Here and Now: I Am the Postman




	I Am the Postman Friday, February 26, 2010 V.2.4. I'm posting this week from Phoenix, Arizona, our second day in the home direction from Lake Tahoe. I've been on the road a full week now; Dee joined me in Reno Monday afternoon. I expect we'll be home by Sunday. It's been a great week for me, good pictures and a chance at some good poems. All of which are here in this post today. I hope you enjoy my little get-away as much as I did. In addition to my stuff and our regular roster of good poems, my featured poet this week is Derek Richards. Derek says that, after failing miserably as a rock star, he began submitting his poetry. As a result, over 130 of his poems have appeared in over seventy publications, including Lung, Breadcrumb Scabs, MediaVirus, Calliope Nerve, tinfoildresses, Opium 2.0, Dew on the Kudzu, Sex and Murder, Splash of Red and fourpaperletters. He adds that he has also been told to keep his day job by Quills and Parchment. Nothing annoys him more, he says, than poetry written solely to make someone feel stupid. His ferret, cat and puppy couldn't agree more, he says. Here! Here! I say. Happily engaged, he resides in Gloucester, MA.,cleaning windows for a living, he says. Creating the blog and posting it from hotel rooms after 400 to 500 miles of driving is a challenge. So, I'm simplifying things this week by leaving out the listing of contents. You'll just have to read this thing to know who I've got. Ah, hell, I hate half-assed. Here's what I have this week. Conrad Kent Rivers Four Sheets to the Wind and a One-Way Ticket to 1933 Amiri Baraka The End of Man Is His Beauty Bob Kaufman Cocoa Morning Derek Richards confession of wayward reason Me El Paso at an early hour Chao Chih-Hsin A Mid-Autumn Night Fireflies Presented to a Mountain Dweller Me just passing through Derek Richards praising chaos Tao Lin that was bad; i shouldn't have done that are you ok? hamster heads with little characteristics on the head, part three Derek Richards blood drips into gravy Me sleeping with Andy Devine Kabir four short verses Me i am the postman Derek Richards on the day Robert Parker died Philip Nikolayev Hello to Gorbachev Parrots Bohemina Blues Me a storm crosses Lake Tahoe Joyce Carol Oates Dream After Bergen-Belsen I Don't Want to Alarm You Derek Edwards decomposition: telling secrets Me around the lake Gary Snyder True Night Me adios, Nevada I start this week with three poets from the anthology, American Negro Poetry, published originally in 1963 and in an updated edition in 1974 by Hill and Wang. The first of the three poets is Conrad Kent Rivers. Rivers, a poet, fiction writer and dramatist, was born in Atlantic City in 1933. He died in 1968, publishing three volumes of poetry during the course of his short life, and a fourth days after his death. Four Sheets to the Wind and a One-Way Ticket to France, 1933 As a Black Child I was a dreamer I bought a red scarf and women told me how Beautiful it looked. Wandering through the heart of France As France wandered through me. In the evenings, I would watch the funny people make love, My youth allowed me the opportunity to hear All those strange Verbs conjugated in erotic affirmations, I knew love at twelve. When Selassie went before his peers and Africa gained dignity I read in two languages, not really caring Which one belonged to me. My mother lit a candle for King George, My father went broke, we died. When I felt blue, the champs understood And when it was crowded, the alley Behind Harry's New York bar soothed my Restless spirit. I liked to watch the Bohemians gaze at the Paintings along Gauguins bewildered paradise. Bracque once passed me in front of the Cafe Musique I used to watch those sneaky professors examine The populace, Americans never quite fitted in, but they Tried, so we smiled. I guess the money was too much for my folks, Hitler was such a prig and a scare, they caught The last boat. I stayed. Main street was never the same, I read Gide And tried to Translate Proust. (Now nothing is real except French wine.) For absurdity is reality, my loneliness unreal, And I shall die an old Parisian, with much honor. My next poet from the anthology is Amiri Baraka, formerly known as LeRoi Jones, a writer of poetry, drama, essays, and music criticism. There is a lot of story to Amiri Baraka/LeRoi Jones, not easily summarized. I'll let you look it up yourself. The End of Man Is His Beauty And silence which proves but a referent to my disorder. Your world shakes cities die beneath your shape. The single shadow at noon like a live tree whose leaves are like clouds weightless soul at whose love faith moves as a dark and withered day. They speak of singing who have never heard song; of living whose deaths are legends for their kind. A scream gathered in wet fingers at the