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Go, As the River Flows
Friday, January 09, 2009 IV.1.2. Seems like time was always getting away from me this week, so, while last week's post ran long, this week's is a little shorter than usual. Short though it may be, we still have our usual collection of good good poets and good poems. From friends of "Here and Now" Wiltshire Teresa White Mick Moss Michael Sottak From my library Lorenzo Thomas Larissa Szporluk Catherine Bownam Carl Phillips Robert M. Petersen The Monk Noin The Monk Ryozen Fugiwara No Sadate Wendell Berry D. K. Jones Cyra S. Dumitru And me So here we go.  I start this week with several poems from ancient China. The poems are taken from The Anchor Book of Chinese Poetry, From Ancient to Contemporary. The book was published by Anchor Books in 2005. Editors and translators are Tony Barnstone and Chou Ping. For those interested in Chinese poetry, I recommend the book, both for the poems and for the book's introductory section titled "Introduction to Chinese Poetic Form (as a Function of Yin-Yang Symmetry." The first poem is from The Book of Songs, from about 600 BCE, the earliest known anthology of Chinese poetry. All the Grasslands Are Yellow All the grasslands are yellow and all the days we march and all the men are conscripts sent off in four directions. All the grasslands are black and all the men like widowers. So much grief! Are soldiers not men like other men? We aren't bison! We aren't tigers crossing the wilderness, but our shadows roam from dawn to dusk. Hairy-tailed foxes slink through the dark grass as we ride tall chariots along the wide-rutted road. The next verses, from the 4th and 3rd centuries BCE, are from the Dao De Jing, considered the seminal work of Daoism. Laozi, possibly a real, historical person and possibly not, is the legendary author of the Dao De Jing. The collection was originally known as Laozi. Since "Laozi" means "old man" in Chinese and since there is evidence of a body of literature whose titles translate to "old man" or "elder" it is possible the Dao De Jing is the lone survivor of a lost genre. 11 Thirty spokes join at one hub; emptiness makes the cart useful. Cast clay into a pot; the emptiness inside makes it useful. Cut doors and windows to make a room; emptiness makes the room useful. Thus being is beneficial, but usefulness comes from the void. 22 Warp to be whole, twist to be straight, hollow out to be full, fray to be new, have less and gain more, have much and be perplexed. Therefore the sage embraces the One and is a model for all under heaven. Not exhibiting himself, he stands out. Not full of himself, he is acclaimed. Not boasting, he succeeds. Not vain, his works maintain. He doesn't strive and so nothing under heaven strives with him. The ancients say, "warp to be whole." These are not empty words. Return to the source to be whole. The Bureau of Music was established around 120 BCE by Emperor Wu of the Han dynasty and abolished in 6 BCE by Emperor Ai. Its function was to collect songs by the common people, not as a civic art endeavor, as you might assume, but as a way to gauge the people's reaction to the doings of the imperial government, a kind of musical/poetic Gallup poll. He Waters His Horse Near a Breach in the Long Wall Green so green is the river grass, and I can't stop thinking of that far road, can't bear thinking of that far road. Last night I saw him in my dream, dreamed him standing by my side. Suddenly I was in another land, another land and a different country. I tossed and turned and woke apart. The gaunt mulberry knows the sky's wind and waters of the sea know cold heaven. When travelers return in joy not one has a word for me. From a far land a traveler came and left me two carp. I asked my children to cook the fish and inside they found a silk letter. I knelt long and read the letter. What did the letter say? It started, Try to eat.. and ended, I miss you always.  Here is the first poem I wrote in the new year. When I was a kid, I was always disappointed that nothing changed as the old, worn-out year was passed and tossed in the trash heap. It didn't seem fair, there it was the first day of a new year and I wasn't taller, smarter, more attractive to girls or richer. Why bother with all this new year stuff, I thought. I guess I still feel that way, at least a little bit. January 1, 2009 sun came up this morning - same one as yesterday went out to my car backed into the street passed the pile of leaves beside the driveway same car as last year, same street same leaves blown into our yard by the neighbor's yardman as well drove to Jim's for coffee and morning paper very familiar, like i'd been there before oh, i have almost every morning finished my coffee drove home almost hit a squirrel that raced across the street and up a tree same tree different squirrel ahhh, change - the best part of a new year  Lorenzo Thomas was born in Panama and grew up in New York