seemed contradictory. 'Look, my ball-beloved Argentine, the Orient is not so different as the Orientalists make it out to be. As soon as you start to give some serious thought to what is written there you begin to feel what you have always felt, the inexplicable attraction of intellectual suicide by means of the intellect itself. The scorpion stabbing itself in the neck, tired of being a scorpion but having to have recourse to its own scorpionness in order to do away with itself as a scorpion. In Madras or in Heidelberg its basically the same question: there is some sort of indescribable mistake at the very beginning of things, out of which comes this phenomenon which is addressing itself to you at this moment and which you are all listening to. Every attempt at explanation comes to grief for reasons that anyone can understand, and the fact is that in order to define and understand something one would have to be outside of what is being defined and understood. Ergo, Madras and Heidelberg console themselves manufacturing positions, some with a rational base, others intuitive, even though the differences between reason and intuition can be far from clear, as anyone who's been to school knows. And for that reason, man only feels secure when he is on grounds that do not touch his deepest part: when he plays, when he conquers, when he puts on his various suits of armor that are the product of an ethos, when he hands over the central mystery to some revelation. And on all sides the curious notion that our principal tool, the Logos that madly pulls us up the zoological ladder, is a perfect fraud. And the inevitable corollary, refuge in inspiration and babble, dark night of the soul, aesthetic and metaphysical visions. Madras and Heidelberg are different dosages of the same prescription, sometimes the Yin is in the ascendancy, sometimes the Yang, but at the two points up and down there remain two examples of Homo sapiens, equally undefined, kicking about madly on the ground as one tries to rise at the expense of the other.'
" 'It's strange,' Ronald said. 'In any case it would be stupid to deny a reality even though we might not know what it is. Let's take the up-down axis. How is it that this axis still hasn't been of any use in finding out what goes on at its two extremes? Since Neanderthal man... '
" 'You're just using words,' Oliveira said, leaning a little more on Etienne.
'We like to take them out of the closet and parade them around the room. Reality, Neanderthal man, see how they play, see how they get into our ears and pull each other along on toboggans.'
" 'That's right,' Etienne said harshly. 'That's why I prefer my colors: I feel sure.'
" 'Sure of what?'
" 'Of their effect.'
" 'Of their effect on you, in any case, but not on Ronald's concierge. Your colors are no more certain than my words, old man.'
" 'At least my colors don't try to explain anything.'
" 'And do you accept the idea that there is no explanation?'
" 'No,' said Etienne, 'but at the same time I do things that to a small degree take away the bad taste of emptiness. And that basically is the best definition of Homo sapiens.'
" 'It's not a definition, it's a consolation,' Gregorovius said, sighing. 'Actually we're like a play we come in on during the second act. Everything is very pretty but we don't understand a thing. ... and all that Horacio has done is to raise the question in its dialectical form... . Like Wittgenstein... '
" 'Come on let's leave poetry out of this. Agreed that we can't trust words, but actually words come after this other thing, the fact that a bunch of us is here tonight seated around a lamp.' ...
" 'Without any words I feel, I know, that I am here,' Ronald insisted. 'That's what I call reality. Even if that's all it is.'
" 'Perfect,' said Oliveira. 'Except that this reality is no guarentee for you or for anybody else unless you transform it into a concept, and then into a convention, a useful scheme. The simple fact that your are on my left and I am on your right makes at least two realities out of this one reality, and realize that I don't want to get abstruse and point out that you and I are two entities that are absolutely out of touch with one another except by means of feelings and words, things that one must mistrust if he is to be serious about it all.' ...
" 'Don't turn it into a question of schools,' Oliveira said. 'Let's keep it on the level of a conversation between amateurs, which is what we are. ...The only thing that matters is the business of each understanding it in his own way... . You think that there is a definable reality... . All of this gives you a great ontological security, I think...'
" 'We're very different,' Ronald said. 'I'm very much aware of that. But we find ourselves in certain places outside of ourselves. You and I are looking at that lamp, maybe we don't see the same thing...' "
(158-159, 160, 161)
** Julio Cortazar, Hopscotch. transl. Gregory Rabassa. New York: Pantheon, 1966.
chris at
11:05 PM
|
My UTA email address is not working.
Please use this address to reach me:
cmrry88@aol.com
thanks!
chris at
10:36 PM
|
Names, thanks to Malcolm Davidson--for those Two Unnameable Critters
Okay, it's settled, and my thanks to everyone who suggested names for the two hermit crabs I got from the kids for my birthday (thanks, kids!). Some good pairs of names came through: Romulus/Remus (Gray Wyvern) which made me think of crab towns founded to become rampaging empires; or Finders/Keepers (Eeksy/Peeksy) which put me in mind of one of my favorite tropes, the lost and found. There were others just as fine.
In the end I decided on Squatter & Cracky (originally, "Crack House," which I liked not least because literal since these crabs live in old, 'cracked' shells, but it's maybe better if shortened, too since the allusion to urbane drug life might be a bit much to stick a poor crustacean with...).
Anyway, this pair of very fitting names comes, with my gratitude, from Malcolm over at Eeksy Peeksy.
chris at
9:22 AM
|
Well, dang, it's about time: Chris Lott's doin a lot of ruminatin again--
on birthdays and books. I just (duh!) found his poem page, too. I see I should have found it sooner:
Lookin' good, Chris! : )
chris at
2:50 AM
|
Hey, it's winter here! It must be all of 45 degrees (vs. 80-90) outside. I had to put the heat on in the apartment. My hands are cold (vs. hot and sweaty) while I type! And: some leaves are turning yellow out there, wavering high above on little twig-limbs. They might even fall to the ground and cover a lawn or a parking lot soon. Woe is me: the crickets have finally stopped making all that happy racket. This is serious, then-- finally: autumn is here in Texas. Time to go get a pumpkin for the window.
chris at
2:21 AM
|
Sunday, October 26, 2003
A Note on the Status of Texfiles Poet of the Week Feature:
This past Friday I did not select a new poet for Texfiles Poet of the Week, mostly because I had some overwhelming other things going on here at UTA and at home, and then my birthday arrived before I knew it and, well, you all understand how it goes, I'm sure. I will happily say that I have lined up some of the most interesting poets around the avant and the blogland circles today for future weeks.
So I want to send out special thanks to the excellent Brian Clements, most recent Texfiles Poet of the Week. Brian will remain Poet of the Week until Friday of this week, when I will be able, again, to pick up that feature of this blog. My thanks to all for your patience.
chris at
10:27 PM
|
Hello! and thanks, Li Bloom at abolone for the good wishes on this birthday.
chris at
10:18 PM
|
From James Merrill ** :
Remora
This life is deep and dense
Beyond all seeing, yet one sees, in spite
Of being littler, a degree or two
Further than those one is attracted to.
Pea-brained, myopic, often brutal,
When chosen they have no defense--
A sucking sore there on the belly's pewter--
And where two go could be one's finer sense.
Who now descends from a machine
Plumed with bubbles, death in his right hand?
Lunge, numbskull! One, two, three worlds boil.
Thanks for the lift. There are other fishes in the sea.
Still on occasion as by oversight
One lets be taken clinging fast
In heavenly sunshine to the corpse a slight
Tormented self, live, dapper, black and white.
(160)
** James Merrill, Selected Poems. New York, Knopf. 1992.
chris at
12:46 PM
|
from Gaston Bachelard:
"Others, who are more logical, ... present us with a beautiful album devoted to trees, in which each tree is associated with a poet. ... But one should read this whole prose-poem, which, as the poet says, is actuated by 'reverent apprehension of the Imagination of Creation.' (187)
--Gaston Bachelard. The Poetics of Space. transl. Maria Jolas. Boston, Beacon, 1964.
chris at
12:27 PM
|
Unnaming: the 2 Little Hermit Crabs
These 2 hermit crabs need names, my lovely wimmen children keep saying.
I dunno. What's in a name? I am not sure I want to be responsible for naming them--as if I could escape it.
But hey, if you have any name suggestions, email me, please:
cmrry88@aol.com
These 2 have mostly been sleeping inside their human-decorated nautilus shells today. Quick color paint design & appeal: very cheerful, indeed. & damn ! Pink sand. That's what the pet store gave them.
Okay: semi-Las Vegas Disneyland hermit crab can't help it if the world made you this way--I am trying to understand. No one is responsible for this piece of postmodern artistry. Sure.
But pretty soon I think I will have to go get some coffee at a place where I can read some books, okay? I'm limited, as most who know me readily say.
The weather turned suddently windy and gray-autumn, today, here--something bound to happen, sure, and the 2 hermit-crab-creatures have hardly raised the scant things we might like to call their heads.
Dunno about this. Critters all over, who knows what names they own.
chris at
8:47 AM
|
Listening:
Stroffolino:
Exile in Babyville:
more supreme
than it was
late summer,
or hey, maybe
juss
warmer
what with winter
looking
on
more real.
Um, today, here:
dropped to 50
degrees, bad bad
oh so degrees.
yeah, so good
hot food
must be coming
up, soon, too.
& it's jUSs
alright with
me, guuuuurrrrllllll.
chris at
7:47 AM
|
Birthday Celebration!
I'm posting from Kinko's because UTA is down--apparently they had a fire over there and it took out all the power. All the power being taken out of something, anything, is just so unsettling.
But anyway, I wanted to post. so here I am.
Last night, daughter Heather and her partner, David Rodriguez, along with daughter Holly, took me out to dinner at this fantastic restaurant in Fort Worth, Texas de Brazil. Wonderful food--especially the salad bar (I'm partial to veggies overall). Chocolate b-day cake. All so very yummie!
Best part of the night must be the 3 gifts:
--one sew on patch for jeans, Chinese sign for love, red background, black thread.
--Macy Gray CD (can't recall title right now, sorry, but more soon on that)
But absolutely the best?
--not 1 mind you, but 2: hermit crabs.
Um.
Okay, guuurrrllls (tryin to tell me somethin, or what?)
And, more comment on this soon (but if you've comments, please email the aol addie: cmrry88@aol.com)
chris at
1:27 AM
|
**Notice: UTA email is down. I can be reached at
cmrry88@aol.com
so, please try there if you are trying to contact me. Thanks. **
chris at
12:04 AM
|
Saturday, October 25, 2003
Thanks so much for the good word, and the birthday wishes, Eileen and Corpse Poetics!
And hey, to po-folks in SFO, Eileen is reading this weekend, along with Barry Schwabsky!
INVITATION (HOPE TO SEE YOU THIS WEEKEND!)
Thank you Taylor Brady, Stephanie Young, and kari edwards for:
HOUSE READING SERIES ANNOUNCES
> Reading by:
> Barry Schwabsky
> &
> Eileen Tabios
>
> Sunday, Oct. 26 7:00 p.m.
> 3435 Cesar Chavez
> #327
> San Francisco, CA
Barry Schwabsky was born in Paterson, New Jersey, and now lives in London. He is a curator, an editor for several leading art magazines including Artforum, an art/literary critic who writes regularly for the London Review of Books, and lecturer at Goldsmiths College, University of London. He is the author of several monographs on contemporary artists, The Widening Circle: Consequences of Modernism in Contemporary Art (Cambridge University Press), and the critically-praised Introduction to Vitamin P: New Perspectives in Painting_ (Phaidon). Information about his book OPERA: Poems 1981-2002
chris at
2:07 AM
|
Thanks very much Guillermo at Venepoetics for the birthday wishes! (posted Sat. 10/25/03 4:15 p.m. cst)
Urgent post at Venepoetics about the deteriorating situation in Venezuela, with the slick and highly suspect Chavez in power. I watched a longish news segment last evening on one of our several (thank goodness we have this: they always cover all the international news far more realistically than anything else here, including BBC and PBS) Spanish language channels here, Univision. Although their slant is always contortioning-boujgie, they do give plenty of foto footage and substantial clips from speeches (yes: in Spanish only: so brush up yer skills, folks!). Indeed, things are worsening in this situation, even from that news slant.
chris at
1:37 AM
|
Stephanie and Depeche Mode!
And many thanks for the birthday's happies!
chris at
1:18 AM
|
Listening: Alison Krauss + Union Station, "New Favorite" = very nice blue grass pickins.
Favorite cut on the album?--it may change but for now it's "The Boy Who Would Not Hoe Corn," for the acute timing between vocals and instrumentals, fiddle + 5 string banjo, all sort of talking together in dialogic ways that must be exactly what bluegrass was made for and meant to do. But really, this one is making the human voice be an equal instrument, between the solo spots and the minor-chorded harmonies. I love that. The lyrics--narrative but also somewhat cryptic--also very intriguing on this song. Music must be the best thing in the world (well one of...).
Daughter Holly is wishing and singing Happy Birthday every hour on the hour!
UTA Writing Center tutor (one of the very best, ever!), Liz Helton, of Third Wish blog, just emailed with good wishes, too.