top of its stalk. - They have passed and gone whom you thought your lovers In this perfect quiet, my friend, their shapes are not unlike night's My last poet from the anthology is Bob Kaufman, born 1925 in New Orleans, he died in 1986. He was a Beat poet and surrealist inspired by jazz music. In France, where his poetry had a large following, he was known as the "American Rimbaud." Cocoa Morning Variations on a theme by morning, Two lady birds move in the distance. Gray jail looming, bathed in sunlight. Violin tongues whispering. Drummer, hummer, on the floor, Dreaming of wild beats, softer still, Yet free of violent city noise. Please, sweet morning, Stay here forever. Here's this week's first poem from our featured poet of the week, Derek Richards. The poem first appeared in Splash of Red. confessions of wayward reason liquor stores sell cigarettes and that sells me. after the last valium overdose, i decided to stop attending meetings and focus on my lungs. the rose garden across the street is cursed with beauty and honey bees. a place i want to stomp, rumble, a pleasant haven for procrastination. graveyards have never been quiet places for me. there are songs i hear, love notes torn, repeated phrases about pain, profit and purgatory. and so i reason, i cry mercy, i wilt and stumble all the while, pretending to hallucinate genius. This is my first poem for the week. It's from the first night of my recent drive-around. El Paso at an early hour the air is desert chill - a pink thread on the east horizon suggests the coming of a rising sun - stench of low-grade diesel carried by low morning winds crosses the border from Cuidad Juarez, its people, a million strong waking in the dark, their yellow lights flicker like stars flung across the mountainside - the pink thread widens - a shadowing light spreads - from the north foothills a coyote howls Next, I have three short poems by Chao Chih-Hsin, from the anthology Waiting for the Unicorn - Poems and Lyrics of China's Last Dynasty, 1644-1911, published by Indiana University Press in 1990. Chao was a poet early in the period covered by the book. Born in 1662, he died in 1744. A precocious scholar, he received his first degree at the age of 14 and was 18 when he received his second. Through a network of friends and his own abilities, he advanced quickly through the ranks of Imperial administration, until committing the social error of attending a play too soon after the death of an important member of the Imperial family. At the age of 28, his official career came to an end and he never held another office. Instead, he traveled widely in southern China, made many friends, and devoted himself to the writing of poetry and literary criticism. All three of these poems were translated by Michael S. Duke. A Mid-Autumn Night The autumn air banishes lingering rains. An empty courtyard invites distant breezes - One glass of mulberry dew wine, At midnight in the moon-bright season. A longtime traveler feels the night is endless, In early coldness grows drunk too slowly. Still resigns his bleak and lonely feelings To a rendezvous with far-off chrysanthemums. Fireflies Once more coming through the door with rain, Suddenly flying over the wall on the wind, Although they need the grass to achieve their nature, The do not depend on the moon for light. Understanding the secluded one's feelings, I briefly invite them to dwell in my gauze bag. Just look: falling through vast empty space, How do they differ from the great star's rays? Presented to a Mountain Dweller Looking like a wild deer sleeping against the cliffs, Casually wandering out of the valleys with the flowing streams. Since the travelers asked him about the frosty trees, They all come to know his face, but do not know his name. Another poem from my trip, this one the second day. just passing through passing through Anthony, just north of the state line the rich manure stink of dairy farms one after the other, black and white cows like flies on a steaming pile of fresh horse turds in each lot a hill and on each hill a cow, sometimes two why? why do they seek these hills, this elevated outlook - do even dairy cows carry the instinct of high places, places to see prey and predator before they see you? and how? how, among hundreds of placid dairy cows is the one chosen that is allowed this high place? ~~~~~ a little past Radium Springs on I-25 - on the left, foothills of sand and rock and desert bushes, beyond them mountains on the right a Rio Grande river delta valley, green and cultivated fields, pecan orchards, houses stores church steeples yellow school buses flashing red lights on two-lane highways hanging over all this mountains ~~~~~ just as i leave Hatch, houses, lean-tos hanging with red Hatch chili peppers, rounding a curve in the highway first snow ~~~~~ a lake