City. He is a poe, critic, and professor of English at the University of Houston - Downtown. His other books of poetry include Chances are Few, The Bathers, and Sound Science. The next three poems are from his book Dancing on Main Street, published Coffee House Press in 2004. Dangerous Doubts The mind invents its own inadequacies But not the power to erase illusion That schemes and wholesome dreams Can become actual despite the truth That thoughts invest themselves in flesh And direct motion That you have 30,000 shots at immortality But only one you dare not miss at being rich Or at the least escape the nag of destitution That maybe exercise shows on TV Are really harmful That sound bodies just Amplify empty minds That platitudes contain a grain of wisdom' And fortune's a rush hour train that doesn't wait To really live means needing other people That whatever that means love Could conquer hate Country Song Don't know a thing Except what I know: I like great big legs & where they go I love the colors in the Arkansas sky When the sun goes down And I'm lonely as an empty chair When you're not around. Multicultural Watch who ends up in contestant's row I like it when the colored people win It always was all women years ago Once in a while maybe a young Marine LCpl in dress uniform Every other word he said was "sir" Probably a newlywed on top of that You know he's going to win a car Or a bedroom suit Not that the game is fixed but to be fair I'm sure someone at CBS Made lots of money figuring this out Before I did The way they've got it now All kinds of people get to come on down OK by me. But yet and still I like it when the colored people win  " Next I have a poem from Wiltshire an old friend of "Here and Now." She returns with a new poem after a long absence, during which she says she spent far too much time on fiction (a novel and some short stories) and far too little time on her first love...poetry! She still lives in Anaheim, California and is back to writing daily poems at Blueline's "House of 30". Suddenly the hard times, the dark days come suddenly and you're wet and heavy unbalanced like unshorn sheep the sheer weight topples you in your tracks and it doesn't help to sa- anything or nothing or everything – what you knew what sustained you hides in the hollow of your new view through embered eyes just as suddenly, you find a jolt of joy bubbling from somewhere deep - you doubt but irrepressibly laughter floats in your dreams something simple - lights in the rain, crispness in a blue and yellow morning - and you consider the park, a poem, find yourself humming, answering the phone grabbing hold again wanting to be among friends and so you start again...suddenly  The next poem is by Larissa Szporluk from her book Dark Sky Question, published by Beacon Press in 1998. Szporluk was raised in Ann Arbor, Michigan and received her BA from the University of Michigan. She studied at the Iowa Writers' Workshop and received an MA in Literature at the University of California Berkeley, and an MFA from the University of Virginia. She began her full-time teaching career at Bowling Green State University in 2000 and has since become an associate professor of Creative Writing and Literature. In 2005, she was a visiting professor at Cornell University. Her poems, including the ones in this book, are mysterious to me. Krell He arrives and looks around, and doesn't know the word for wind, and wind is the subject. He finds a girl on a fence hurting herself with a nail. He pulls her away without speaking, to her surprise, and wipes the stuff from her hair that smells like burning-out lights, and suddenly it's not a burden to be walking with her in enemy land. When she tells him "the best thing here is the moon," he feels happier than if he'd seen it and remembers a parable about a string that never meets its ends, and she tells him then about a warm place at the end of a grove of horned trees. If the night steadies, if it controls their speed, they'll reach it together, fusing in the meantime, discarding all the nuance that betrays them with disease.  I hardly ever dedicate a poem to anyone or anything. On this one, I felt a dedication was appropriate. deep thoughts to be thunk in 2009 this poem is dedicated to all the right-wing blog, newspaper, magazine, and tv and radio big-think blovators who continued in this past year to demonstrate their inability to think two or more consecutive thoughts coherently and come to a rational conclusion. as with many people i like to think deep thoughts about things i know nothing about an explanation, some might say, as to why all the world's problems i solved last year are back on the table today balderdash, as we deep-thinkers like to say obviously the world wasn't paying adequate attention meaning i'm just going to have to deep-think louder in 2009  Catherine Bowman was born in El Paso, Texas. She received her B.A. from the University of Texas at San Antonio and