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Green Shadows of Spring
Friday, May 15, 2009 IV.5.3. I'm going to cut the chatter to a minimum this week and just tell you who's up. Generations James Hoggard Luneros The Riverside Down Reason for Reserve Me not fooled by their broad and desperate smiles Wendy Barker Disappearing Acts Robert McManes beginnings commercial break Diane Wakoski Some Pumpkins Seeing Robert in the Crystal Ball The Tree Me a good week James Laughlin The Love Puddle Joanna Weston Seasons at the River Bend Local Cafe The Bowl Campbell McGrath Trouble with Miami Me seeking common ground Brenda Cardenas Poem for the Tin -tun-teros Me quickly and surely i sidestep the rant Andrey Voznesensky Notes on architecture and poetry Me changing the subject  I begin this week with a two-part poem by our friend from the great Northwest, Gary Blankenship. This poem has special meaning to me as I watch the rocky hills and wooded pastures all around me clear-cut acre by acre, month after month, by developers who always know where to find the loopholes left in our conservation laws by their bought-and-paid-for cronies in the state legislature. As in Gary's poem, it all began so well, with hard, backbreaking work by proud and fearless men and women, only to go to asphalt and baby-shit diapers by the greed of their lesser descendants. It is a shameful crime what we are doing with our natural inheritance. Generations 1. "sweat of the sun" an unpainted shotgun cabin surrounded by empty fields surrounded by scrub oak and pine shirtless boys and barefoot girls gather rocks to clear land tired before their kin trekked over the peaks stones enough built a barn stones enough to hid clear jars stones enough to never finish clearing a farm meant to grow rock 2. "tears of the moon" cinder block buildings line the road in a corner of cracked parking lots tweekers pace their connection late empty store fronts gather debris the pawnshop, dollar store, bondsman hang on to their place in the strip mall behind the shops a bulldozer piles scrub oak and pine, clap board and stone with the promise of low income housing in a woodland meant for turtles and possum  Next I have three poems by James Hoggard, from his book Breaking an Indelicate Statue, published in 1986 by Latitude Press. Hoggard is a poet, translator, essayist, novelist and previous Poet Laureate of the State of Texas. The author of twelve books, he has published two collections of his translations of poems by Oscar Hahn, The Art of Dying and Love Breaks. His most recent books are Alone Against The Sea: Poems From Cuba By Raul Mesa in 1998 and the novel Trotter Ross in 1999). He is the McMurtry Distinguished Professor of English Chair at Midwestern State University in Wichita Falls, Texas. Luneros Their bodies moved with the minds of their touch andd sang an epic breath that swam their waving sheets. They left themselves, going through drowning land beyond the mystic moon whose light flared on their backs becoming hard wetness growing, heaving into their long loins' strokes diving through lunar lanes mirroring them rising, falling: shining mountainranges inflamed: blind force of mooncast world whose honeyed musk stung acridly in against their breathcooled membranous throats. Moist air swept chill down them, it's moonskin taste piquantly salted, sweet and smooth as liquid hair blowing subtly on them. Their motions, slowed, brought undulant forms back in them. Easing to two, they lay hushed like their world whose bodies move hard against the hard walls the moon breathes on. By The Riverside Down A woman remembered was my babysitter at twelve is the one who scratched her blue percale ass and sang me Down By the Riverside and told me while brushing her unbunned gray frazzle-hair that I was like a boy she knew when she was young who...stopped, asked me to check her singing heart when my brother was asleep, but it was soft and dry until she took me singing with her down by her riverside where the waves were weak and the feather-reeds long and the air was full of powderspice when I was twelve and saved from dream-need by her river-rolling moistened heart. Reason for Reserve This is the godmillionth damn time I've scissored myself up to you, and I'm bitter and rattled, mad and smashed and now ice-skinglued-cold streaking on the brittlebrink of collapse. I've curled behind you everywhere I knew you would not look and, silent, I've stared at the shadows spreading here before us like bruises. Diminished, I've balked at rage and so have you. We've been bravely deceitful, our gestures jerked toward intimacy to gentle each other, but I have no notion we're more than another mere rhythm that passes: I remember too well being scorched with fever or shrunk to a short strung line in the cold and hearing you cry I just lacked the courage to sail out the door. So this time I give you my back: I can't curl with hope into nothing, and there's no point now in trying to make a moment's spasm dance despair away just for an hour.  