on the right, natural? manmade? a little community of small houses and mobile homes and in each driveway a boat ~~~~~ a hawk, dead in the middle of the road, a casualty of flying too low, flying too slow a single wing like a flag stands above the mess of bloody mangled meat and bone - brown and white feathers flutter in the wind ~~~~~ i stop for a burger at a little town on I-20 named after a TV game show from the early fifties that mostly everyone who might remember is dead the menu says "best cheeseburger in southern New Mexico" - that might not have been the entire and unvarnished truth and i'm suffering the consequences i wonder if Bob Barker ever ate here ~~~~~ the GPS lady gets insistent, angry - she wants me to take Route 6 from Los Lunas to I-40, passing west of Albuquerque but i want to go through Albuquerque for dinner at a favorite restaurant in Old Town make a u-turn in 300 feet, she says to me when i skip the exit she wanted me to take make a u-turn at your first opportunity, she says after i ignore her make a u-turn she says, make a u-turn make a u-turn make a u-turn until she quits, sulks, has a drink picks me up again in Albuquerque i am not forgiven, but i will continue to be indulged ~~~~~ about halfway between Albuquerque and Gallup, a lava field, curiously, on only one side of the road black lava rock scattered all across the desert and on up the side of the foothills that's on one side - on the other, just plain old desert sand and gravel how many million years ago, two million? three million? a New Mexico Dept. of Transportation civil engineer stands where the road will be no lava past here, he says The Great To-Be State of New Mexico claims it now and in perpetuity, he vows, we'll have no volcano mess on our right-of-way ~~~~~ nearing Gallup, i reach the snow level, patches first, mostly in shadowed areas where the day's sun could not reach then more and more, until the desert is covered in white, a thin layer, little individual sprigs of desert grass poke through here and there, like Kilroy, with a really bad haircut. ~~~~~ my hotel is too new for GPS, but i find it after a couple miles driving in the wrong direction and a quick pass through downtown, one pawn shop and quick loan emporium after another, giving hard evidence to the widely promised economic development and prosperity following legalization of casino gambling, then, after Reba gets her walk, we settle in, our home for the night on Route 66 Here's featured poet Derek Richards again, with his second poem for the week. praising chaos chronic deflation arrested by upheaval, further indisputable proof the chaos theory is crucial for my healing. when has the violent gust of broken glass sunk me into melancholy instead of wild-iris? a halo of angst as prodigal colors reversed. whimsical glimpses of peace and rest are as deadly as rush hour mirages. it is by their glow my pulse expands, sipping on adrenaline until decades play out between thumps. i'm going out. call me when the world tilts angry, when the zagging hum of disheveled place crashes into honest brutal time. and then i will hurry home, gasping for breath, out of tune, relieved. The next two poems are by Tao Lin, from his book, Cognitive-Behavioral Therapy, published Melville House in 2008. This is a poet I really like, though I don't always understand wonderfully dizzying connections he makes. He is a young poet, born in 1983, living in Brooklyn, New York. He is the author of a novel Eeeee Eee Eeee, a collection of short stories, Bed, and earlier book of poetry, You Are A Little Bit Happier Than I Am. that was bad; i shouldn't have done that to prevent you from entering a catatonic state i am going to maintain a calm facial expression with crinkly eyes and an overall friendly demeanor i believe in a human being that is not upset i believe if your are working i should not be insane or upset - why am i ever insane or upset and not working? i vacuumed the entire house this morning i cleaned the kitchen and the computer room and i made you a meat helmet with computer paper the opportunity for change exists in each moment, all moments are alone and separate from other moments, and there are a limited number of moments and the idea of change is a delusion of positive or negative thinking your hands are covering your face and your body moves like a statue when i try to manipulate an appendage if i could just get you to cry tears of joy one more time are you okay i don't think telling someone "don't feel sad" will console them you need to do whatever you can to make them feel better whenever your actions make them feel sad and not stop until they feel better read my text message and think about it you just never seem happy with me anymore even if i make you laugh i think the damage i've done has become irreversible i'm