her M.F.A. from Columbia University. She was awarded a 1990 New York Foundation for the Arts Poetry Fellowship. The next two poems are from her first collection of poems, 1-800-Hot-Ribs, published by Gibbs-Smith Publishers in 1993 and reissued in 2000 by Carnegie-Mellon University Press as part of its contemporary classics series. At the time the book was published, she lived in New York City and taught writing in the public schools there. She is now the Ruth Lilly Professor of Poetry and Director of the Creative Writing Program at Indiana University. She is also editor of Word of Mouth: Poems Featured on NPR's "All Things Considered", an anthology of poems by poets she has reviewed and featured on National Public Radio's "All Things Considered." Her poems are pllayful and hugely fun to read. Fernando and the Tomato Salad And this is what happens every afternoon. The tired sea lifts itself out of the water and crawls over the beach, while the water recedes into a flat glass eye or a body emptied o dreams. The huge sea ambles over the beach, over the man sleeping on his Italian sports coat. His hands clasp. His knees pray. His tie dances in the wind as he dreams about sex. The sea swells over two children digging in the sand, conjuring ideas they will never remember. Their teeth spark like geniuses in the pale blue air as they stroke a starfish. Slides over the topless bodies of three fat women, their nipples are so pleased, over four college boys, over five nuns whose gowns whip in the wind like pirate flags, over a family of six, the mother garnished in a seaweed wig sweeps the marl with a branch, over seven bikinied Germans in lotus position. And over eight - there aren't eight, or nine, or ten. The beach is nearly deserted. The sea rolls beyond the shore, over the ovine dunes, over the grassy marsh where the fishermen net the eel, over the hills, over the plum orchard, spreading into the dim stone house, into the hallway filled with the oiled portraits of craggy saints and uncles. A thick, dusty mirror holds Fernando's sister's stockinged legs and half-slip. She sleeps with the door open. The sea spills into the kitchen where he stands holding each tomato against the light. He says: This is a fine tomato, or this is a bad tomato. Spain is ruined. Then he mixes the tomatoes, onions, oil, garlic, and salt. Pours the black red wine. Then everything stops, and we eat. And this is what happens every afternoon. Texas, Then Mita refused to dance with Pancho Villa and spoke of it. She died,vanishing in to a rosary of jackrabbit holes this side of El Paso. Granny after returning from Cuba couldn't touch doorknobs for fear a tarantula would be on every one of them. She melted into the throats of mailmen who sang her the old songs in the evening. All she left was her red hennaed hair on a fireplace made into an altar. and my mother makes sculptures of ice, red eyes that scream. They do not make a sound. We wait. Granny says - Until I'm old, so I can grab waiters in the crotch? We pray. And have forgotten how. The maids refused to wake them when they sleepwalk through the breezeway. There were black cats named Pico. Me and my cousin used to run through the desert yelling Pico, Pico, Pico, Pico, Pico, Pico.  Teresa White has twice been nominated for the Pushcart Prize and has been published in numerous online and print journals. Her latest full-length collection of poems, Gardenias for a Beast received a favorable endorsement from Billy Collins. Teresa is a friend of "Here and Now" and i'm very pleased to have this piece from her. Borscht Beet soup fills the air with an odor of blood. I've never tasted blood except when sucking a nicked finger. Roses of garlic are crushed with the flat of a knife onto a well-seasoned breadboard. Peppercorns sting the nostrils as the action of mortar and pestle quickens. Onions are chopped pell-mell before inevitable tears fall. And out back, in the splintered shed, is a wooden box where the ice does its cold dance all day. Here, we keep our precious sour cream. Sour cream and borscht, caviar and blini. And who thought borscht was made of one thing: this unforgiving vegetable all that will grow in the stubborn ground since Stalin took our goats and men. But providence was on our side; he left our beets and pluck.  