And the superb story-tellin' blogger, Steve Vincent, emailed with these lovely good wishes:
Hope you are able to find special pleasure du jour.
And continue to enjoy the days that are to suivre.
Thanks, Steve!
Gosh, all this is so nice.
chris at
12:29 AM
|
Friday, October 24, 2003
"... and just now the first real snow floating."
-- Uprising Malcom Davidson, Eeksy Peeksy
Dear Malcolm,
That line about snow is exactly how most of my birthdays were, growing up in Roch, NY: there, Oct.24 is often a little window on winter. I liked it just fine. Today in TX it's nothing like that--all sun, balm, often an unaccountable attitude of (faux) halcyon (or is that Haliburton?). I'll take that 'first real snow floating,' any day, if only for the "real." Thanks very much for all the good reading I've found this year at Tram Spark and Eeksy Peeksy, and now today, for the shout-out and good wishes.
cm
chris at
10:20 PM
|
eep! How did this happen?--
I just now realized (because he kindly mentions my birthday today) that I didn't have an Equanimity link in my roll. For all this time blogging, then, I have had Jordan Davis's Million Poems, which I love reading, but somehow had no link to his daily journaling blog. Situation now adjusted, and thanks, to Jordan for the shout-out today!
chris at
10:01 PM
|
Yay!! I love this: Thanks for the Beethoven lnk--
and for the good wishes, Nick Piombino and Fait Accompli !!
chris at
9:22 PM
|
YaY !! Happy Birthday to Me !!
&&&&&&&&&&~~~~~~~~%%%%%%%*******+++++++######@@
Now Playing, Sappho ** :
SapphomotherenginesSapphomotherenginesSapphomotherenginesSapphomotherengines
***********************************************************
for mother [said]
to me her curious
one, "The hair exquisite
was wrapped in purple bands,
fine weavings,
& the yellow
adorns day's bloom
anew, if Sardis is spangled
city joy at night.
******
"Be Happy, she said:
here is the fine
purple weaving, the coming
with song
gifted out of hands
to rub all the way
from Phokaeia,
my child."
******
sing low growling lyre.
grow voice as a river
with April's best under
******
into every desire--
wet stars on thigh
**tsk-loosening translations, by chris murray
chris at
12:08 PM
|
Coming up on my birthday--midnight.
I never know what to do with my birthday.
And so: ever since having children of my own, on my birthday I spend some time thinking of thanks and respect that my mother (who died in 1994) should have had from everyone who benefitted from her oddly irreconciled existence.
3 x Of course
Ofcourse
Ofcourse:
Of course--in terms of being recognized, thanked, respected--it never did work that way very well for her.
Of course, I never showed her enough respect and rarely thanked her until it was very late in everything. So, never enough for her to know how appreciated she was/is.
Of course she just, anyway, kept on being the mother I took for granted.
3x Ah Wells and 1x Ah well: whatever It was, It Wore Her Out.
Ah well common story, though there was only one Irene Murray, so not so common, too.
Ah well, I suppose she didn't know what else to do with her very solid, driven, smart self but drink enough for ten Mothers (!).
100x Let alone, what to do with the polyester crater
being filled by her readerly-self? Hungry like a polyurethene fox:
scouting around acetylene;
hungry as an antifreeze squirrel:
where did that 289th pile of nuts
and bolts go, anyway?
She read all the time. Those who found a way to say: de Beauvoir, Sartes, Greer, Steinhem. Alongside whatever romance novels the grocery store fanned her face with at the check out lane. And whatever handed out the loudest inspiration: Graham, Fulton-Sheen (the mediocre conservative male-lot). But don't forget those who didn't believe it: from the Brontes to Beckett to Jong. Hell, she'd grown up hungry and waiting in bread lines, Roch NY. Game of dominoes and Tennyson as ammo. In her pocket.
Grandpa, her dad, holding her hand. Work is worth wanting, worth something toward a self. Reading is suspect. Yes?--Can I help you?--she says glorifying the Penney’s Women’s Undergarments in aile 4 with Thunderbird breath 60 years later. New mall, very nice for the neighborhood. Smile.
Something important--everyday working life in her family--made sure she couldn't wait to grow up enough to work in a factory. Kodak, Bell Tel, or General Dynamics. And then she did. There's this foto of her on the concrete sidewalk outside the brick wall of the Gen-Dyn factory: the world is certainly 19 years old, sunny all over, full of outside.
And then married--foto of Niagara Falls honeymooners pouring looks onto each other--and then: the six Catholic children santioned by two churches to which she devoted her thinking. That's when love was a Bible split many ways but still read aloud for every offering; way before devotion was her Thunderbird bottle full enough for twenty more and needy Irenes; and just around the time everything was beautiful as a fresh faced, devoted sailor-man, kissing her cheek: both standing tall at altar. One quaint in partial veil.
Somehow they did everything suburban
or sunburned or in terms of both.
Then, strange dream they had, we tried to think later. How did this happen?--something to do with factory work in chemicals--he wore a full skin rash most of his life from working with experimental chemicals at Kodak Park (they called it a park!), and then, too, there was always excess and unusual sound: he was a drummer in his free:
time. Oh, yes. She would say a time for every thing. Don’t forget to season
the season. Me?--I think they had a piece of cake together once. Chocolate.
With special icing, maybe cinnamon, nutmeg dash.
Catholic. Of course.
And then she died.
He still always.
Sure.
I don't know how they did any of it: result, that six of us think and act in kindly ways over life. Sort of amazing, considering the circumstances (not apocalyptic but certainly not conducive to kindly-goodness, either, yet somehow we are okay that way). Something in that is a little remarkable.
3 x Here's to:
Here's to Her:
Here's to Irene,
Here's to my mom,
that one mom who carried me,
bore me forth on this date, a long while ago.
And hey! Happy Birthday to me!
Mostly, though,
Thanks, Mom.
Wish you were here.
Oh, you are not.
By the time I write this out and post it, midnight will have long passed. I'm never very pleased over my birthday but this time writing a little like this was okay.
Best,
cm
chris at
7:51 AM
|
Thursday, October 23, 2003
Stephen Vincent reports
on the Diane Arbus opening at San Francisco MOMA
Thanks, Steve!
chris at
12:24 PM
|
from # 1 on the Wisdom Crush List,
Nick Piombino:
"It is my sense the best chance
writers have to change the political
situation is to use our
own writing culture
as our political workshop.
In turn, we will be empowered
with tools that can be used to
powerful advantage in critiquing the
system that we are replicating in the
traditional ways we empower our own
work, each others work, our own “careers”
as writers and each others “careers”
with each other: the modes by which
we exchange and interpret each others
writing work,
sometimes helplessly
permitting its exploitation
and subservience to the system
we purportedly want to change,
that must be changed so that
we can rediscover and redirect
the most productive
and generative political
energies."
Fait Accompli blog, Thursday, Oct. 23, 2003
chris at
11:22 AM
|
*Under Construction: Watch Your Head*
This poem just puzzles the hell out of me.
I have to post this oh-so-over-the-top romantic--truly the definition of self abnegation--poem. It's a heartbreaker--for its sentimental yet steely & clinical speaker, and generally for sentimental listeners/readers, but not least for anyone considering what it means to be in love, from an historico-personal/contemporary epistemology. Um, those concerned with lyric? Yeah, those. Everything in this poem is stop-gapped for zero sum all at once if apparently not the usual expectancy for a CF poem (actually in many ways this does figure into other Forche work, only not on or in terms of romantic lover/love-lyric poetry).
It's also a little surprising for some to see that it is a Carolyn Forche poem... Hey, girl, what happened to all that backbone, if not the fight?--they might be asking--Yeah, okay-is-this-supposed-to-be-you (the speaker)-more-or-less- one who *fell-yourself-into* what?-- love not war?
Why post it? I find it very moving, if only because it reveals the self- possessed yet selfless, awful vulnerability that *Love* (YaY!! Love!!) was and continues to be for a penultimate generation of American bougie lyricists (I include popular song makers, Rod McKuen & Joni Mitchell & etc. all together!--yer 6 B's: basic baby booming bongo & bong bunch). In other words,
Love: Yuck! YaY! Nothing is ever okay!--keep smoking!--don't send cheerleaders or football players, please! Send stark poetry & Spanada wine instead! (or something to that effect).
But hey, my take here really is non-judgemental--not meant to offend poets or anyone's sensibility. To question & wonder. My attitude's a little tongue-in-cheek--but it should be remembered, this (early) Forche poem really is not. It's the trajectory of a long standing commitment to and acquaintance with unruly feeling, and inquiry over (because so damagingly romantic) what might be entrusted to and by poetic thinkers : **
Reunion
Just as he changes himself, in the end
eternity changes him.--Mallarme
On the phonograph, the voice
of a woman already dead for three
decades, singing of a man
who could do anything.
On the table, two fragile
glasses of black wine,
a bottle wrapped in its towel.
It is that room, the one
we took in every city, it is
as I remember: the bed, the pillows.
My fingernails, pecks of light
on your thighs.
The stink of the fire escape.
The wet butts of cigarettes
you crushed one after another.
How I watched the morning come
as you slept, more my son
than a man ten years older.
How my breasts feel, years
later, the tongues swishing
in my dress, some yours, some
left by other men.
Since then, I have always
wakened first, I have learned
to leave a bed without being
seen and have stood
at the washbasins, wiping oil
and salt from my skin,
staring at the cupped water
in my two hands.
I have kept everything
you whispered to me then.
I can remember it now as I see you
again, how much tenderness we could
wedge between a stairwell
and a police lock, or as it was,
as it still is, in the voice
of a woman singing of a man
who could make her do anything.
(48-49)
** Carolyn Forche, "Reunion," in The Country Between Us.
New York, Harper Row: 1981
chris at
5:34 AM
|
Wednesday, October 22, 2003
from Mary Kean ** :
Magpie
mocks black and white cat.
Every day I wear a sweater.
The little mountain behind me wears
a rainbow like tropical fish. Land
is the pinata with all its surprises.
Sounds of animals. Flashlights.
Our lives back to back.
Tears really mean, "Taste this fire."
(161)
** Mary Kean, "Magpie," in Beneath a Single Moon: Buddhism in Contemporary American Poetry. Kent Johnson and Craig Paulenich, Eds. Boston: Shambhala, 1991.
chris at
11:48 AM
|
Caracas Drafts ! from Guillermo Parra
chris at
11:13 AM
|
Ask me anything--I'll tell you my favorite
title (for today): The Fragility of Goodness **
** Martha Nussbaum, The Fragility of Goodness. Cambridge UP, 1986 (or updated version, 2001)
&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&
Meanwhile, ear, eye, and think some at Wood's Lot, on things said and done by the likes of Egon Schiele, Ursula Le Guin,
and Ron Silliman (tho if you click here you'll find a wonderfully labyrinthine piece on Ron's blog--all about his prose-poem-writing process...).
And if you click here you'll find the posts on Schiele, Le Guin, and Silliman, at the eclectic **Wood's Lot blog.**
Have fun!
chris at
8:48 AM
|
Trick or Treat:
Dear Tympan,
Ringing the doorbell: more
& more elaborate Choke-Monsters!--
some whole lotta folks
been walkin' up the steps to your place with Xtra-
XLarge-Super Hero-Hallowe'en bags spillin' over
with more and more Choke tricks & treats:
& all lookin good!
: )
P.S. In case someone needs a little X-tra,
this just in
from Macy Gray:
"I try to walk
away and I
choke... "
EEEPPPP&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&
Eep! & Oops!!
(9:20 p.m. Wednesday 10/22 note:)
the Macy Gray lines above are wrong... *grin*
they should instead read:
"I try to say
good-bye
and I
choke--
I try to walk
away
and I
stumble..."
the song, "I Try," from the album, On How Life Is(Epic, 1999)
chris at
7:14 AM
|
Tuesday, October 21, 2003
Wow--I am in awe :
Here is Brian Clements, current Texfiles Poet of the Week,
reading from his recent project, Use Cases, the poems, "Antiarticles," "Beck," "Geek Tragedy," "Kidvid," "Deskidirata," (with text for the poems posted below, on 10/17 and 10/19).
audio post powered by audblog
Enjoy!
(Brian: I think these poems may be one definition of exquisite.
Please, do Keep
On... )
&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&
chris at
5:45 AM
|
As If
today wrapped itself in sun & brick
fickle as glass no less loved
as if day forgives night
its truck with sharp
singe of sleep colder
into knife of smoke
sun ideal mother’s word
her sh bathing your ears
as she always each
here is a tunnel
there a water ridge
into sleep
until
if you listen the starlings will
all depart at once in Pentego
circle nothing over the highway
turn looking toward the shiver of leaves
just left for all
the world
as if the son called
Here
came home
chris murray 10/19/03
chris at
2:32 AM
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from some reading/writing today in/on the poems of Carolyn Forche:
fr. part V of "The Recording Angel" **
A river that later caught fire
A stone with its own list of names
Nothing that worked once can be tried again
That's what he told me. I didn't know. I worked as a housewife then, bound to the passing meals
The need for linens, the demand to return flying clothes to their hooks.