surrounded by endless shit i can't move where are you i just had a dream where i came to nyc but i didn't tell you and i took the subway to your apartment and waited for your roommate to come out so i could sneak in then i went into your room and crawled under your sheets from the end of your bed and crawled to your face and kissed you and pet and hugged you and we fell asleep happy birthday i drew you and ugly fish comic will you visit me today? i want to hold you and kiss your face i miss walking with you at night I really do like this guy - so here's a bonus, a short poem from his hamster series. hamsters are heads with little characteristics on the head, part three in the evening the hamster sits at the computer watermelon juice and coffee sit by the computer the hamster drinks all the coffee after a few minutes the hamster drinks all of the watermelon juice the hamster lays its paw atop a neatly folded to-do list; there is resourceful hamster with a strong will, a sincere and loving hamster friend, and a confident nature we do not need to spend any more time or empathy on this hamster And it's back to Derek Richards and poem number 3. blood drips into gravy when cut-wrist-blood adds flavor to the salisbury steak television dinner gravy swaying gently on your thighs maybe the once-a-week therapy sessions are nothing more than quick-slip-fucks to your insurance company and the heroin eyes sneaking up on you each morning are more stone culprit than actual existence to move a blue-heavy arm away like it's a twenty-pound fly aggravating your routine is something worth examining without a clipboard-bearded professional providing multiple options jenny-jane wants you to go back to deep-sea fishing because at least then you were only drinking straight-gut-whiskey heroin just makes you think smart and fuck dumb hours and hours of limp-intellect-laziness at least when you were drunk, you'd bring me flowers of course she never mentions your ability to watch endless hours of daytime soap-opera television, your soft-kind-manners early-on in the relationship she confided that she liked you better when you smelled dirty, sweaty, that it made her growl hangovers make you want to shower, hot water, cold towels this is like a baked oven creating blanket-thick layers it certainly wasn't any fun calling 911 and reporting on noah, cops and medics all circling in vulture loops, licking like lizards but somewhere the brain-garage knew it was all a performance and soon silence would return if she could just stop talking how could you promise me stability being nothing but a junkie? i do know there is another television dinner in the freezer, chicken nuggets with macaroni and cheese, a blueberry muffin noah and his dripping-blood-wrist-distraction, gone just as today slides on up to midnight, vacant and silent, after-dead This poem now, is from my third day on the road. sleeping with Andy Devine cold and wet leaving Gallup, colder and wetter passing into Arizona 40 miles in, i pass a billboard "God Bless America" immediately, the rain stops clouds part & sun streams from the heavens sorry, i'm still not convinced and it started raining again twenty miles further down the road anyway ~~~~~ bum sleeping under a pile of dirty clothes in the handicap restroom stall at the first rest stop in Arizona can't begrudge a cold man a little warmth, but if i was a bum, i sure as hell wouldn't be here now that's what god made california for - so bums could sleep in the park ~~~~~ through the high desert, flat as far as you can see then mountains on the horizons, north and west snow capped ~~~~~ pass the homes of poor rural people on either side several dogs in front, a horse and two or three goats in the back a '49 chevy and a '52 dodge pick-up - one on rotting rubber, one on blocks way the hell away from everything i know these people, or their cousins from further south grew up with them this is Navajo country, so i guess the folks are Indian or Native American or First Peoples or.... as a German-Irish-Scot- Polish-Jew-Cherokee-Spanish- Arab-white-boy-mutt, true product of the war, famine, pestilence, flood, volcano, earthquake, romance and lust of history's melting pot, i sometimes don't know the nomenclature preferred by those of a less complicated lineage ~~~~~ strong winds pushing across me, fight me, steady pressure pushing me toward the shoulder tumbleweeds whip across the road in front of me, chasing the wind, never catching it i've known people like this, blown always by capricious winds, never finding rest ~~~~~ i see a buffalo in it's shaggy brown coat eating green sprouts between giant red boulders that's buffalo, not bison Bison Bill is too ludicrous to consider ~~~~~ passing the turn off to the petrified forest i had seen it before when i was a kid, through my 3-D circular