Born in 1959, Carl Phillips is Professor of English and of African and Afro-American Studies at Washington University in St. Louis, where he also teaches in the Creative Writing Program. He is author of a number of collections of poetry, including The Rest of Love which won the Theodore Roethke Memorial Foundation Poetry Prize and the Thom Gunn Award for Gay Male Poetry, and was a finalist for the National Book Award. He also won the 1992 Morse Poetry Prize for his collection In the Blood. The next poem is from his book Cortege, published in 1995 by Greywolf Press and a finalist for the National Book Critics Circle Award. A Mathematics of Breathing I Think of any of several arched colonnades to a cathedral, how the arches like fountains, say, or certain limits in calculus, when put to the graph paper's crosstrees, never quite meet any promised heaven, instead at their vaulted heights falling down to the abruptly ending base of the next column, smaller, the one smaller past that, at last dying, what is called perspective. This is the way buildings do it. II you have seen them, surely, busy paring the world down to what it is mostly, proverb: so many birds in a bush. Suddenly they take off, and at first it seem your particular itself has sighed deeply., that the birds are what come, though of course it is just the birds leaving one space for others. After they've gone, put your ear to the brush,' listen. There are three sides: the leaves' releasing of something, your ear where it finds it, and the air in between, to say equals. There is maybe a fourth side, not breathing. III In One Thousand and One Nights, there are only a thousand, Scheherazade herself is the last one, for the moment held back, for a moment all the odds hang even. The stories she tells she tells mostly to win another night of watching the prince drift into a deep sleeping beside her, the chance to touch one more time his limbs, going, gone soft already with dreaming. When she tells her own story. Breathe in, breathe out is how it starts.  OK, I admit it. I stole about a third of this poem off an drink promotion posted on the at Borders. Satisfied? Vanilla Red Tea Latte Vanilla Red Tea Latte is naturally caffeine-free Rooibus tea and velvety steamed milk deliciously rich and smooth with a hint (just a hint) the sign says of caramelized sugar all that and a source of antioxidants as well all well and good except it's eight in the morning and i need my caffeine and caramelized sugar even if only a hint is probably bad for me and i'm southern born and raised and find tea without ice in it near unimaginable especially when the tea is from some place like Rooibus i never heard of and i don't know enough about oxidants to know if i'm fer or agin'um and what the hell ever happened to plain old Folgers - if it was good enough for that obviously hardworking probably oppressed by the international fru-fru coffee cartel guy in the mountains with his donkey, ought to be good enough for me i'm a Democrat after all  Here's something different from The Complete Annotated Grateful Dead Lyrics. The book was published by Free Press in 2005. Annotations are by David Dodd. This music for the song was written by band member Phil Lesh and the lyrics by his friend and poet Robert M. Petersen. If you're into the Dead, I recommend the book. In addition to the compilation of lyrics, the annotations are excellent. Pride of Cucamonga Out on the edge of the empty highway Howling at the blood on the moon A diesel Mack come rolling down my way Can't hit the border too soon Running hard out of Muskrat Flats It was sixty days or double life Hail at my back like a shotgun blast High wind chimes in the night Oh, oh, pride of Cucamonga Oh, oh, bitter olives in the sun Oh, oh, I had me some loving And I done some time Since I came down from Oregon There's a lesson or two I've learned By standing on the road alone Standing watching the fires burn The northern sky it stinks with greed You can smell it heavy for miles around Good old boys in the Graystone Hotel Sitting doing that git-on-down Oh, oh, pride of Cucamonga Oh, oh, silver apples in the sun Oh, oh, I had me some loving And I done some time I see you silver shinning town But I know I can't go there Your streets run deep with poisoned wine Your doorways crawl with fear So I think I'll drift for old where it's at Where the weed grows green and fine And wrap myself around a bush Of that bright whoa, oh, Oaxaca vine Yes it's me, I'm the pride of Cucamonga I can see golden forests in the sun Oh, oh, I had me some loving and I done some time And I done some time and I done some time  Mick Moss is another friend of "Here and Now." He is a 54 year old poet living in Liverpool, England. I present here his very reassuring poem, it being some comfort to think that whoever we are, great or small, our days start pretty much the same. Ritual Yeurghh! Who's that? Splash of cold To wash away the muzzy headed cobwebs And clear the mucous membranes Run the hot Wipe the steam from the mirror Lather up Scrape off the stubble Rinse the razor Squeeze (always in the middle) Up down side to side Rinse, gargle, spit Final splash of cold (it's good for the skin apparently) Grab the towel Dab, dab Fingers through the hair (what's left of it) Another apprehensive look Hmmm Right, come on then Coffee, ciggie, newspaper.....  