I wrote this last week, after catching premonitions of a future we all dread. not fooled by their broad and desperate smiles he was pushed through the door in his wheelchair his daughter struggling with the door and winning before i could get up to help she, in her early to mid fifties i estimate, he, so bent and crippled the question of age irrelevant old, just say old and let the question rest a stroke victim, it seems obvious, reduced to a thin bent reed curled in his chair, his head hung down and to the right, his face strong, his eyes bright and clear, smiling, still finding pleasure in his life and his morning coffee beyond anything i can imagine in myself i'm reminded of the old man struggling to get into his car, his frail wife in the driver's seat while he is stuck half in half out can't back out can't lift himself the rest of the way in a passerby, my brother-in-law in fact, sees the old man's difficulty and helps him the rest of the way in, physically lifts him in, actually, though he is a very large man, and arranges his feet out of the way of the closing door, the old man leaving with a smile and a thumbs up through the window as the wife drives away and i remember stumbling on the scene of my grandmother bathing my stricken grandfather, he lying naked on the bed his face turned to me, humiliation like a quiet storm across his gentle features, as she lifted his limp cock and vigorously scrubbed his balls, that memory from when i was young and the later memory of my father, in his final weeks, shitting himself as my mother and i struggled to get him on the toilet twice in this past week i have been reminded of the past and have been given a foretaste of the future not fooled by the broad and desperate smiles of these old men, the truth of that which awaits scares the bejeezus out of me  My next poem is by Wendy Barker, from her book Winter Chickens and Other Poems, published by Corona Publishing of San Antonio in 1990. Born in New Jersey, Barker spent many years in the southwest, earning her BA in English from Arizona State University in 1966 and teaching at the High School level in Phoenix. Having received her Ph.D. in English from the University of California at Davis, she is now Professor and Poet in Residence at the University of Texas in San Antonio. Winter Chickens was her first book and has been followed by many more. Disappearing Acts We are so tired there is no cooking dinner. In bed we share slices of cheese and red apples. We try not to fall asleep. When our boy comes home from the magic show he raves: the woman in the shower vanished Just like that! The thrill of such power, the negative of creation - to disappear someone. Before he'd walked in you had been saying how upset you'd been by the story in the paper of the girl they'd found dead, months had gone by, no one had claimed her. Who could disappear like that? And no one know? In Chicago last month with five friends after ten meetings all day we joked so loudly we began to drown out the yelling of the Greek waiters. Maybe there is no Self at all, we laughed, maybe it's you all the time who's the one brushing my teeth in the morning. We laughed and laughed while eating moussake, spanakopita, and I forget what else, joking about the non-existence of the Self Under the blankets I begin to blur. Is it me these bread crumbs are scratching? If I could be like the dolmas. Wrapped like that, in a soft, green leaf. If I were less tired I might know who I'd be when we wake, when the bright lights of morning shine on the shower, show the magician's assistant somehow back again, bowing and smiling, moist and supple as pink spring lamb.  Here are two poems by our friend Robert McManes. Mac has appeared here with his poems a number of times. beginnings A flower opens, speculating on a morning sunrise. A place un-named, the river empties into an ocean. Dark shapes suggest themselves, rise and fall, dissolve into delineating horizons. Sand and shell, a blend of life and death earth, wind, and water, less than an Eden, the vision of sin before Adam and Eve created the name and whatever it might symbolize. In this eerie landscape - the water writes and rewrites shorelines, the world is a perception with all that it is not and all that might be. A point and counter-point, one chance to start all over again. Commercial break We interrupt this poem to inform you that the end of this world has been postponed in order to bring you this one time offer. Today and only today, we offer the ginzu poem guaranteed to be the best poem you've never heard. Each one is numbered and registered by the international society of poetic polygamists. The first thirty callers will also receive a special surprise gift, reconstituted unknown poet sperm saved in a plastic bottle. All sales are final no refunds, offer isn't valid in New York, Alaska, or California.  