hold-it-up-to-your-face slide thing that i got one year for Christmas, but was still impressed when seen directly by the immensity of time as measured by living thing turned rock my son, seven at the time, was less so, but he's studying geology now so maybe some connection was made ~~~~ dense white clouds cover the horizon ahead - snow rain or dust storm, not what i'd like to see ~~~~~ sleet - the strong winds even stronger - throwing ice pellets like bb shot ~~~~~ approaching Flagstaff i realize i have been here before, 20 years ago, the same year we stopped at the petrified forest, a trip to the Grand Canyon, Dee and i, my son, and my mother who always looked forward to traveling with us, so anxious to see the Grand Canyon, but upon arriving, so overcome by acrophobia, one of the early signs of her decline, that I couldn't talk her out of the car ~~~~~ lunch in Flagstaff light snow then, moving on through the national forest and between the mountains the snow gets much worse, blowing hard across the road, the sky closes in, and the temperature drops to near freezing finally after ten miles of steep decline, i'm back near desert level the clouds clear, the temperature goes back up, and fat driving snowflakes hitting my windshield turn to fat splashing raindrops as the weather clears, Reba, returns to her bed in the back after, sensing sub-tropic boy's tension on this freezing icy highway, she had moved up to lay at my elbow ~~~~~ relieved as the weather clears, i begin to think of coffee as the little town of Winslow approaches and on a roadside sign, "Mojo's Gourmet Coffee" just in time i find Mojo's and a skinny barista with more tattoos than lots of folks have skin, and in the corner a little group of old cowboys sitting a round table, some just listening, two singing and picking their guitars - country ballads, Marty Robbins and the like, and some of their own composing "I once loved a girl in Albuquerque," sang one "I wanted to be a cowboy," sang the other as i was leaving, "but I was always afraid of cows" ~~~~~ finally, the end of a long day and my stop for the night in Kingman, getting close now to Nevada my hotel is on Andy Devine Trail (Andy Deaven, stress on the "Dea" the GPS lady pronounces it - god save us from such modern ignorance) but i'm happy anyway, cause fat old Andy was one of my heroes when i was a kid and i am pleased and proud to spend a night on his street makes me want to go outside and pluck my magic twanger Now I have four short poems by Kabir, as interpreted by Robert Bly. They are from the book Kabir, Ecstatic Poems. A weaver by trade but a poet-singer by calling, Kabir lived in fifteenth-century India. His philosophy incorporated various beliefs of both Muslims and Hindus and later became one of the major inspirations behind Sikhism. The verses are not titled. ~~~~ I don't know what sort of a God we have been talking about. The caller calls in a loud voice to the Holy One at dusk. Why? Surely the Holy One is not deaf. He hears the delicate anklets that ring on the feet of an insect as it walks. Go over and over your beads, paint weird designs on forehead, wear your hair matted, long and ostentatious, but when the deep inside you there is a loaded gun, how can you have God? ~~~~ I have been thinking of the difference between water and the waves on it. Rising, water's still water, falling back, it is water, will you give me a hint how to tell them apart? Because someone has made up a word "wave," do I have to distinguish it from water? There is a Secret One inside us; the planets in all the galaxies pass through his hands like beads. That is a string of beads on should look at with luminous eyes. ~~~~ Inside this clay jug there are canyons and pine mountains, and the maker of canyons and pine mountains! All seven oceans are inside, and hundreds of millions of stars. The acid that tests gold is there, and the one who judges jewels. And the music from the strings no one touches, and the source of all water. If you want the truth, I will tell you the truth: Friend, listen: the God whom I love is inside. ~~~~ The Holy One disguised as an old person in a cheap hotel Goes out to ask for carfare. But I never seem to catch sight of him. If I did, what would I ask him for? He has already experienced what is missing in my life. Kabir says: I belong to this old person. Now let the events about to come, come! This one is from the fourth day of travel. i am the Postman Nevada in my mind was another West Texas, further north and colder in the winter, but basically just another flat prairie of cactus, sand and rock stretching from one horizon to the next now i know Nevada has mountains! lots ~~~~~ crossing Hoover Dam stopping at an overlook to view the view and let Reba do some business just as we arrive three busloads of foreign tourists