At night I found myself in a pasture of refuse
After the city vanished, they were carried on black mats form one place
To another with no one to answer them
Vultures watching from the white trees
A portable safe found stuffed with charred paper
An incense burner fused to its black prayer
In the city's perfect emanation of light
We lost every alternate route
We were there, ill there, in the new birthplace of humanity
...
(59)
** Carolyn Forche, The Angel of History. New York: Harper Perennial, 1994.
chris at
12:57 AM
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Monday, October 20, 2003
I love Shampoo Poetry!--
Sneaky Previoo of Shampoo 19 is up:
"Cafe Morphemics," my San Francisco poem (Thanks, Del Ray Cross and the Shampoo crew!)
chris at
12:49 PM
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Check this out, courtesy of daughter Holly :
Afterlife Outfitters & Angelics (I might need more than one of those black velvet outfits, dear god... )
chris at
12:02 PM
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Two Underreported Perspectives from the News: here are some international crises that ought to be front page news but haven't been covered much yet (likely they won't be either):
From The Washington Post:
"Bangkok Evicts the Poor Before Economic Summit "
(By Glenn Kessler
Washington Post Staff Writer
Monday, October 20, 2003; Page A18) :
"This city of 10 million, known for its endless traffic jams and teeming street life, has been spruced up and locked down in preparation for the 21 leaders attending the Asia-Pacific Economic Cooperation forum that starts Monday. The cleanup has included barring thousands of street vendors from the central city, shipping 10,000 homeless people to army camps and banning more than 500 human rights activists from entering the country. ..."
8888888888888888888888888888888888888888888888888888
And in Bolivia,the past two weeks:
"Statement from the Mujeres Creandas"
(Posted to Infoshop.org by Coyote of worksolidarity.org** : "Please distribute [translation nmcn/ainfos - cr/rlam]") :
"Mujeres Creando was formed as a feminist struggle movement in solidarity with our people, not as a group of artists for individualist actions or self-promotion, though they without doubt also have their value, but Mujeres Creando is a space for the construction of community, within the global vision of our native people.
Since the beginning of the unrest in the city of El Alto on Wednesday 8th, Mujeres Creando as a movement decided to join in the fight and mobilization in the streets, without any self-promotion either by the group or its members, united shoulder to shoulder with the people. That has been the case since then, fully united with the people, our people, who have always planned pacific actions in the occupation of the streets.
The provocation came from the organs of repression, the only dead soldier is thought to have been killed by the military because he refused to shoot, the silence of the military in this respect confirms this hypothesis to us.
We have also set up a study group among the women who are participating in the neighbourhood struggles. On Wedneday 15th, the middle class of La Paz, formerly the ideological and social pillar of the present President, started a hunger strike; on the one hand the popular sectors, the barricades, the neighbourhood groups took a supporting stance, but on the other hand distrusted it as [the hunger strikers] received immediately all the attention of the mass media, due to their connections with the powers that be. Meanwhile, the people, who form the basis of these protests to recover their natural resources, had to spend over a month protesting, with 68 dead and more than 300 injured, in order to get the national and international mass media to hear their case.
Food is needed at the moment, and for that reason we request humanitarian support in the form of foodstuffs, medicines and blankets for the comrades still in El Alto but headed for La Paz to occupy the streets, and those peasants, syndicalists, miners, native people etc. from different parts of the country. The shortages we are experiencing in the neighborhoods, the food situation, is very serious... this is the concrete support that we need now.
In order to get that aid here, collect foodstuffs and have it sent via the International Red Cross - which itself will need to be pressurized into dealing with us.
We send our greetings, and are sure that our people will get back their resources for them to be used by us and by our sons and daughters." --Lidia Gisbert Quispe Fortunata Escobar Julieta Paredes
Please distribute [translation nmcn/ainfos - cr/rlam]
** Worker Solidarity Org
chris at
9:46 AM
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Yum: Korean food for dinner! David & Heather took Holly, Christine (she's pregnant!--getting big, and slow, but she's very happy about it), and me out for dinner. A wonderful place in Dallas. Mmmmmm. Korean food: hot pot with mushrooms and veggies, b-b-q beef & onion, lots of bowlsfull of tasty treats in hot, very hot, sauces, and lots of rice. I'm a happy camper tonight.
chris at
8:27 AM
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Just a quick note on a little Anti-Choice-stalking biz:
happyfeministashappyfeministashappyfeministashappyfeministashappyfeministashappy
Texfiles has been visited by a right wing, anti Planned Parenthood website/organization. My message to them is:
I hope by reading here you find peace. I hope for you, peace of mind, especially in knowing that women will think, speak, and act for themselves. I hope you will work as hard saving yourself as you do stalking women because they have choices about their bodies and means of birth control.
happyfeministashappyfeministashappyfeministashappyfeministashappyfeministashappy
chris at
7:59 AM
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Sunday, October 19, 2003
on Texfiles Poet of the Week: Brian Clements
Here is a little background on this innovative poet, critic, and editor, Brian Clements, who lives here in Dallas. He is the author of *Essays Against Ruin* (Texas Review Press), of *Burn Whatever Will Burn* Muse Apprentice Guild, and editor of Sentence: A Journal of Prose Poetics, whose first issue is now available. More information is available at http://firewheel-editions.org.
Brian hosted a wonderful poetry reading here at SMU last night, for the inaugural issue of Sentence, with a fun reception afterwards. Sentence truly is a journal of excellence (I will be reviewing it here tonight or tomorrow).
Here are some additional poems (there are 3 others posted below, on 10/17) from Brian's new project, "Use Cases" :
Antiarticles **
Direct your laser into a sentence.
The haze about it is a refusal.
This particular sentence is about satellites.
Adjust for trouble when you start putting on names—even in good faith.
Language doesn’t come around to please anyone.
Let’s not argue about who isn’t communicating, but about what you did.
Have mercy.
Beck **
Where can you begin on an infinite surface?
Wherever the eye falls.
The simple act of calling to can be seen as the love act.
What seems to be uniform from a distance could be a canyon.
Am I talking to you?
This page shines with fantasy, from the Greek.
Look—nothing but words.
**Brian Clements, Use Cases
chris at
9:54 PM
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Dept. of "Decoding the Local" :
rainbow / kualautjatje !
Thanks for this lovely piece on Pinart's work, Steve.
chris at
8:12 PM
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from the VNN* Channel Today:
Jani Shuttlesworth, UTA student from Engl. 3371--Advanced Expo--the course I'm teaching this semester, has been doing a lot of writing! She has 9 chapters of a novel completed, is mid-revision on those, and has an elaborately genred blog. You should check it out: Jhananin
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Also, I want to be sure this goes up for Saturday October 19, 2003:
HAPPY 17TH BIRTHDAY RANDY!!!--YOU ROCK! : )
*Very Nice News
chris at
7:59 PM
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Dept. Of *The Choke*--About my Choke-po
Tim Yu at Tympan blog is collecting and posting poems about *The Choke*--the phenomenon of 'choking up' at a crucial moment in a highly meaningful activity, occuring usually due to a failure of nerve (examples often come from sports, eg., as in baseball, choking up while at bat or dropping the ball in a crucial catch) (and the New Yorker published a researched article about the psychology of *The Choke* a few years ago, mybe '98 or '00?--can't recall exactly but it was an interesting take on the phenomenon).
Or, when *The Choke* happens, it can be--and, it can be due to--a lot of things. A few of which might be this kind of mental litany for contemporary life: did you drink your juice/eat your breakfast/ brush and floss teeth/ keep that appointment with the hygenist? Did you take your vitamins?--did you go to bed early?--did you pay your library fines? Have you checked the air in your tires lately?--for that matter, when is your insurance premium due?! In other words, it may actually be a major ... um... symptom-as-symbol in contemporary life, which is what I got for now out of Tim's (very perceptive) focal emphasis on and call for dialectical inquiry of *The Choke.*
Well, I took the crickety 'lot of things' option in writing about it in poem form, just to see what kind of poem would result. Result=pronouns in choke: no doubt because the little crickety things--pronouns!--are so much on my mind with this chapter-writing I am doing right now.
Thanks, Tim!
chris at
7:38 PM
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Saturday, October 18, 2003
On my way out the door for errands, but 2 important things just quick:
1. YaY!! Sentence: a Journal of Prose Poetics (edited and published by Brian Clements, current Texfiles Poet of the Week) release poetry reading and party tonight! If you are in the DFW area and reading this, then you must be into poetry, so go to this reading. We'll have lots of fun!
8:00 p.m., Dedman Life Science Bldg. Room 110
SMU campus
Reception afterwards
at the home of Brian Clements (Texfiles Poet of the Week!)
Sentence Contributors Reading Tonight:
Paul Christensen (who is coming up from Texas A&M)
John A. Ward (who is coming up from San Antonio)
Joe Ahearn
Rebecca Spears
Michael Helsem
Daryl Scroggins
Kristin Ryling
If you prefer simply to purchase a copy or a subscription, please send a
check for $12/22/30 for 1/2/3 issues (postage included) to Firewheel
Editions, PO Box 793677, Dallas, TX 75379.
Please feel free to distribute this invitation to your friends, colleagues,
organizational members, and students.
2. Check out all inquisitives: the new VeRT issue, # 9 !
In the new issue of Lit VeRT there's an interview with Kent Johnson (former Texfiles Poet of the Week). This is the English version of the interview with Kent published in the Brazilian journal, Coyote. Here, Kent is stirring up issues of poetic politics, authority, authorial authenticity, and basically the importance of continually inquiring: Who speaks in writing?--for whom?--where, and how?--and by discussing the exigencies posed and generated by Poets Against the War, and/or the writerly authority of Araki Yasusada (a Kent Johnson transduction).
chris at
9:09 PM
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Dept of What a great read this one is! :
"Figure 8"--textbooks, no zoo, deer-- (scroll to Thurs. 10/9)
thanks, Cassie.
chris at
11:42 AM
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From Michel de Certeau, "Walking in the City" ** :
"The Concept-city is decaying. Does that mean that the illness afflicting both the rationality that founded it and its professionals afflicts the urban population as well? Perhaps cities are deteriorating along with the procedures that organized them. But we must be careful here. The ministers of knowledge have always assumed that the whole universe was threatened by the very changes that affected their ideologies and their positions. They transmute the misfortune of their theories into theories of misfortune. When they transform their bewilderment into "catastrophes," when they seek to enclose people in the "panic" of their discourses, are they once more necessarily right?
"Rather than remaining within the field of a discourse that upholds its privilege by inverting its content (speaking of catastrophe and no longer of progress), one can try another path: one can try another path: [this repetition of phrase is in the de Certeau translated text--I think it might be a typo] one can analyze the microbe-like, singular and plural practices which an urbanic system was supposed to administer or suppress, but which have outlived its decay; one can follow the swarming activity of these procedures that, far from being regulated or eliminated by panoptic administration, have reinforced themselves in a proliferating illegitimacy, developed and insinuated themselves into the networks of surveillance, of constituting everyday regulations and surreptitious creativities that are merely concealed by the frantic mechanisms and discourses of the observational organization.
"This pathway could be inscribed as a consequence, but also as the reciprocal, of Foucault's analysis of the structures of power." (95-96)
chris at
9:57 AM
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Friday, October 17, 2003
Dept of Tall Republico Tales & Huh?--Texas Story Hones in on Booker Prize
On DBC Pierre's *Vernon God Little,* this year's Booker Prize winner: "An example of the small genre of Texas novels written by Australians resident
in England."--Tim Morris.
Check in on Lection, where Tim has reviewed DeAnne Blanton and Lauren M. Cook's *They Fought Like Demons*--a history of women in Civil War infantry units, passing as men--(Baton Rouge: LSU Press, 2002): "Some were nurses; in an age when most military nurses were male, women had to impersonate men to get jobs that would later be stereotyped as women's work." And this: "Cross-dressing was deeply woven into contemporary accounts and representations of the war."
--Go Tim!
chris at
6:16 PM
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Texfiles Welcomes the New Poet of the Week: Dallas/Fort Worth's Own, Brian Clements!!
Brian has been busy lately, preparing the new prose poem journal, Sentence: a Journal of Prose Poetics, to be released this weekend with a big DFW poetry reading from contributors, including Joe Ahearn, Paul Christensen (who is coming up from Texas A&M), and John A. Ward (who is coming up from San Antonio), as well as Rebecca Spears, Michael Helsem, Daryl Scroggins, and Kristin Ryling) and a party at Brians home here in Dallas.
A Poetry Party: YaY!! (my students and I are going!)