The next several poems are by Diane Wakoski, from her book The Rings of Saturn, published by Black Sparrow Press in 1986. Wakoski was born in Whittier, California, in 1937. She received a bachelor's degree in English from the University of California at Berkeley. She has published more than forty collections of poems, including the four books that constitute her series The Archaeology of Movies and Books, in 1998, The Emerald City of Las Vegas, in 1995, Jason the Sailor, in 1993, and Medea the Sorceress, in 1991. Emerald Ice: Selected Poems 1962-1987, in 1988, won the Poetry Society of America's William Carlos Williams Award. Her honors include a Fulbright fellowship, a Michigan Arts Foundation award, and grants from the Guggenheim Foundation, the Michigan Arts Council, the National Endowment for the Arts, and the New York State Council on the Arts. Diane Wakoski lives in Michigan, where, since 1976, she has taught at Michigan State University. Some Pumpkins lie on our patio brick Robert says no I can read each autumn morning by pumpkin light Seeing Robert in the Crystal Ball He's in the corner, a figure like a crow with on long shoe, like a tree reaching over water. An upsidedown lighted lamp floats on the other side of the room, like a cow grazing in a field. There are three other people in this room, but none in the ball. Only crow-Robert, on his cottonwood shoe, with his lighted-cow that once was a room. The Tree outside the north window has moss growing around its total circumference. does this mean there is only a north? No south or east or west? How little I know about trees, even few names, though flowers have always yielded information like little pellets falling out of their petals, to me Possessions rigidify a man or woman. Even the people you love, making you stiffen yourself in a discipline against your annoyance at the way they eat, or blow their noses. You know you love them, yet petty observations irritate you so much you dare not think of them. When no one is listening, you say "I hate (blank)," thinking the forbidden loved-one's name. Then you tell yourself how bad you are and try to think of flowers, or Mozart, or losing yourself in books about violent death. Where is Beethoven, surely a man whose habits would have made any lover hate him? Bukowski too has discovered he'd rather live alone, as Pound discovered he'd prefer most of the time not to speak. The couple in the Nebraska steak restaurant last night, who sent back their, were embarrassed, but no so much they didn't do it. No thanks from the waitress. Adjustment of price from the management. A tree with moss growing on all sides must be a modern product, like all of us, not willing to declare boldly he'll grown his moss on the North side, or not at all. Usually doesn't send back his steak, no matter how bad. He covers, as they say, all the bases. No good if you're lost and need direction, the moss on all sides saying they're all north, like the love which is not good if you want romance or sex instead, how much better if you want a calm and peaceful everyday life, one where you assume you'll never be lost in a forest.  This is my May 1st poem that I didn't get around to writing until May 2nd, requiring some modifications to it. a good week yesterday was May 1st, the transition day from weather better than the fiery pits of hell to the fiery pits of hill, also May Day, not so good these days since most of the communists fell into the trap of robber baron capitalism, retiring their May Day parades with columns and columns of high-stepping soldiers and tanks and guided missiles, except for North Korea whose missiles fall into the sea and whose tanks are cardboard, carried underneath on sticks like the dragons in Chinese New Year parades, and whose soldiers, having not eaten in a week, are not so high-stepping but that was yesterday, as they say, history come and gone, and today is May 2nd, starting well enough as a brisk breeze blew in from the southeast while I was crossing the supermarket parking lot, a cool breeze, but damp, with the passing smell of salty sea and shrimp i remember from when i was a kid and we'd drive the 30 miles to Port Brownsville to buy big gulf shrimp right off the boat i'm a lot further then 30 miles from the coast nowadays, and how that smell gets all the way across the coastal plains to treat my nose and my morning is a mystery, but not one i feel inclined to solve, accepting, instead, however it came to me today is Saturday, tomorrow Sunday, either the end or the beginning of the week, depending how you look at it - either way the days ahead clear of the issues that have cluttered up the last weeks, good days to stay inside, hide from the weather, write poems, nap in the afternoon a good week  James Laughlin was born in 1914 and died 1997. He was an