Next, I have five poems from the collection One Hundred Poems From the Japanese. The first two poems were composed by The Monk Noin from the 11th century. His secular name was Tachibgana no Nagayasu. The third poem was written by The Monk Ryozen. Also from the eleventh century, he was a monk of the Gion Temple near Kyoto. The fourth and last are by Fujiwara No Sadate who lived from 1162 to 1242. He was an Imperial Vice-Councillor and compiler of Single Poems by a Hundred Poets from which half of the poems in this book were taken. He also assisted in other compilations for two Emperors and left a diary. **** After the storm On Mount Mimuro, The colored leaves Float like brocade On the River Tatsuta **** As I approach The mountain village Through the spring twilight I hear the sunset bell Ring through drifting petals. **** When I am lonely and go for a walk, I see Everywhere he same Autumnal dusk. **** You do not come, and I wait On Matsuo beach, In the calm of evening. And like the blazing Water, I too am burning. **** As the mists rise in the dawn From Uji River, one by one, The stakes of the nets appear, Stretching far into the shallows.  Here's a tableau from the Olmos Perk last Saturday morning. no days off a cool and sunny Saturday morning, time to take the family our for a walk before the chores of the day begin a stop-off for coffee and fresh apple juice i see them out front at an outside table, mom and dad and three little girls and their terrier pup who watches each coming and going, ever alert - no days off in the family-protection biz  Now I have a poem by Wendell Berry, from his book Entries published in 1997 by Counterpoint of Washington, D.C. Berry lives and works on his farm in Kentucky. An essayist, novelist, and poet, he is the author of more than 30 books and has received numerous prizes for his work, most recently the T.S. Ellion Award. I have two poems from the book. If you're so fortunate as to still have a living mother, save this poem for Mother's Day. To My Mother I was your rebellious son, do you remember? Sometimes I wonder if you do remember, so complete has your forgiveness been. So complete has your forgiveness been I wonder sometimes if it did not precede my wrong, as I erred, safe found, within your love, prepared ahead of me, the way home, or my bed at night, so that almost I should forgive you, who perhaps foresaw the worst that I might do, and forgave before I could act, causing me to smile now, looking back, to see how paltry was my worst compared to your forgiveness of it already given. And this, then, is the vision of that Heaven of which we have heard, where those who love each other have forgiven each other, where, for that, the leaves are green, the light a music in the air, and all is unentangled, and all is undismayed. A Third Possibility I fired the brush pile by the creek and leaping gargoyles of flame fled over it, fed on it, roaring, and made one flame that stood tall in its own wind, snapping off points of itself that raved and vanished. The creek kept coming down, filling above the rocks, folding over them, its blank face dividing in gargles and going on, mum under the ice, for the day was cold, the wind stinging as the flame stung. Unable to live either life, I stood between the two, and liked them both.  Now I have a piece from sailor, world-traveler, and friend of "Here and Now," Michael Sottak Narragansett Bay windows open to summer the fog crawls from the bay across the cow fields into my room the horns chant oooouuuhhhhrrra! oooouuuhhhhrrra! i leap to the smell of brine press my nose to the screen see only glistening stone walls in ghost dancing white oooouuuhhhrrrah! i know Dad's ship is hunkered-in off Brenton's reef, try to imagine which horn or bell is his it's been six months ooouuurhhhaa! clang, clang ting, ting i know every sound of the bay the tramp steamers and the troubled watch the white roll in like waves what will it be ivory tusks from Africa? brass tables from Istanbul? it doesn't matter i feel you coming home  Next, two poems by D. K.. Jones from his book Next of Kin, published by The Geryon Press in 2008. Jones' books include a memoir, a novella, a series of fables mixed with recollection essays and five poetry collections. His book outrider was a finalist for the Carl Sandburg Award. He lives in Minnesota and Arizona. The Blue Angel It's time - my eldest daughter said. Well past time is what she meant. The nearly painful blinding glare in my eyes. Trying to lift the scruffy old dog thin but Still a load off the cold, Leaf-mold snow, neither of yet god or ghost, Bend and kiss her warm before I kiss her cold. Take her to the vet so he can make of her Keepsake ashes. Ashes, ashes all fall down... Thinking back to when she was raring to go, Had the heart, But no longer the legs. A man lost without his dog Never quite finds his way. Now the collie visits in monastic dreams Where she lays only staring - A rebuke I did not bury her like the others A Small Rebellion When I was young, adults spoke in riddles and the stars, so far away, shed no light. I was a puppy waiting for a owner. Me. I ran the days to its knees. There were trees to swing on, schools outside the school, like tar trucks and fire stations. My tongue had already begun to sharpen to the dismay of others, but I tried to compromise, all sunbrowned and scabbed like a colt. The world already showing wear was long in the tooth. And I was older than I am today.  