But here are some intriguing pieces from a manuscript Brian is working on called "Use Cases." I just love these, how the language slides around and into some serious issues and yet stays with ya, also bouncing itself into right over into happy--reminds me of Bo-Bo tea! and kids' birthday parties--some tasty things, but also a lot requiring that one pay attention and then not forget to chew a little):
Chevron **
What do you want to talk about?
Make up your own damn mind—cloaking or pushing?
What about what X (chi) means?
What is chewing about in Chicago?
I’ve heard it’s tacky there to talk faster than light.
They get on a beam, follow the double arrows.
Cubs win. How’s that for the real world?
Deskidirata **
Throw this plate of scraps to the wolves!
I want to fly on a copper dicussion to Ahaby.
Fling with all the haremite harpies.
When I get there, be sure I desquamate, just like this.
My records tell you nothing!
In this drawer, galaxies—maybe six.
In this drawer, de Soto at Mississip.
Suprificial **
What would it have been like if we’d been there?
“First the thing with the goat and then the children.
Now we’re all supposed to go to war?
Over what?
Some crackers who want to go on vacation?
It takes a real go-getter to be an asshole.
I’m not going to sing that godoxious song.”
Love the titling for these!
Enjoy now, everyone, and Welcome, Brian!
cm
**Brian Clements, Use Cases.
chris at
12:07 PM
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Labor, Literacy--Jaime Saenz--How a "Horizon Bears Your Weight": Intellectual Work
"He worked on and off as a journalist and professor and maintained important friendships with painters, composers, and intellectuals. But he essentially lived in poverty all his life. ..."--Forrest Gander and Kent Johnson, "By Way of Introduction," *Immanent Visitor*
So, whatever is "intellectual work"?-- labor practiced via thought: as if it's got some kind of respectable bodily presence, a measureable flex, a musculated pressure of exertion, a phusis perceived-by-All, as in, a no-problem/no-questions-asked kind of natural presence--what value in it and who cares?--for what use, & why?
"... every eye, every image, will blaze up and burn. ... every soul dissolves into a universal soul. ... If you have nothing to eat but garbage, don't say a word./ If the garbage makes you sick, don't say a word./ If they cut off your feet, if they boil your hands, if your tongue rots, if your spine splits in two, if your soul fines down to nothing, don't say a word./ If they poison you, don't say a word, even if your bowels slide from your mouth/ and your hair stands straight up; even if your eyes well with blood, don't say a word./ If you feel good, don't feel good. If you fall behind, don't fall behind. If you die,/ don't die. If you're sad, don't be sad. Don't say a word./ Living is hard; it's hard work not to say a word." (41) *
Sure :nothin like picking a little light topic to begin a nest of writing with. I am at dinner, verandah at Pappadeux in Arlington (very nice verandah on a temperate night). I am reading. And, hey: tonight I am stuck on the problematic of "intellectual work." What is it? That stuff we do digging around in textual means, modes, and history. These are laughably indeterminate 'things,' ya kno?--they literally mean nothing. Why bother, then? Intellect: no one says that word unless they are sucked into some Atlantic whale and just don't know it yet, let alone attaching the "ual" to it, oh-so-Latinate, when it might as well just be one more Texas yawn & drawl: Y'all--close enough that politicos won't be anal to tell the difference, um... right?
"Your crossing the streets separates you from me, as the day and the streets are
separate
--the whole city is a spider that hoards you from me,
and the light cuts you off; it isolates you and makes me see how well it cocoons
you
--resplendent, your happiness on the street corners,
at grief's hour I ask myself if I will find that sublime, deep blue of your
garments,
my nation,
the air of your voice when evening falls
--and I ask myself why I would joyously surrender to the joy you kindle in me." (6)*
It was one of those days: everything you say or write seems destined to be taken wrong on the receiving end, and the more you try to make it right, the worse it gets. You order decaf and end up 3 radio frequencies above the sidewalk: caffeinated, instead. You really can't know what you are saying because the medium never does--it's all humidity and buzz! You try to renew library books, the system says you don't exist, & etc. Shakespeare would have loved it. Material for a history or tragedy (Savin' the comedies for when I really need a way out of common sense, ya kno)? To understand.
"Putting up with people without saying a word is tough./ It's very hard--inasmuch as they expect to be understood without saying a word--/ to understand people without saying a word./ It's terribly difficult yet very easy to be a decent person;/ the truly difficult thing is not to say a word." * (41)
Intellectual: I went to dinner by myself (and that is just fine: I like my company, and like to read or write, and anyway I'm too unruly or distracted most of the time to be around anyone else for very long, as anyone who's been around me more than a day at a time will tell ya). Dirty rice! Bread & butter! Broccoli! Oh beautiful chartruese Romaine lettuce I love all your lime skinned thicknesses forever. Reading. Work: how to think outside the blonde bombs falling all around? Keep reading.
" I. This immanent visitor haunts lilies and the body's delicate down, he adorns a /penumbra./ He roams chords and the manifold contours, and here, in the window and / there, in the magnificent forest,/ this wayfarer gazes at me, unreadable,/ veils himself in the dense and pungent smell of lamps/ and in those intricate weavings oblivion loomed/--the felicitous slips into the periphery/ ... amid the stillness of the psalms./ II. From the blue way you envelop the world,/ the blue way you adore it. ... (58) *
On the twin page facing these lines: black and white, faded but still grainy enough to be almost palpbable, a photograph of the study, the poet in his study, seated, contemplative (smoking!!) at his desk, beloved typewriter waiting in front of him. And his books, one neat cushion not being used, several lamps, and array of arrowheads tacked inside a frame?--Hard to tell for sure. This is Saenz's study: all the objects named in the reading Kent Johnson audblogged here for Texfiles last night, airing some work for the first time from the translation-in-progress, *The Night.* The objects lost, found, savored, used, lived, in and of intellectual work.
Thanks for doing this intellectual work, Kent Johnson and Forrest Gander.
Intellectual work is not the same as physical labor, different yet just as humble and humbling. No lesser thing than phusis by any means--they can only *work or work out* together.
Thanks, Jaime Saenz, for your intellectual work, whereever you are and continue to be.
Thanks to the readers of this: if you are reading this then you are doing or will be doing some intellectual work.
* These are segments from Jaime Saenz's poems in *Immanent Visitor,* translated by Kent Johnson and Forrest Gander (U of Calif Press, 2003)
chris at
9:31 AM
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Thursday, October 16, 2003
Eileen is too funny! Read that "Hairspray" conundrum she discovered. Also, some good background for "Profiles," the beautiful audblog reading she gave here yesterday. The Cubist idea for poem-imaging rocks, Eileen (you genius,** you! YaY!!).
** I wz thinkin not so much in terms of abstracted categories of genius such as "complete" (which then has to be taken into consideration as defined by what it is not: "incomplete," but more in terms of things uniquely suited, such as "emerald"--ya kno? Eileen "emerald genius" Tabios. Yeah, I like that. Not that "complete" is a bad thing--clearly it is also good. How's them wings, anyway? One of these days I'm gonna get me some, too...
chris at
10:44 AM
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Ya kno:
I'm liking this Dirty Vegas CD. Kinda PinkFloyddyBlue-zish
an' ah
don't have to be
anywhere less'n
I want to
good mood it.
In a nice low flo
red dress.
Alot.
chris at
6:43 AM
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Wednesday, October 15, 2003
Check This Out! A First Public Release :
new Jaime Saenz poetry in translation right here from
Texfiles Poet of the Week, Kent Johnson--
an audblog reading from a section of the translation of Saenz's *The Night* (transl., Forrest Gander and Kent Johnson, **forthcoming**).
This is the first public release, in any form, of the translation from *The Night.*
audio post powered by audblog
Jaime Saenz is Bolivia's great poet of the 20th century. Also look for Saenz's *Immanent Visitor* (now available from U of Calif. Press, transl. by Forrest Gander and Kent Johnson).
Of *Immanent Visitor,* Cecilia Vicuna writes (as quoted from U of C Press website):
"These poems in translation are a revelation, a masterful conceit. 'Reading Saenz we are struck awake into a surging, polyphonic language of unstable, rapid transitions,' the poet/translators say, and so it is: a plain of shifting verbal sands, Saenz unfolds in their hands. The poem and the reader are both kept off-balance until they levitate into a trance, el momento of fusion where poetry begins. It is a great thing to witness this translation as event, the coming of Saenz into a new 'us,' a moment when poetry can be read as 'ours,' meaning 'north and south connected.' This is nuestra poesía."--Cecilia Vicuña, author of The Precarious/Quipoem: The Art and Poetry of Cecilia Vicuña.
Most recently, the Johnson and Gander translation of Saenz's *Immanent Visitor*--a finalist for the PEN International Translation Award--was reviewed by Anastasios Kozaitis in The Boston Review:
"[I]n the extraordinary [poem] “To Cross This Distance” (1973) ... Saenz’s skills and themes fuse effortlessly... : ' At enchantment’s final hour, in which the earth sinks away somewhere, / beyond the wall, / where this body that I love is lying, / where this soul that I love is lying. // Beyond the beyond of all the paths / in the transcendence of the scent of this body that I love, / in the transcendence of the scent of this soul that I love.' " —Anastasios Kozaitis, Boston Review, Oct/Nov 2003
" Immanent Visitor..."
Thanks, Kent, for audblogging this fine work--it is beautifully done!
chris at
11:46 PM
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Znine Announcement:
Znine is UTA's online lit mag, for which I am one of several editors.
Today's the last day to submit to Znine: poetry, short fiction, short creative non-fiction, (cross-genre works welcome, too), and artwork, with 3 sentence bio, to:
znine@uta.edu
come on!
send us something
to make us glad, grateful, or dissonant
about how we read,
and how we read against the (wonder bread) grain.
chris at
11:07 PM
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2 books in the mail this week:
Thomas Meyer's Coromandel. Skanky Possum (YaY!!)
Kent Johnson and Craig Paulenich, Eds. Beneath a Single Moon: Buddhism in Contemporary American Poetry. Shambahala, 1991.
Will be offering some thoughts on these Thursday evening.
chris at
7:11 PM
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Beautiful day here. Almost cold.
chris at
7:10 PM
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Blogger wouldn't open last night for several hours when I was trying to get on and post the text to Eileen's poem below. I finally gave up and went to sleep. Was able to post the text just now, though.
chris at
7:07 PM
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Tuesday, October 14, 2003
A Warm Welcome to our Guest Audblogger:
Eileen Tabios!
--reading the poem, "Profiles,"
from her book, *Reproductions of the Empty Flagpole*
audio post powered by audblog
Profiles
I returned to the wheat fields I had loved as a boy and realized I was just beginning a transition, your friend said as his hair swayed in the faint breeze. Behind him, a lone tree rose like an empty flagpole to interrupt the horizon of a deserted beach. I looked at him too intently because I was concsious of your hand an inch away from mine. We shared a table whose span allowed the width of a three-way conversation. He was your friend and I detested my attempt to measure your intimacy.
Boulevards are at their best at night. The dimness caresses anyone strolling past the lighted windows of locked stores. I could walk forever down Broadway, then back again until I am eating a ripe mango in Harlem. The music there is alien but I welcome the low moaning of hidden throats. I try to avoid women's eyes as they always make me cry.
I often recall Manila and the lost generation hugging the corners of its streets. I believe many have forgotten how to look straight ahead. And the women no longer wear their hair up. Their President announces the improvement in the air, and he is accurate. Still, most have lowered expectations.
Oh, Eileen, you have tiptoed down this path before. Why are you now stepping deliberately on fallen branches, their sounds cracking the air like the edges of blades against eggs? This must be what it means to be a woman without sisters. For mothers must let go
chris at
10:04 PM
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Yay! Thanks, Nick for taking such good care of the poetry blogging community, for setting us all up in such eloquent surroundings!
If anyone happens to be visiting the
Buffalo dot edu Poetics site, the Electronic Poetry Center,
click on the Blog List button on the opening page
and scroll down to find the entire poetry blogging community
(including, eep! me: texfiles)
chris at
8:03 PM
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More questions after the Oct. 11 post, "The Junk Ship Saturday" (at Someone's Couch)
about poetics of give and take in reading-writing,
Billy Collins, and his poem,
"Taking Off Emily Dickinson's Clothes,"
over at incisive thinker, Hannah Craig's
Awake at Dawn on Someone's Couch
with comments including Laura's from Yellowslip,
and some from me (scroll down).
chris at
11:57 AM
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From the Oh, You BladeRunner You! & the Goog/Sea/Source:
What to survey critically before your DNA becomes Revlon, or even You:
Lanny's link to " *symmetry-breaking"+speciation I think tis
"speciation" w/o q marks should be giving us or
at least gives me a little
chill running like a figure eight __8__ 2050
bAY-Bee,
all over me,
yA kno? could B weird (um, too late for me: already done DNA'd me).