American poet and literary book publisher who founded New Directions Publishers. He was born in 1914 to a wealthy family in Pennsylvania. While a student at Harvard University, he took a leave of absence and traveled to France and then to Italy where he met and studied with Ezra Pound, who advised him, "You're never going to be any good as a poet. Why don't you take up something useful?". Pound suggested publishing, and when Laughlin returned to Harvard, he used money from his father to found New Directions in a barn on his Aunt Leila's estate in Norfolk, Connecticut. He died of complications related to a stroke in Norfolk, Connecticut in 1997, at age 83. The next poem is from The Secret Room, Poems by James Laughlin published by New Directions in 1997. The Love Puddle is not deep but it's usually muddy. If you stray into it you won't drown but you may come out of it looking like a tramp and with your feelings more dishevel- led than your trousers. You may feel guilty or feel betrayed or even disgusted, you'll wonder why you walked through the love puddle instead of going around. But you know you'll do it again - that's for sure.  Now here are three poems from our friend Joanna M. Weston. Joanna has had poetry, reviews, and short stories published in anthologies and journals for twenty years. She has two middle-readers, The Willow Tree Girl and Those Blue Shoes; also A Summer Father, poetry, published by Frontenac House of Calgary, all in print. Seasons at the River Bend the river curls my hand takes rock from the bank places it under ice lays snow on ledges and freezes people along its shore remnants of winter hold the confluence while spring bends and breaks the ice in the first stir of surface current children lift branches raise hands paddle their feet in brown waters dive to deep sand finding ripe pebbles blown leaves settle surf high rapids flood-waters rising the first fall storm when frost-bite silences land and river along my horizon Local Cafe the waitress recommended them, not steamed, but fried in bubbling butter to bring out the flavour souvenirs for sale six tables one other couple the aroma rioted in my nostrils and led my willing hand to fork in one by one five fat scallops The Bowl a child's small hands poked and moulded face scrunched in absorption at the making and the shaping until he held it up eyes alight "it's a bowl" he said for years it held oddments paperclips buttons old pennies a broken clay mouse until it came to be what it was - the poem of a child  Campbell McGrathis a modern American poet, author of six full-length collections of poetry, including his most recent, Seven Notebooks. He was born in Chicago in 1962, and grew up in Washington, D.C., where he attended Sidwell Friends School. He received his B.A. from the University of Chicago in 1984 and his MFA from Columbia University's creative writing program in 1988. McGrath currently lives in Miami, Florida, and teaches creative writing at Florida International University. The next poem is from his book Florida Poems, published by HarperCollins in 2002. Trouble with Miami is the lack of significant galleries & serious theater, the absence of museums, operas, ballets, symphonies, a dearth of cultural infrastructure so profound that the only institution worth its salt is the ocean, that watching beautiful women on the beach with bodies cast from bronze & soft lobed chrome may be our best shot at real enlightenment their formal aspects comprise our artistic endowment, their lubricity constitutes our esthetic nourishment, hard candy loaves & fishes. a sculpture garden of erotic possibility displayed in postures of wicked amusement like wild palms abandoned to wind and solar decay, and I am a happily married man who sunburns easily.  There is a part of all of us, often the most important part, that no one else knows. Hard as we may try there's always something in us that can surprise even those closest to us. The struggle to find that part in another, so that we can feel we truly know the other, is an ongoing motif if every relationship. seeking common ground i wrote a long poem about my father this morning, and scrapped it, something i hardly every do - recognizing as i read though it that all my bad habits as a writer had taken over and produced a self-indulgence beyond even my own generous norm the thing is, it's thirty years after he's dead and we continue our discussions, no closer to conclusion than the day we laid him in the ground and every time i try to wrap it up in a nice little bow of a poem, i am forced to admit that i cannot wrap that which is not yet finished i struggle still to know him, knowing he never knew me, disappointed in the failure of both of us i know i will never resolve this until i can look through his eyes and see the me he saw, which is another way of saying i cannot know him until i know myself better than i do now meaning that as