orientals, probably Japanese Indians, of the from India kind and Latinos, probably Mexican, but possibly of a further south origination Reba basks in all the international attention but forgets to do her business ~~~~~ the dam itself is most impressive for the parts you cannot see the stories and songs of its building American classics like the transcontinental railroad i think of the railroad every time i pass through the mountains, thinking of what it took to build a railroad across these great heights and divides blood, sweat, tears, and along with that, corruption at every level that greased the process to completion why cannot we do these great things anymore is it that we hoard the blood, avoid the sweat, use up our ration of tears on Dr. Phil? - or is it the corruption? the problem - is it that our politicians are not corrupt enough to do great things, or, is it that our corrupt politicians are not daring enough, small-time and penny-ante even in their greed? ~~~~~ snow clouds flow over mountain peaks on both side of me like buttermilk over hot cornbread ~~~~~ light snow dusts desert stones and plants with points of silvery shadow the snow falls faster and soon they all sport white caps until all disappears under the white sea ~~~~~ a herd of horses, twenty or thirty of them, chase and play in a field of snow ~~~~~ past Hawthorn my route begins to take me into new mountains soon i am high above what seems to be a very large lake but heavy snow obscures all details ~~~~~ i crest the last of this latest section of mountains and laid out before me a vast valley, a basin surrounded by peaks, covered white like a fresh tablecloth at a New York bistro ~~~~~ no problems with ice on the road until three miles from my destination, the freeway like a skating rink, pile-ups three four five cars in each, one after another and so i end nearly 600 miles of driving today very slowly ~~~~~ across Nevada east to west, rain sleet fog bright sunlight and heavily falling snow but i am not deterred from my rounds no longer the Walrus - I am the Postman Here's poem number four from featured poet Derek Richards. It was first published in Opium 2.0. on the day Robert Parker died we were at the local Market Basket immersed in two-for-one deals, stocking up on frozen dinners and juices that sip well with vodka when the annoying buzz of an incoming text message caught me staring at three different brands of sliced pepperoni. just heard robert parker died. oh no. when i was 13 i would roam the streets of tiny Essex, Massachusetts, a liter of Wild Rose wine in my jacket pocket. I was thinking badly glorious thoughts of big cities and publishing contracts, record deals and pretty blonde women willing to learn to love me. Spenser For Hire was not a favorite. i knew nothing of Hawk, Susan Silverman or the true nuances of alcoholism. it was just ache or want to think that a famous author would one day describe these very streets. of course, i'm older now, but i still dream about walking dead-town streets with a cheap bottle of wine inside my jacket. on the day Robert Parker died, it might have been a good idea. i'm lost like Jesse Stone, Sunny Randall, and sometimes tough, like Spenser himself or Hawk. i look my best when wrapped in bad-ass consequence, solid knuckles and the vice of saving the day. when Parker wrote about Jesse struggling with the idea of never having another drink, i chewed on the same ice cubes. when Susan involved herself with another dangerous man, i almost allowed myself to weep because i knew what he really wanted to say. Hawk will still stand guard, Mr. Parker, and Susan will still lead Pearl-the-wonder-dog from the bedroom once the dialogue gets too frisky. Jesse Stone will always wonder about Jennifer, and Sunny will never go a day without trying to live up to her father's reputation. on the day Robert Parker died i decided on pizza rolls, salisbury steak dinners and a pack of cigarettes. i'll mix the vodka later, sip the wine like Jesse would sip Scotch and soda. and when Pearl-the-wonder-Dog comes scratching at the door, i'll tell my sweetheart to have patience. she's just another important character in an imperfect life. Philip Nikolayev was born in Moscow in 1966 and grew up fully bilingual in Russian and English thanks to his father, a linguist. He started out as a Russian poet, but came to the United States in 1990 to attend Harvard University, and has since been writing primarily in English. His poems have appeared in such journals as The Paris Review, Grand Street, Verse, Stand, Jacket, Salt, overland. He is also author of three collections of poems, Philip Nikolayev is the author of two collections of poems, Artery Lumen, in 1996, Dusk Raga in 1998, and Monkey Time, winner of the 2001 Verse Prize. I have three short poems this week from that