(Lanny, makin' folks think: you rock!)
chris at
8:05 AM
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From Joan Retallack** : A Few More Twists on Gendered Twists, Othering and/or Mothering*:
The following is one of the most significant statements about recent quandaries of feminism that I have read in a very long time--as a theoretical object feminism [literary-philosophical forms of] may even break out of its solipsistic pill-ball somewhat, given this reformulating infusion from Retallack.
"Think--as Wittgenstein did--of a chess game in which 'to move' (active voice), to calculate and imagine, is to collaboratively develop the future configuration in/with which one lives. Here, to understand is to invent, not merely to get to the point.
"The didactic implication embedded in the sort of literature that the current pantheon (the new old-girls canon) of received feminist writers represents directs the reader toward the subjectivity of empathic identification and away from autonomous, critical production. The prompt for female reader as writer (from [Alicia] Ostriker and [Judith] Butler, as well as [Adrienne] Rich et al.) is, after all, toward repetition with a difference (replication of a value structure that valorizes heroics, as well as lyrical forms that mimic logical proofs--where epiphany = conclusion) rather than radical experiments that generate a proliferation of formal possibilities; possibilities that have, incidentally, much less to do with territory, ownership, and rights (all important issues in extraliterary arenas such as courts of law) than with the invention of new, poethical forms of life. Repetition with a difference may just not be different enough."
(357)**
And Retallack goes on to discuss how Theresa Hak Kyung Cha's DICTEE admirably moves outside the boundaries described above as "repetition with a difference," or that which is just not enough--to my way of thinking, of "different." It does not say enough about differences if we want to think in the larger ways and means Retallack alludes to earlier in this passage. I guess I want to hear not any old engine on this issue, but a kind of sonic boom. Because differences are sizeable between groups and individuals (though I am not throwing out the significance of commonality, either). I'm not sure yet why I want a louder statement but I can guess: there are major problems of short-sightedness in any theorizing endeavor. Retallack is far from disadvantageous short sightedness. But I am made wary by what I sense as perhaps an over caution in her framing. I want to say then, yeah, well, what exactly can we say to the 14-year-old female or male factory worker sewing our nice blouses, or to the everyday sex worker, who might think with a lot of "difference" about all our slow rhetorical tip-toeing around the term, "difference"? Surely we can do better (or: maybe not?). That is, unless the only one we think we are talking to happens (infinite regress!) to be that, um... 'good old girl network'--which, true, may need some persuading. But then what?--more of the same? So we end up right back at the first piston in the problematic: that troublesome "repetition" Ugh. Or sigh.
I do particularly like how this calls for moving beyond the "new good old girls canon," thus presumably, beyond some of the stulltifying Foucaudian-type disciplinarity of said-same "girls," though I would not use the diminutive, "girls" which is a little confusing--either not at all apt or way too: confusing, of course, not only because a literal impossibility (save the impossibles for Hollywood?) (these figures are grown and aged now), but also because too easily associated with that ultimate insult men use to one another when calling each other out for the grossest of weakness: "stop acting like a girl." These are women poets and/or theorists of the greatest magnitude in our time, certainly. They have my respect.
My point is that unaccountably or with some nameless restlessness, I have always felt uneasy about their approaches to both poetics and theoretical endeavors. In short, they are too short, as in short sighted, myopic. At the same time, they have opened doors for many significant and necessary perspectives. Unfortunately they also, along with Gilbert and Gubar as well as no few others in a feeding frenzy kind of way, variously overlook or obscure or are arrogant about many kinds and senses of othering, which is always based on "difference" and to some degree is necessary. No one being perfect, it is difficult to level this kind of criticism, which of course is the rhetorical equivalent of, yes, a similar othering. Nonetheless, something has to be said and worked out about what until now felt, looked, or was only intuited as unaccountable in these forms. Retallack begins to adequate it: to say it adequately, but only--still it is a major threshold, I think.
Something more concrete needs to be formulated though, to make this useful (and has elsewhere, I am sure but not ready at this moment to leave this threshold, just yet). For now I want instead to get very specifiic. So I am thinking here, in much humbler hypotheses, of the recent postings about what I will here term a certain unhandy mildness (rather than perhaps a handier, wilder kind of experimental abandon?--though these terms are not fixed; they are open in my present thinking) seemingly evident in the poetry of Linda Pastan.
But let me return to this in just a little while, I hope later this evening...
[I have family to tend to and errands to the stores to run right now, which is to say, my everyday life apart from theories, though not from theorizing...]
**Joan Retallack, ":RE:THINKING:LITERARY:FEMINISM: (three essays onto shaky grounds)," in Feminist Measures: Soundings in Poetry and Theory. Lynn Keller and Cristanne Miller, eds. Ann Arbor: U of Mich Press, 1994. (344-377)
*Thanks!--Steve Vincent--for this title-idea.
chris at
1:47 AM
|
Monday, October 13, 2003
Um... Jerry Rubin's New Left Sprang From Elvis' Pelvis... plus other disreverencies & wizdomes
Thanks, Tim, for pointing out this cool site.
chris at
12:31 PM
|
Dept. of Whoa--*Listen Up* :
"The Venezuelan government recently seized equipment from Globovision, an action that has drawn criticism from various international observers, including the OAS and the Jimmy Carter Center. ... [and this next is quoting Adriana Villanueva, news-editorial writer for the Caracas newspaper, El Nacional : ] 'Today, when they raid a TV station in Venezuela, when the government disobeys rulings from the Supreme Court, when entire families are thrown from their homes while red-shirted invaders are given a warm welcome for political reasons; my instinct is to recommend Speak, Memory by Vladimir Nabokov, Lolita's author, who melancholically evokes his idyllic childhood in Imperial Russia's autumn.' "--Check it out: Guillermo Parra, Venepoetics Blog
chris at
8:48 AM
|
Many Thanks for your exquisite views: on Stein and Spicer both, Steve.
Also, humble thanks for the nice note about "TRainRain,"
my poem posted last night.
It feels good to be appreciated!
smiles,
chris m
chris at
7:06 AM
|
From Rimbaud, "A Season in Hell" (forgive the lack of proper accents in this typographic venue) ** :
Il faut etre absolument moderne.
Point de cantiques: tenir le pas gagne. Dure nuit! le sang seche fume sur ma face, et je n'ai rien derriere moi, que cet horrible arbrissseau!... Le combat spirituel est aussi brutal que la bataille d'hommes; mais la visiion de la justice est le plaisir de Dieu seul.
Cependant c'est la veille. Recevons tous les influx de vigueur et de tendresse reelle. Et, a l'aurore, arme d'une ardente patience, nous entrerons aux splendides villes.
Que parlais-je de main amie! Un bel avantage, c'est que je puis rire de vielles amours mensongeres, et frapper de honte ces couples menteurs,--j'ai vu l'enfer des femmes la-bas;--et il me sera loisible de posseder la verite dans une ame et un corps.
Avril-Aout 1873
(88)
& as translated by Louise Varese:
One must be absolutely modern.
No hymns! Hold the ground gained. Arduous night! The dried blood smokes on my face, and I have nothing behind me but that horrible bush!... Spiritual combat is as brutal as the battle of men: but the vision of justice is the pleasure of God alone.
Meanwhile this is the vigil. Welcome then, all the influx of vigor and real tenderness. And in the dawn, armed with an ardent patience, we shall enter magnificent cities.
Why talk of a friendly hand! My great advantage is that I can laugh at old lying loves and put to shame those deceitful couples,--I saw the hell of women back there;--and I shall be free to possess the truth in one soul and one body.
April-August, 1873
(89)
** Arthur Rimbaud, A Season in Hell and The Drunken Boat. Louise Varese, transl. New York: New Directions, 1961
chris at
1:30 AM
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Sunday, October 12, 2003
This Announcement just in from Brian Clements, editor of *Sentence: a Journal of Prose Poetics,* about the journal's inaugural reading here in Dallas next Saturday (10/18/03):
Dear Friends and Colleagues,
We warmly invite you to help us celebrate the release of the inaugural issue
of *Sentence: A Journal of Prose Poetics* on Saturday, October 18th at 8 pm.
With the help of contributing editors Russell Edson, Maxine Chernoff, Peter
Johnson, and Michel Delville, we have put together a collection of stellar
prose poems, essays, translations, and reviews; and after a year and a half
of work, we’re ready to pour the champagne!
Some of our contributors have graciously agreed to read and sign copies on
the 18th. Their work will knock you out. They are:
Paul Christensen (who is coming up from Texas A&M)
John A. Ward (who is coming up from San Antonio)
Joe Ahearn
Rebecca Spears
Michael Helsem
Daryl Scroggins
Kristin Ryling
We do hope to see you on the 18th. A reception will follow immediately after
the reading at another location (see below). If you plan to attend the
reception, a response is appreciated but not necessary.
If you prefer simply to purchase a copy or a subscription, please send a
check for $12/22/30 for 1/2/3 issues (postage included) to Firewheel
Editions, PO Box 793677, Dallas, TX 75379.
Please feel free to distribute this invitation to your friends, colleagues,
organizational members, and students.
Reading: On the SMU campus, Dedman Life Science Building, Room 110. DLS is
the new building at the northeast-most corner of the campus, near the
intersection of Daniel and Airline (Daniel intersects Hillcrest at the north
end of the campus). Park in the adjacent parking garage or in one of the
nearby parking spaces open to the public on the weekends.
For further directions and information about the reception, respond to this message at
clementsfamily@sbcglobal.net,
or call 972-818-4113.
Brian Clements
Mike Carris
Gregg Thompson
chris at
11:53 PM
|
from Texfiles Poet of the WeeK, the multivoiced dialogic, heteronymic Kent Johnson:
The Seven Muses of the Boat-Making District (1) **
If I ever see a ghost, I hope it is Brotachos of Alkmena.(2)
Because I wouldn't be afraid. I would look at him
Floating there in his lily-shaped bubble, and then I would
Fall asleep and pick up exactly where I'd stopped in
My dream, just as if I'd never left it.
If I ever go to the Cyclades, I hope it is Samos, in the last century.
Because Ibykos (3) lives there. And I would track him down
To offer him a bottle of liqueur from the future,
So to drink with him and gaze at his incredibly strange face,
Which is remarkably like Brotachos'. And I would look at
this face
And think, all at once, about the whole Constellation of
Dioskouroi. (4)
And if I ever go to heaven, I wish there to be more
Hummingbirds there than there are here.
And I hope there is a tiny golden kind.
Because when this kind beats its impossible wings so fast,
The sound of Brotachos' voice comes out, making every
poet angel
Want so much to be so good to every other one.
And if I could ever do something all over again in the City
of Athens,
It would be to go to Brotachos' apartment in the Boat-
making District.
Because it is like a boat, and Korax and Markos' (5) and the one
 : whose
Name on the list is number thirty are also there. And we will
read
Poetry to the music of Demostatis, sure in the knowledge
that
Storms and other dangerous weathers will not harm us.
And if I should ever give anyone flowers again,
I hope to give them to Brotachos of Alkmena.
Because once when I brought him flowers, he put them
In a vase in the middle of his seven bronze muses,
And he closed his eyes and bent towards them, as if in
prayer,
For a long time, and I saw two tears fall into the flowers.
Therefore, if I ever give him flowers again, I hope their
Aroma to be like a drug, unbounded by time.
Because we will sit together on his goatskin-covered
Couch, and look at a long scroll of Antimenidas' etchings.
And Brotachos will move his hand over all the parallel
worlds curled
Up in there, making me want to fall asleep, and pick up
exactly
Where I'd stopped in my dream, just as if I'd never left it.
And because I hope that when I wake, my head will be on
His shoulder, and his sleeping head will be resting
Lightly on mine. And the scroll will still be open. --Megaklys. The provenance and dates of the author of this extrordinary poem are unknown, though the references to Ibykos "in the last century" would date it ca. fourth century. Intact papyrus discovered in Alexandria in the Montazah Palace find of 1998. No other works by him are to exist.
1. Of course, the classical number is nine.
2. Nothing is really known of thsi figure.
3. Great court poet of the tyrant Polykates, from sixth /fifth century, B.C.
4. The constellation of good fortune for sailors, suggesting that Megaklys may have been a fisherman or mariner of some kind.