Maybe I'm a little obsessive about some things, but I think, when considering options, one should always consider the odds. smiley faces i stop in at my local newspaper's obituary page daily as i start what might be my last day i like to see if my acquaintances among the legions of the dead have increased overnight, thinking it will be good to know who new might be greeting me should it be my time to make that dark passage also i like to begin the day by calculating the odds though analysis of the ages of the most recent dearly departed i figure (optimistically) that at my age at least half of those most recently taking the big step to the great black nowhere should be older than me i keep those odds in mind as i peruse the page, feeling a great surge of rejuvenated life if those older are greater than 50 percent of the total and the dread of all deep shadows if those younger are the greater percentage on those days when the younger out number the old i am especially cautious in matters of diet and driving habits, so in some sense a surge of death among the young is probably good for me, thankyouverymuch but... . . . by they way, have you noticed (being a regular visitor to the page i noticed) most of all these former people are smiling why in the world are they smiling - don't they know they're dead? i have chosen my picture for when the time comes and you can be sure i'm not smiling  I've read many accounts of man's fall from the Garden, but none of them has moved me as this one does. The poem is by Cyra S. Dumitru from her book Listening to Light, published by River Lily Press of San Antonio in 2001. First Flesh What struck me when were first beyond Eden was the carrion. The way a body looked when dead, innards trailing like thick vines tory flesh like fading hyacinths. And the great birds that rose up flooded the air black with wings lumbered until they gained a current. Once we had passed, they descended, picked again. It was Eve who noticed how the eyes of fallen animals were often open staring at something so remote that vision was useless. Such stillness. All we had lived was movement - the doe twitching her tail before leaping, the panther rippling like black water, lizards quick as raindrops through leaves. When we found the python swallowing a rabbit hind legs twitching, Eve clutched my hands and finally wept. "We will eat only berries, fruit. We will learn the uses of plants," I said and held her until she slept. The light began to change as we foraged. It skimmed our skin, rather than warmed us. At night we shivered when pressed together beneath blankets of grass woven by Eve, her ribs rubbing too close to mine despite her growing belly. One cool morning I rose before dawn. Found the stag's leg bone picked clean, rinsed the dirt and dried blood in the stream. Felt its weight in another way. I knew where the burrow was hidden when the rabbits ventured out. I crouched in tall grass, practiced stillness. The three hopped above ground, sniffed the air. The smallest, always behind, hobbled a bit. I inched forward as it settled in a bed of clover, nose quivering, ears up and listening. I bounded forward, pounced, clutched the rabbit by its tail pressed my strength upon his clubbed again and again while its legs thumped against my chest. the small skull cracked. Blood oozed sticky in white fur. As the rabbit went limp a sharp breeze rose. Something shifted inside me, that terrible stillness. I sat listening as my heart nearly burst from pounding. My right hand, the one which in Eden had stroked the offspring of fox, squirrel, cougar blistered from the grip of battering bone. Using a jagged rock, Eve skinned the creature slowly rubbed the soft fur against her cheek traced the curve of muscle the delicate thrust of young bone. "How shinny is the flesh. How rounded the muscles." Finally she tore an opening in the belly, and the entrails spilled out, gleaming. Eve saved the tendons cooked the meat which we found almost tender. Later she caressed the bruises, dark stains against my chest.  Here we are in dry, dry, dry San Antonio, on the cusp of rain. a man of faith rain around here is like the "Free Beer Tomorrow" advertised at the corner pub - always in the offing two or three days out but never poured well today is the day that might be tomorrow it is cold and overcast with a little bit of drizzle that promises to become rain any instant i brought my umbrella for i am well-known as a man of faith in beer always and sometimes in rain  That's it. All of the material presented in this blog remains the property of its creators. The blog itself was produced by and is the property of me...allen itz |
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