i continue my own self-examination, admitting that i am not nearly as simple and easy as i claim to be, nor as unique, admitting my own complexity and recognizing in it the complexity we all share, i can only come closer to the truth of all of us, recognizing the commonality of our breed, like the commonality of the panther and the wolf who must stalk and prey, our commonality, the need to know the world and the universe of ourselves and each other to understand to see the humanity in others of our kind; and the greater challenge, to see the me in those others as well  The next poem is by Brenda Cardenas. Cardenas holds an M..F.A. in Creative Writing from the University of Michigan-Ann Arbor and is coeditor of Between the Heart and the Land/Entre el corazon y la tierra: Latina Poets in the Midwest. The poem that follows is from her first chapbook, From the Tongues of Brick and Stone, published in 2005 by Momotombo Press, Institute for Latino Studies, University of Notre Dame. She has had poems published in many literary journals and received a 2000 Illinois Arts Council Finalist Award in Poetry and a 2002 Award from Chicago Women in Publishing for editing Between the Heart and the Land. At the time this book was published, Cardenas was moving from Chicago back to her home town of Milwaukee to teach English at a two-year college during the 2005-06 school year. She has also taught US Latino and Latin American Literature, Contemporary American Literature and writing courses at the Wright College in Chicago, University of Michigan, Wayne State University and the University of Illinois at Chicago. Poem for the Tin-tun-teros This is for teh timbaleros, percussionists, tin-tun-teros, those who tap with spoons on their stoves with pencils on their desks with nails and knuckles on tables, beds, their own heads with fists against walls and fingers on the spines and curves of their lovers, dances. This for the congueros, drummers, bongoseros, those who never rest with their staccato heels always hammering the skin of the floor stomping in their dreams filled with maracas, guiros and claves, these dancers with steps so smooth and hips that move like their high hats and snares. This is for the timbaleros, percussionists, tin-tun-teros. They are bad asses with their cymbal storms their games of sticks that flay like wings. How scampish their tricks that won't let us work or sleep only dance and sing, sing and dance and sometimes move the earth a little.  quickly and surely i sidestep the rant i was thinking i might write a poem about the abortion clinic i pass every day after morning coffee, usually surrounded by antiabortion protesters, rarely if ever women of child-bearing age, waving signs with pictures of dismembered babies and other such deeply intellectual arguments and ever though i'm kind of antiabortion, myself, i do suffer from an inability to consider only one side of a question, making me no friend of these little bands of papal hustlers determined to insure a steady supply of poor babies who can be put to the service of maintaining a steady flow of golden tribute to the pope's palaces but i decided that, despising equally the soul-suckers of all sects, i would almost certainly slip into rant mode should i attempt that particular poem - it is a slippery slope for sure so rather than get myself in deep shit with god-screamers, everywhere - you know the ones, ready to lay down and spread their legs for any hocus-pocus merchant with a steeple up his ass who'll tell them what they want to hear - but i'm not going to talk about that, instead i'm just going to take note of something i saw while walking Reba yesterday she was just riding along with me, on our way to a place were we often do a morning walk and, all of a sudden, she stated crying and moaning and i was thinking she's really got to do some business so maybe we ought to just stop right here and take a little walk and poop and pee or whatever it is that is causing her such deep and vocal distress so we stopped and it was a little upscale shopping center but Reba was not intimidated by the uppercrusty ritz of the place (she is, after all, queen of all she surveys) but when i saw the little store dedicated exclusively to the sale of gourmet doggie treats, i quickly hustled her back into the truck before she saw the sign and developed a whole new set of life- expectations, demanding only the finest gourmet roadkill as her due you have to watch these things you know or you'll end up with a furry, four-footed queen of the nile instead of the old fish-breath dog whose queenly assumptions are mostly a matter of a $-store dog bone in the morning, a favorite smelly pillow at night, and a little bit of personal attention whenever she's feeling down (as even the humbler queens sometimes do) .......... so the anti-religion rant is avoided today, replaced by a good dog story instead, and the poet