5. Neither of these two figures is known, nor are Demostratis or Antimenidas.
(11-13)
** Kent Johnson-Alexandra Pappditsas, The Miseries of Poetry: Traductions from the Greek. Austin: Skanky Possum Press, 2003.
chris at
10:20 AM
|
Dept. of Bloggo-aesthetic-poetic-train & (clutterlove) poems:
TRainRain
[date/subject/job sort: Oct. 11 11:55 p.m., Arlington rainy Saturday night Texasooo-OOOoo & Index of owow/epa/hyperlinks]
we train two miles
away going away
now trainintherain
trainintherain
traintrain
intherain
traintrain
“saturday+nite”
where google like to say: purple
dinosaur?--
"did you mean
train rain____________[IMG] trainrain.jpg"
still the ooooo ooooooo summary
for this [google interrupt with
"Chinese
(Traditional)?" Intelligence just in: this has nothing
to do with drains in Spain?]
just say no-
no to this vast skull Jack so hollow
language is its own drama: go
dharma,
chanting like smoking
strong to this address www.epa.gov/owow/
oceans/lagoon/images/ self reflexive hyperlink
okayed ahead of time between partners
to select "2palms.jpg" ordinary
(or hey--just take your time
sifting through all of these images?)
yeah
oh but please can we be more
specific or make love:
i hope so for all our sakes: www.epa.gov/owow/oceans/lagoon/
images/
trainrain.jpg" : Love, if you love
me we
ooOOOoo
are in trainrain now
chris justisteningtoTRainRain murray
chris at
7:55 AM
|
A visit to the Saatchi Gallery in London becomes occasion for some useful questioning of avant guarde aesthetics in relation to the socio-political as context:
"No freedom without rigor,
no play without impacting and being impacted
by other people."--Josh Corey
chris at
6:25 AM
|
Saturday, October 11, 2003
News on Anti-FTAA Campaign, Sao Paulo, Brazil ** :
Anti-FTAA campaign forms national assembly and demands referendum
São Paulo, 10/6/2003
The Social Assembly of the National Campaign against FTAA on October
4th and 5th in São Paulo brought together representatives of social
organizations and movements from different Brazilian states and debated
the direction of the campaign and different points of view in the
struggle against the FTAA. The assembly established an October 2004
deadline for obtaining an official referendum on Brazil's participation
in the FTAA. The Campaign obtained an unofficial referendum with the
participation of more than ten million people in September of 2002. The
PT (Worker's Party) participated at the start of the campaign, but
later removed itself from the referendum. In 2003, the Campaign pledged
to collect signatures to demand an official referendum. By September
16, two million signatures had been collected and delivered to
Congress.
A good part of the debate was dominated by the matter of the campaign's
position in relation to the Lula government. Some participants urged
active opposition, while others, in the understanding that the Lula
administration is a under attack, urged institutional dialogue as a
means to influence the government. The debate is particularly relevant
to the position of the Brazilian government and Mercosul in the last
meeting of the FTAA negotiating committee in Trinidad and Tobago. The
Brazilian government wants to remove certain topics from the treaty.
Some believe that the Lula government is taking steps to limit FTAA
negotiation on controversial issues such as intellectual property and
government investment and spending. However, critics say that even if
Brazil's proposal wins favor, the treaty will continue to force
deregulation in international trade, which can impact negatively on
workers and the environment.
**email forwarded by Chris Daniels, 10/11/03
chris at
11:14 PM
|
The man with a mandolin (yes!)
& some serious inquiry on Paul Lake's "Enchanted Loom" article in the current CPR (scroll down to Wed., Oct.1, *Sonneteering*). Welcome to Texfiles, Mike Snider!
chris at
2:48 PM
|
News of the Day: *'Justice denied' at Guantanamo*
(By Rachel Clarke
BBC News Online in Washington) :
A diverse group of ex-judges, diplomats and former military lawyers is urging the US Supreme Court to intervene on behalf of hundreds of men being held without trial by the government...."
chris at
2:22 PM
|
Profile:
Lewis LaCook interviews Nick Piombino about blogging life, for Sidereality--also featuring Nick's poems and other writings: YaY!!
chris at
1:54 PM
|
"Il mare si calma, le catene si spezzano (*Si quaeris*--Monday Sept. 29)"
Thanks for letting me wrap that around a little bit--
it was getting a bit cool in here... : ) Welcome to Texfiles, Tonio!
chris at
1:38 PM
|
Listening: "The Boy Who Wouldn't Hoe Corn," --Alison Kraus & Union Station: "He turned his back and walked away, saying, You little miss'l rue the day--givin' me the devil cuz I wouldn't hoe corn... ."
Cafe Nine: "The Boy Who wouldn't Hoe Corn"
i.
so yearn
for god-you-never-know-what, f-
oreverhuman
vanity walking two
by four dried kernels
between dirt-sky
really dust
what else if not minor chording between--finger pickin' string
music
ii.
can I break your heart?
iii.
if like a good sit-still listener would
sit at table
politesse no
crossing legs arms fingers drummin' those wet surfaces
iv.
of oh my
v.
when "The Boy Who Wouldn't Hoe Corn"
lilts across your sacred
sip of
dear
vi.
be
lucky
you--if it doesn't make you loam,
lay down,
down, oh
down--because you stop a minute
right then & there, so much
eye kiss:
vii.
even "you rue the day
you were born--
givin' me the devil
cuz' i wouldn't hoe corn."
oh yeah & scratch:
& no:
oh no
to it:
viii.
what?
we're damned, see?
See: this is why
some folks have to have it:
I swear on dirt road gutteral drama of every my--
religion--
that mannered cur--
Plato'z
right again,
music:
it is--sirens!--
ix.
almost too Odysseusdangerous
for this mango pine highway 180 Kendrick Park chapel
light dirty flannel plaid daily world
music, do I have to say again,
love?
chris m
chris at
10:55 AM
|
Dept.of Reading Past Everyday Lives
& Optimistic Technological Helpmates
Just Reach Out and Touch Some
Fish:
From Reader's Digest, November 1941
"The Bell System"
"An inventive New Yorker who was leaving town for a few days and didn't wish to trouble his friends with feeding his treasured tropical fish, worked out a simple system for feeding them himself by long-distance telephone. Using the cardboard out of a shirt [a store-bought or a dry-cleaned men's dress shirt?], he fashioned a spoonlike device with a long handle, pricked a number of small holes in the the spoon end to make a shaker. Then he removed the cover from the telephone box [?--what are these] and wired the end of the shaker handle to the bell clapper, filled the shaker with fish food, set the tank on the floor under the telephone box with the shaker poised above the water, and headed out of town with a carefree heart."
"A couple of hundred miles from home he put in a call to his own number, listened complacently to nobody answering, seeing in his mind's eye a day's supply of fish food being wafted gently on to the water by the vibration of the ringing bell [what is this, a kinder, gentler, Pavlov or BF Skinner?]. It worked and the fish did fine. --[originally published in] Rockefeller Center Magazine [um, well of course...]" (129)
Yeah, okay. But if it were me I'd be worried the whole time that some little something would throw the contraption out of wack: a cockroach would wander over it and the entire box of food would spill or something... Or: telemarketers and bill collectors would call ten times each day and the fish would die from nodding heads and repeating *just take it out of my other credit card,* or from the grief of being culturally guilt-tripped, or: just like people feeding steadily at McDonald's: from gross overfeeding?
chris at
5:51 AM
|
Friday, October 10, 2003
I'm honored: my humble thanks, Ernesto!
[cf. scroll to poem, "Pluperfect @ 83%," Mon. 10/6]
chris at
8:55 PM
|
From Stephen Jonas ** :
Cante Jondo for Soul Brother Jack Spicer,
His Beloved California & Andalusia of Lorca
Spain is located somewhere between Polk Street and Laguna Beach/
as you cross the Oakland Bridge into Portugal/
Oh, that Spicer/
he was a flamenco, that one/
for wld save America from
the abuses of rime. Like Lorca (our Fedy) was 'gipsified.'
Heard Bird's playing & for three years
didn't know the taste of meat. sd. he didn't know
music had attained to it. A tear & one blue note upon yr brow, baby.
...
(160)
*Stephen Jonas, Selected Poems. Joseph Torra, ed. Hoboken, Talisman House, 1994.
chris at
10:05 AM
|
Check out Radio UTA poetry: right now!! (click on the Listen Now button)
Today's RadioUTA readers are from (sorry!--need to clarify: not Toni's students but) the Fort Worth Haiku Society.
I'm off in a bit to the after-reading at Coffee Haus, Mesquite Street in Arlington. New students coming tonight: Hi Jahananin! See ya in Mesquite Street poetry!
chris at
1:35 AM
|
Wow: some powerful thinking goin' on--check this out!
"Perhaps the best work is circular, turning obsessively back on the same words again and again until their histories are revealed—basic, embodied, utterly new. "--Tim Yu, "Letter to Robert Creeley"
chris at
12:35 AM
|
Thursday, October 09, 2003
From Kent Johnson's and Alexandria Pappaditsas'sThe Miseries of Poetry :
(Austin, TX: Skanky Possum Press, 2003)
Fragment
[Moths have eaten here. Who sent them?]
they will remember us
by our pieces. Our torsos
will move them to poetry.
They will put our parts on parade,
to imagine what we were,
so to forget what they,
dreaming us, are.
-- Attalyda, provenance and dates unknown. From papyrus discovered in the Montazah Palace find, Alexandria, Egypt, 1998.
chris at
8:43 PM
|
UnTexing the vote:
how to make sure your voice is heard
(in its proper western
um ... store?).
Thanks for posting this strange tale over at Harlequin Knights, Joseph.
chris at
11:15 AM
|
from Kent Johnson, Texfiles Poet of the Week:
"Poetry
[ Rotted away.]
What [does] poetry do for the world?
[ Rotted away.]
--Anonymous fragment. Discovered in the Montazah find.
(22)
Kent Johnson & Alexandra Papaditsas, The Miseries of Poetry: Traductions from the Greek. Austin: Skanky Possum, 2003
chris at
10:08 AM
|
Hugs going out to Danny O'Connell: thanks for sending more pics!
chris at
9:46 AM
|
Moving on through the Midnight Hour,
here's to Introducing: Texfiles Poet of the Week:
Kent Johnson,
the many voiced:
"Whatever we are, the Owners Association members around the Paris Review roundtable would seem to be unaware of our existence."--Kent Johnson (in Lit Vert, 5)
"The whole problem began, in a sense, with The Beatles."--Love, Jack [Spicer] (Kent Johnson, Lit Vert, 5)
"Yes, it's true: the Language poets airbrushed me out of Leningrad"--Kent Johnson (Lit Vert, 5)
"But here, as the saying goes, we are. Here also, please, is a poem by a youth named Leonel Rugama whom we have invited too, except sadly he was beheaded long ago, at 20 years, by Green Beret students in the country of Nicaragua:
The Earth Is A Satellite Of The Moon
Apollo 2 cost more than Apollo 1
Apollo 1 cost plenty.
Apollo 3 cost more than Apollo 2
Apollo 2 cost more than Apollo 1
Apollo 1 cost plenty.
Apollo 4 cost more than Apollo 3
Apollo 3 cost more than Apollo 2
Apollo 2 cost more than Apollo 1
Apollo 1 cost plenty.
Apollo 8 cost a whole shit-load of money, but no one minded
because the astronauts were Protestant,
they read the Bible from the moon, astounding and delighting
every Christian, and on their return Pope Paul VI
gave them his blessing.
Apollo 9 cost more than all of these put together
including Apollo 1 which cost plenty.
The great-grandparents of the people of Acahualinca
were less hungry than the grandparents.
The great-grandparents died of hunger.
The grandparents of the people of Acahualinca were less hungry
than the parents. The grandparents died of hunger.
The parents of the people of Acahualinca were less hungry
than the children of the people there.
The parents died of hunger.
The people of Acahualinca are less hungry than the children
of the people there. The children of the people of Acahualinca, because of
hunger, are not born, though
they hunger to be born, even to just die of hunger.
Blessed are the poor for they shall inherit the moon."--Osama Hussein (Kent Johnson, Lit Vert 5)
Um...
as a lowly blogger, I rest my case, which is to say... YaY!!--
We have a poet so savvy, versatile, & acerbic in the face of all kinds of hegemony:
Thank You
to Kent Johnson,
who is
*Texfiles Poet of the Week*
Oct. 9-15, 2003
Kent: Keep On.
chris at
8:50 AM
|
New *Texfiles Poet of the Week*
coming up in the Midnight Hour!--Hey, Baby:
Lookin Good!
chris at
7:17 AM
|
Announcing:
The new prose poem journal edited by DFW poet Brian Clements, and published by DFW poet and publisher (Firewheel Press), Joe Ahearn: Sentence: first issue due out on Oct. 18.
This just in from Brian:
" *Sentence* is the only international journal dedicated to the prose poem tradition. With the help of contributing editors Russell Edson, Maxine Chernoff, Peter Johnson, and Michel Delville, we have put together a collection of stellar prose poems, essays, translations, and reviews; and after a year and a half of work, we’re ready!"
chris at
1:20 AM
|
Hey!--Ooooooooopps:
Got some dates confused folks. I had written this:
save some time this evening to stop by here: Texfiles Poet of the Week, Eileen Tabios, will be audblogging her poetry!
But it turns out that the much anticipated audblog from Eileen will happen next week on Tuesday, Oct. 14. Sorry for any confusion caused over that!--but not to worry: please save the time for a listen next Tuesday.
cm
chris at
12:34 AM
|
Wednesday, October 08, 2003
Very gracious of Y'all at Marsh Hawk Press --thanks!
chris at
11:04 PM
|
! O O
poems
15
days
!
chris at
10:49 AM
|
From Carolyn Forche** :
The Colonel
What you have heard is true. I was in his house. His wife carried a tray of coffee and sugar. His daughter filed her nails, his son went out for the night. There were daily papers, pet dogs, a pistol on the cushion beside him. The moon swung bare on its black cord over the house. On the television was a cop show. It was in English. Broken bottles were embedded in the walls around the house to scoop the kneecaps from a man's legs or cut his hands to lace. On the windows there were gratings like those in liquor stores. We had dinner, rack of lamb, good wine, a gold bell was on the table for calling the maid. The maid brought green mangoes, salt, a type of bread. I was asked how I enjoyed the country. There was a brief commercial in Spanish. His wife took everything away. There was some talk then of how difficult it had become to govern. The parrot said hello on the terrace. The colonel told it to shut up, and pushed himself from the table. My friend said to me with his eyes: say nothing. The colonel returned with a sack used to bring groceries home. He spilled many human ears on the table. They were like dried peach halves. There is no other way to describe this. He took one of them in his hands, shook it in our faces, dropped it into a water glass. It came alive there. I am tired of fooling around he said. As for the rights of anyone, tell your people they can go fuck themselves. He swept the ears to the floor with his arm and held the last of his wine in the air. Something for your poetry, no? he said. Some of the ears on the floor caught this scrap of his voice. Some of the ears on the floor were pressed to the ground.
(16)
** Carolyn Forche, The Country Between Us. New York: Harper & Row, 1981.
chris at
8:33 AM
|
There's definitely a poem in this summary/response of yours to Susan Bordo's "Hunger as Ideology," Mindy-- a poem that matters. I'm hearing it strongly in the summary, midway, where you riff on the many things Bordo collides in and with, to bring home her significant critique.
chris at
8:18 AM
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damn. sound combo out my door in ghetto here:
Harley (loud exhaust not unpleasant sounds of) pipes, in contrast to sax (artsy, measured, smooth notes) on (Listening... ) old Love Jones. Yeah, well--knowledge out of contradiction: Foucault might have liked this.
chris at
7:43 AM
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Okay (this just has to be said): What's HOT?-- Chris Lott, Ruminate: Rock On...
At Chris's, 2 differing dialogues going on over poetics--# one (well, of course it would be # 1 in my estimation... for obvious reasons?), an in-depth conversation with Texfiles Poet of the Week, God-has-green-wings-Eileen Tabios, in which Chris explains his consternation with *post-avant* poetry, and Eileen leads him down the garden path of beauty and knowledge (well, okay, I tried to say something in there, too, but not nearly as eloquently as the two of them). And # two?--Chris kindly explains the what and why of being uncertain about what's going on in a fine poem posted yesterday at Limetree, to which Kasey responds at Ruminate. My point?--Chris Lott is Mr. Uncertainty Expanding, which leads to the need for dialogue--and that's a good (hot) thing. Both the need for and the actuality. Well, hey, what I want to say is, Chris, Keep Asking!
chris at
4:09 AM
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Bravo: Tim Yu
Also: read his assessment of the Houlihan problem--given that some time has gone by to reflect on it all. Well done, Tim--thank you for adding balanced perspective and clarity to a situation that once again threatened to become meaningless flame-out.
chris at
1:08 AM
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Tuesday, October 07, 2003
Update Regarding the Proposed Dialogue on Poetics at Webdelsol:
Yesterday Kent Johnson and I decided not to go ahead right at this moment with organizing a dialogue on poetics, which had been proposed to be hosted at Webdelsol. Kent emailed Mike Neff of webdelsol to let him know of our decision (webdelsol was to host the dialogue/event). In part, the decision not to go ahead resulted from hesitation to participate on the part of many otherwise actively interested parties. The hesitation stemmed mostly from practical reasons: people are just very busy right now and find it hard to commit to this kind of focused, prolonged, public-rhetorical activity.
Secondarily, the hesitation stemmed from uncertainty about the positional neutrality of the webdelsol venue. If webdelsol both hosted and participated via high profile representatives of its writing staff, then how could it also claim to be neutral and disinterested regarding some of the reasons for the dialogue (in some ways though not only this way, it arose as a question about Joan Houlihan's positioning, given her inflammatory rhetorical style and likely participation in a webdelsol-hosted dialogue)? Michael Neff has emailed today in defense of the proposed venue, indicating that this question misconstrues webdelsol's place in this. Unfortunately in doing so, he has also begun taunting and name calling, as well, which is distasteful and makes us glad we did not pursue this venue, afterall. To answer such from him, simply and without intending to inflame the situation further: we have changed our minds about this for reasons we find sound. Name calling and taunting have no place in a reasonable debate, certainly not in its eventuality, but also not in its proposal and inception. So let's all just chill for a bit, shall we?
We are considering another venue for this kind of dialogue. More on that soon. Thanks for your interest and your patience.
chris at
7:12 PM
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"House & Universe:"
"... This is rather the poetic phenomenon of pure liberation, of absolute sublimation. The image is no longer under the domination of things, nor is it subject to the pressures of the unconscious. It floats and soars, immense in the free atmosphere... through the poet's window the house converses about immensity with the world... opens its doors to the world. ... And what a great world it would be if, every morning, every object in the house could be made anew in our hands... ."
Gaston Bachelard, *The Poetics of Space* (transl. Maria Jolas) Boston: Beacon Press, p. 69.
chris at
9:44 AM
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Listening: Alison Kraus, Peter Gabriel, Macy Gray on heavy light-light rotation.
Walking this evening?--fog! All over!
It was like cinema 1930s Hound of the Baskervilles, only on brick apartment avenues with McDonalds trash all over the sidewalks and greenish water coming from skeletal lawn sprinklers going bonkers to water the mud even though it rained last night and today. Everything is way too green haired and heavy aired here. A fern was hanging from the trunk of a pecan tree--trying to take root in it, I think. RayBradbury'sville, for sure.
chris at
6:06 AM
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A Few Words on Barry Schwabsky's Opera (Meritage Press, 2003):
These extremely artful poems, individually (including the writer's careful attention to minute details in each poem) and then again as an intriguing whole, fascinate me. They draw one in from both perspectives, the large and the smaller views, simultaneously--a not uncomfortable predicament in terms of result, per the ways Schwabsky sends forth this verbal art. They are like looking at one of those photographs of an object, say, a face, enlarged to consume an entire wall, but of course up close each point of what was thought to be the comfortable blur of plain graininess actually turns out to have other entire images--full of other stories--at work within the whole. Captivating, almost overwhelming, but in ways well worth contemplating, studying forth.
This is from "Drafts (of Water)" :
Unless patterns pursue themselves like waves, Luisa,
unless patterns ... unless they
pursue themselves ... unless
waves... but let me put it this way:
sea light will not be cajoled, Luisa,
into sufficient confusion
except on condition you explain realism at the
dinner table:
subscription to water
wilderness of water
...
he eyes her eyes,
starminded.
(21)
It would be easy to stop paying attention here and just fog off into the congenial semiotic flow. It's not only the subtle, implicit critique of "realism" that might be missed, though. What else would be missed is the too-much: the more-than-naming, the excess of what is delicate, pressing and refusing to be "cajoled" in and by the driven flow of predictability: "patterns," endlessly chasing themselves around in the "sea-light." Indeed such is always in danger of being missed and yet is always missed--so longed for, if only because such can only be intuited from the “wilderness of water,” or that fluidity which holds what can be known, alongside what escapes knowing and *any* kind of naming. This predicament asks for consideration of what is both unquantifiable and qualitative, what happens when we participate in attempts to name things even though hopelessly “starminded” much of the time. We cannot afford to let go our *starmindedness* but are neverthe less caught up in the need to account for detail even while flowing in what is conceptualized as a poetic whole, here, a constellated, though happily unnameable poetic universe. One wants more, indeed feels the worn corners of a paperback Beckett slowly fraying in the back pocket during reading moments such as this.
But here is another reminder of the inclusively contradictory large and small views taken in simultaneously yet without collateral damage or loss, in the sense of being forced to favor one view over the other while also being made aware of what remains unnameable:
Miranda
If you give up the right to remain silent
you die. If the wind could slip
this old shirt off you might see
bones as damp as winter. Time
grows cloudy in this silo. Another sun
will wring the season out. Assignment:
Write one poem ommitting reference
to God. Your only chance may be to keep
your own appointed counsel, striking tense
or careless poses in keeping with the lateness
of this hour in which you’re caught up
short, at the last possible moment
in the most unexpected way.
(97)
There is here a very slippery “You,” involved with the speaker, converging as it does in differing senses of “Miranda”--as familiar legal dictum, as possible person apostrophized--and these two ride out the wave of the poem together more than pleasingly, in fact, throughout, in what is named, sure, but also in delicately unnameable ways, or “in the most unexpected way.” And what else is, perhaps, “unexpected”? By the time we get to the use of “silo,” the knaw of knowing is near certain: this is not only that cylindrical structure full of corn out Rural Route 10, but also that structure in the desert, full of power-polity’s intention for (I will qualify here: I mean, *god forbid*) this planet’s final end. All of that part of the awe in the flow, and a wavering “You,” to speak with, to boot. Very nice.
So, with these poems: keep your eyes completely open under the water, which is to say, open in several worlds at once when reading and listening-hearing what is being said, or as others have noted in praise of Schwabsky’s work: what is *sung.*
chris at
1:34 AM
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Monday, October 06, 2003
audio post powered by audblog
chris at
11:51 PM
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Pluperfect @ 83%
had been chrome humidity hum
& we are our own drive
on what
bent of 1-
800 we hire
safe signs & moonlight
drivers where history had been sliding
concrete abuttments by awash
out in the no of Hallmark snow
the sign: 71 old Olympus Fstop
degrees of liquid silver monitor
flashing heavenly gate
light to chant “drive
friendly”--on our way aware of dinner
traffic
metal jam & what piles up is plum basso
popping to reprogram my heart
beat in whizzing earball guitars
but here’s a truck just like
someone had said
I miss you
with some you & I
still in it
going by in hello yellow of twig metal
streetlight glow button
eyes
glow where
did all that come from?
the one day
Walmart just sprang right
to a cell phone ringing
everywhere
up Exit 38HC loop 12
one quarter mile
away now
yesterday
chris murray
chris at
10:38 PM
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Cloudy, rainy, not unpleasantly tho. Just cooled off. Birds are liking it, making a lot of bird noise, bird words, bird flap, chitty-chatter ya kno? Birds--my favorite non human animate form. Regrettable that somewhere along the evolutionary freeway wings got phased out, as many have noted, tho.
chris at
8:42 PM
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Blogging from Heather's friend, David's house. Hard to figure out the mouse on this laptop--toshiba, nice! David is taking us out to dinner at a fancy place in Dallas, Dragon Fly (at first I misheard it as Jack in the Box--oh my weird ears!). But for now it's mostly pistachios--Holly and Heather are *getting ready*--which for these girls could take a while. I just clicked on Guillermo's poem-reading so David and I could listen. Way cool, he says (and he rarely listens to poetry!). More soon...
chris at
3:14 AM
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Sunday, October 05, 2003
On yr Insight: Rock on, JahanaNin! I really like that (scroll down for it) poem.
chris at
1:24 PM
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On the Bowery Poetry Club:
here's a fine report from Nick Piombino on yesterday's (Sat. 4 Oct.) poetry readings--poets Lynne Dreyer and Steve McCaffery-- as well as announcement of the next readings.
And, adding in here, a link to Nada Gordon, who offers her senusal-sexy response (likewise, below). This is Where Nada has posted her fine introduction to Lynne Dreyer/Bowery Poetry Club, Monday, Oct.6.
chris at
12:28 PM
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New Audio-Texfiles Saturday Readings:
Guillermo Parra of Venepoetics Blog, "Caurimare"** :
audio post powered by audblog
Caurimare
I
"las nubes en su callada musica," (Javier Sologuren)
Reading newspaper poetry
to ambit the flow
even though
information errs
Isabel's season
living in Caurimare
after twenty years
without the poem's disguise
or the swiftness of
cars threaded w/ noise
drums sound, then fade
the city's paranoia
& peaceful galleries
dispersed accordingly
w/ guerrilla tourism
beautiful citizen returned
w/ calm camera & observant
our modernist avenues under
hills or mountains grouped in
rhyming couplets, highway din
II
on avenues w/ trees older than
skyscrapers stretch toward my feet
of the eventual loss / degeneration
of the body, my back aches after
walking Sabana Grande boulevard
from Parque Los Caobos
"sampleos, loops, edicion"
twenty years since speaking
a child's caraqueno Spanish
on the radio love multiplies
its fountains w/ varied melody
no static in our city vision
III
I will stay in one language
while the city breathes
Speak to me in metaphor
Distance that font
resolve your airs
Insomniac bible
grace torn from
frantic city
With the poem returning
grief and applied sorcery
I thank surrealism's
Latin American task
But why is my mind?