is left to thinking, if god was more like a good dog, welcoming in the morning and satisfied with a good ear-scratch before going to bed, there wouldn't be any reason to be anti-religious at all  Next I have the Russian poet Andrey Voznesensky from his book Selected Poems, published in 1966 by Hill and Wang Publishers. Described by Robert Lowell as "one of the greatest living poets," Voznesensky was born in 1933 in Moscow. Early in his life, he was fascinated with painting and architecture, graduating in 1957 from the Moscow Architectural Institute. But, while still a teenager, he sent his poems to Boris Pasternak, beginning a friendship between the two that had a strong influence on the young poet. His first poems were published in 1958 and, during the Cold War thaw in the 1960, he traveled abroad in Europe and the United States, becoming one of several Russian poets achieving near "rock star" status. In 1978 Voznesensky was awarded the USSR State Prize. He is an honorable member of ten academies, including the Russian academy of learning, the American Academy of Arts and Letters, Parisian Academia Goncourt and others. A minor planet 3723 Voznesenskij, discovered by Soviet astronomer Nikolai Stepanovich Chernykh in 1976 is named after him. He continues to live and work in Moscow. Voznesensky, throwing words all over the page as he does, is very hard to transcribe. So, rather than fight that battle late on an afternoon when I'm both hungry and tired, I'm going to use here, rather than a poem, notes he made on architecture and poetry. Very interesting they are - at least to me. "Architecture is a discussion with posterity. The new Kremlin Palace is linked with the Kremlin Towers by its youth, by its contrast, by its sheer downpour of glass and pylons. It is a symbol. "The best tradition is novelty. Mayakovsky and our new poets are nearer to Pushkin than the hundreds who still lisp iambics. Picasso is the continuation of Titian and Rublyov. "It seems to me that every artist should be tested by this light-permeated structure as if by an X-ray apparatus. "Pictures? Here you couldn't Laktionov and merchant-style ornamental gilded frames. "Poems? will every poem ring true in these merciless aluminum interiors?" "What is important in poetry for me? To look deep into the spirit of man, into oneself, into the interior of consciousness. It isn’t a question of from. "Form must be clear, unfathomably exciting, filled with the highest thoughts, like the sky, in which only radar can determine the presence of airplanes." . . . . . . . . . . "A Settlement in Bratsk, (referring to a painting) This settlement of building workers consists of typical little houses made with slag-filled walls. They are built like this: On the left a wall of bricks, on the right plasterboards, and the space between them is filled with slag, with building rubbish......That's how certain poets build their poems: to the left a wall of initial letters; to the right, rhymes; and between them God knows what is chucked in! And at the same time they forget that which is good for architecture, the qualities of cheapness and standardization, are not at all a plus for poetry.":  Sometimes, when you get to the end of a thing and you think of how many people you might have pissed off, it may be time to start thinking about.... changing the subject it was 100 degrees yesterday afternoon, in this first full week of May, a certain sign we will see hellfire and brimstone before mid-July (is it too late, God, to apologize for that little poem i wrote last week - all in good fun, you know, hee hee) the end of life as we know it a more immediate prospect than usual, i try to belay thoughts of my future incineration in the devil's own furnace of self-recrimination by changing the subject like... did you read in the paper about the discovery on a faraway Pacific island of the final resting place of a Hobbit, such identity proven by examination of the tiny creature's bones - calcified architecture of a huminoid about three feet tall with tiny shoulders and head and feet seven- teen inches long working out to roughly one inch of feet for every two inches of height, a disparity greater even than that of my cousin, a little guy everyone called Big Cletus, naturally, known by many as the "Bigfoot of Joaqanaka County" before his death last year at the hand of his preacher's wife's cousin's husband, Festaidious, known locally as "Shotgun Fever Festus" but that's another story maybe i'll tell it someday, if we all don't end up in mid-July as crispy- critter-reminders of life as we used to know it see, there i go again once i get my mind set on the great flaming fireball of the apocalypse it's hard to get back to regular thinking  Time to head back to la casita verde. Until next week, remember, all 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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