IV
"El ancla de este sueno abre mis ojos a la vida" (Juan Sanchez Pelaez)
constance city, compact city of mine
poet living in Los Palos Grandes at the foot
Monte Avila, this city uncolonized though
only in print occasionally, even-metered
--te imaginas, Guillo? when the Spanish
first reached el Avila and looked out over
uncut valley below them, the Guaire
would have been translucent then
unlike our
currents, tribal fractures
meanwhile across the river
from Caurimare in the early 1980s
who wrote these allegories above
my unawareness, childhood sped-up
by capital, trans-Caribbean airplane
we studied, were unable to translate
**This four part poem, Guillermo writes via email, "is from [my] manuscript: Caracas Notebook. Caurimare is the name of the neighborhood in Caracas where my family lives."
chris at
4:55 AM
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Saturday, October 04, 2003
More shaped from the light flex of life, smoothest of felt material, sensuous & woven, "sable" wordlings from Eileen Tabios, the **Texfiles Poet of the Week** :
From "Immediately Before," in Reproductions of the Empty Flagpole***
"... She is not without experience. Once, she watched the spill of air in the rain forests of Brazil. For weeks, she watched air fall between the separation of branches, the quivering of leaves, atop immeasurably tall trees. She marveled then, I can never tire of looking up. She felt herself become an ancient statue of a warrior on horseback, fists raised while indomitably looking straight ahead.
"Intention never suffices. But it is not without merit. She scolds herself, Be nice. Be nice. He will be a kind lover. He will be a generous provider. Then she collects herself at hearing how she has misapprehended her tenses. She already has made that decision that opened an interior closet to a Russian sable coat."
(93)
** P. S. Yes, it is YaY!!
*** Eileen Tabios, Reproductions of the Empty Flagpole. New York: Marsh Hawk Press, 2002
chris at
11:03 PM
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I love these, Lanny!
THiS, a Garden of De--WoW: cineposturingsm.jpg
alongside this
poem:
"...autoonomic structure...
the 'thinking' strip as a set of [Yes!] optooracular
nodes throughout an abstractional space-time.
Epiphenomenal modulation filter."
--Lanny Quarles, "Pos/T/uring Cinema Strip (Fictional Construction)"
chris at
9:15 PM
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Friday, October 03, 2003
Dept. of the Texas Novel: "I was in danger of having to turn in my Texas passport,
because I'd never read an Elmer Kelton novel."--Tim Morris, Lection, 3 Oct 2003
Check out Tim Morris's Lection post of today, a review of Elmer Kelton's novel, Ranger's Trail. And if you've been in deep contemplation lately over questions of book blurbs and their higher purposes, note that this one is blurbed by none other than Texas governor, Rick Perry.
Something to consider: what about the zero sum game existing both mean & redeemed, eg., Texas, all at once containing itself as a sort of self-history, but of today.
Go, Tim!
chris at
10:37 PM
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Dept. of the novel in California: "Gorilla Mothers Confront Schwarzenegger!!"
This alarming news just in from Stephen Vincent:
"I just heard third hand that different contingents of a group called the
Gorilla Mothers (GMs) are wonderfully and outrageously confronting Arnold as he takes his four bus campaign for California Governor tour north towards Sacramento. At each campaign stop, the Gorilla Mothers - apparently a new generation of the legendary Gorilla Girls - strategically positions groups of 50 to 100 fully costumed black and brown Gorillas in front the Candidate's podium. Taking a cue from Claus Oldenberg's early work, each Gorilla is wearing a huge hat in the form of a thick pink and white marbled paper meche breast, each one topped with a very sensuous looking conical tangerine nipple.
"The Gorilla Mothers are reported to being carrying signs that variously
read, 'We've got what you want, Arnold,' 'Grope & Speak,' 'Are we big
enough?' 'Don't Forget Us at the Polls.'
"At the first demonstration in Hollywood, the Mothers apparently flustered
Arnold almost to pieces. Straining to keep his eyes off the crowd of bobbing
breasts, he was said to keep repeating, as he has since yesterday, 'I will
be the champion of women. I will be the champion of women.'
"Can anybody down the coast confirm this rumor? The images haven't gotten on to Fox or CNN yet."
chris at
10:20 PM
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Rebecca Balcarcel, Radio UTA Poet!
Yesterday's Radio UTA and Coffee Haus readings were particularly engaging. UTA student and accomplished writer Robert Flach (check out his blog, Unadulterated Text) read from some fine pieces he's working on (one a villanelle!--and another, titled "Alike," is fine work with very rhythmic contrapuntal sound and sense movements); Tim Morris read a favorite poem from the journal, "Lyric," and Terri Vaughn read from a poem she says occured to her one recent morning, *it just came to me,* a fine piece about a Nicaraguan family who had moved to the US, a poem full of the descriptive materials, the courderoys and velvets, the watery and rocky materials of everyday life. And Vicki Sapp, with her usual unflappable wit, read from a new poem, a sort of *ode to the commode.* I read "Archimedean Fisherman," blogged earlier this week, as well as the Joseph Brodsky poem, "Anthem" (the "rational anthem") I like so much and put up on texfiles the other day.
I really enjoyed getting acquainted with Rebecca Balcarcel (Hi Rebecca!), Toni's Radio UTA-Coffee Haus guest poet this week. A Guatemalan-American poet, Rebecca Balcarcel is the mother of three young children and completed her MFA at Bennington; she now teaches writing at Tarrant County College, locally. Rebecca's chapbook, Ferry Crossing, was published last year by UNT Press (Univ. of North Texas, Denton).
Here is a (too brief!) sample of her work from the Feb. 2001 issue of Red River Review:
Eating breakfast slowly
in the living room --
dried peaches out of a tin --
she sees the oak still clutching its leaves,
and across the yard, an elm
naked in a circle of brown and gold
as if every leaf had dropped at once
from fright
or the tree had opened all its hands together
and let them go.
--Rebecca Balcarcel, from "Widow" [TOC #2, Red River Review (Feb. 01)]
Thanks, Rebecca, Toni, and all!
chris at
7:37 PM
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YaY!--Dinner at Fei Xie's Friday night. Can't wait. They just bought a house and moved in so are having a dinner (with me!--I'm so happy everything is working out well for them). Fei says they are making hot pot. Yum!! More on that tomorrow...
chris at
7:58 AM
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Thursday, October 02, 2003
A New Series: Texfiles Poet of the Week.
10/2/03-10/8/03: Eileen Tabios
I've decided to offer a Poet of the Week series, and in honor of her superb poetry, as well as her terrific editorial and critical expertise, I begin the series with Eileen Tabios, whose blog is Corpse Poetics, linked here and in my list of links to the left (scroll down).
Here is a beautiful work in prose poem form, an excerpt from Eileen's poem, "Eulogy," in the impressive 2002 book, *Reproductions of the Empty Flagpole* (Marsh Hawk Press) :
"You say you met yourself in the dark moss climbing the pink walls of Alhambra surrounded by old hills where people have perfected suffering. To gaze into a steaming cup of tea sources comprehension on questions not yet asked. Or it may transcend that, or it may not, or it may depend on the definition of regret. Or, it may depend on comprehension's reliance on sight. Though the flame trees of Tambobo have emptied themselves to silver limbs clawing the sky, the orange blooms stain every sunset that would begin the dark hours of rumination. A blind member of the French Resistance insisted on learning dance to obviate the strange rhythm of alien boots and unfamiliar odor of tobacco colonizing Paris. A sunlit sensibility pervades dreams with ease, consistently. "Now let us be fearless."
I am wowed by this poem in which every part is as stunning as the above. But as printed in Reproductions of the Empty Flagpole, perhaps what makes this excerpt even more powerful is that it is the last part of the poem, thus offering it's final statement as summary for the longer, sectioned, work. Thanks, Eileen for your wonderful work.
chris at
8:17 PM
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Lucked out & Listening!--with Update on Status of Prevallet book order
UTA Bookstore has (good) music CDs at 50% off--no lie. They are getting rid of what they have because they are discontinuning this stuff. So me?--I accidentally found this out today when I went over there to check on the second book for my course, Engl. 3371, which is Kristen Prevallet's *Scratch Sides* (students: it's in now, y'all, so ya better go get your copy: assignments coming up in two weeks).
Yes, so I got half off on these I'm rolling through on the Listening tonight (it helps that it's also the first payday of this academic year, of course...) :
Peter Gabriel: (2002)
Alison Kraus+Union Station: "New Favorite"
Elizabeth Morrow on Cello: "Soliloquy"
Neil Young & Crazy Horse: "Greendale"
Macy Gray: "On How Life Is"
chris at
6:24 AM
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Hey! Check this out: Tornado Alley Countdown Love (title of one of my poem series)
now possible in *Super-Simulation*...
chris at
3:29 AM
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Stephen Vincent: a Tale of the Eye--the Digital Eye.
chris at
2:20 AM
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UTA Student Blogs = Some Waves of Reading
Let's have a little dialectical engagement: English 3371 (UTA) students problematizing the ("problem-posing") liberation pedagogy of Paulo Freire:
Waves of Reading &
Adv.Expo. &
Mighty Jens &
Fanaticus
chris at
1:53 AM
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Wednesday, October 01, 2003
Listening: Dirty Vegas.
Very nice, a whole lotta body rhythms, spec., heartbeat.
chris at
8:05 PM
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From Joseph Brodsky** :
"Anthem"
Praised be the climate
for putting a limit,
after a fashion,
to time in motion.
Of all prisons
the Four Seasons
has the best diet
and welcomes riot.
Asked for its origin
a climate cites oxygen,
but gives no reasons
for its omnipresence.
Detached like Confusius,
hardly conscious,
it may not love us,
but murmurs, "Always."
Being finite,
we certainly find it
promising and heartwarming,
though it's a warning.
A climate's permanence
is caused by the prevalence
of nothingness in its texture
and atmospheric pressure.
Hence, the barometer,
with its Byronic air,
should be, I reckon,
our only icon.
Since the accuracy of mercury
beats that of memory
(which is also mortal),
climate is moral.
When it exhibits
its bad habits,
it blames not parents
but ocean currents.
Or charged with the tedium
and meaninglessness of its idiom,
it won't seek legal
aid and goes local.
Keen on history,
it's also well versed in the mystery
of the hereafter
and looks like their author.
What I have in common
with the ancient Roman
is not a Caesar,
but the weather.
Likewise, the main features
I share with the future's
mutants are those curious
shapes of cumulus.
Praised be the entity
incapable of enmity
and likewise finicky
when it comes to affinity.
Yet if one aspect
of this highly abstract
thing is its gratitude
for finding its latitude,
then a rational anthem
sung by one atom
to the rest of matter
should please the latter.
(105-207)
** Joseph Brodsky, So Forth (New York: Noonday, 1996)
I am in love with this Brodsky poem.
chris at
7:17 PM
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From Shakespeare:
# 69
Those parts of thee that the world's eye doth view
Want nothing that the thought of hearts can mend.
All tongues (the voice of souls) give thee that [due],
Uttering bare truth even so as foes commend...
# 45
The other two, slight air and purging fire,
Are both with thee, where ever I abide;
The first my thought, the other my desire,
These present-absent with swift motion slide.
For when these quicker elements are gone
In tender embassy of love to thee,
My life being made of four, with two alone
Sinks down to death, oppressed with melancholy;
Until live's composition be recured
By those swift messengers return'd from thee,
Who even but now come back again, assured
Of [Thy] fair health, recounting it to me.
&nbst&; &nbst; This told I joy, but then no longer glad,
&bnbst;&nbst;cuz we stay together.
I send them back again and straight grow sad.
chris at
8:13 AM
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From UTA student writer (many thanks, too!) Matthew at Dinosaurblog--*In through the Out Door* :
O aUdiEnCe! :
"It was said in class that writing may benefit most from a blog
by adding the audience. Boy, was that right.
I've been thinking about the reading responses I'll post here.
And my thinking about writing here is very different
than it has been in the past. What I have written before
has gone into notebooks that, once full and therefore useless,
have gone in the garbage.
No audience.
So this will all certainly be different,
and I'm looking forward to writing
with a different mindset and where it will lead."
chris at
6:30 AM
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Damn, I admit
this world is so messed up.
And how can we...
Let's have somethin' a little better.
Let's have some love, okay?
Let's just make sure we can still do that
(if everyone made sure of, took responsibility for that, then, gee ...)
Listening (I am so lucky to have all this music!--if you have music suggestions please send them to me, and thanks!): Deep Forest,"Boheme" (is soooo fine...); Gregorian Chants; Al Green, "You Ought to Be with Me"; Miles Davis, "Bird of Paradise".
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