third poem, Monkey Time. Hello to Gorbachev Anent, ex-president, your cracking down big time on drunkenness in Russia where your reverie bloomed in and on the air in 85; dissent in every town was mounting fast. Many in silent wrath turned out fierce moonshine in domestic stills, while those without the high-tech rig and skills reached satisfaction by a simple path. Water, yeast, sugar, fruit, a glass jar and a latex glove held by a rubber band over the jar's round mouth: just when the brew was ripe, thee flaccid glove filled out anew, rising on vapors - a saluting hand. We joked that this was our hello to you. Parrots as a parrot in a bush to another parrot said man things are not bad what more could we wish and how they'll come then go red feathers so eat a mango for now the key is to be perfectly undetectable delectable twee Bohemian Blues The cold March afternoon waxed languid with its late hours. The cinders sang their lowpitched ancient fireplace ditty with an insufferable hang. I wasn't sleepy. On the table there sat potato chips galore with Morellino de Scansano, vintage of 1994. Fingers of shadow played obscurely behind he weakened flames. Blase, the Christmas cactus nodded mildly like an art dealer from LA. And I, with no premeditation, returned Shelley to the shelf, unwound sublimely on the sofa lit up a cig and shot myself. I left San Antonio on Thursday; finally reached Lake Tahoe last night, Monday. Lots of chasing around in the snow today. The next poem is from Lake Tahoe. a storm crosses Lake Tahoe fifteen inches of snow in Reno yesterday, none here at Lake Tahoe until now the day, bright and clear in the morning and we drive some number of miles around the lake, taking pictures along the way a change begins now from my tenth floor window, i watch snow clouds cross the north mountains, then begin a slow drift across the water toward us the "little cat feet" whisper over cold water the wind below picks up, stirs up little storms of dust as the larger storm draws near first flurries drift past my window I have two poems by novelist, short story writer, essayist, critic, playwright and poet Joyce Carol Oates. The poems are from her book, The Time Traveler, published by E. P. Dutton in the early 90s. Dream After Bergen-Belsen Did you know the brain is glass and glass can shatter, and sift, and shift and give such hurt beyond imagining so consonants draw out to Ooooooooo’s like mouths, or eyes popped from sockets of pain and push, a band tourniqueted around the head to bring the blood to boil, and past, as in the Nazi doctors' experiments for "science" and - well, for fun: did you know? "I Don't Want to Alarm You" I don't want to alarm you. I know how hard a time you've had of it lately. I know how, your back being broken, it's painful for you to walk here with me as if we were equals. I know you try not to think about it. And to forgive, where the forgetting has failed. It's the wisest strategy, I think for you to assume that air of subtly modulated hurt, a bit of dignity in which no one much believes. Yet saving face is courteous and we thank you. And if, these days, you are happiest, in that sea-green haze between sleep and wakefulness where the body floats placid, paralyzed, and blessed, I think too that is the wisest strategy for you, for now. Here's our last poem for the week from Derek Edwards. I really like Derek's stuff and hope to see more of it here in the future. decomposition: telling secrets no one ever wanted to be a poet more than Jasmine a thesaurus stole her virginity long before Carlos synonyms offered more orgasm the pale skin of unhealthy rhyme photosynthesized depression into soul luxury into destitute daydreams consisted of suburban ovens choking black her head like Sylvia like dull green five-subject notebooks suddenly aflame an entire history of adjectives written between her thumbs she couldn't quite figure how John fit in the silent-punk-rock-star always read her words like they were foreplay and then he would come leave nothing but you're too honest, no one likes you because you divulge everything Jasmine will stare a blank page into oblivion waiting for a pause to excuse static she excels at English Lit has even learned the nuances of Latin, breathes easy the lazy nouns of Spanish, wishing Carlos still came around Another day, another poem - truth is, I've lost track - not sure what day, what poem. around the lake rain snow ankle-deep slush puddles on streets and sidewalks mountains on the other side of the lake as well as those hanging above us hidden by the clouds that settle over us in our south Texas home, a city-wide emergency would have been declared hours ago, but here, people walk on the side walks, cars drive on the streets, skiers line to take a lift to a mountain top whose existence must, under these conditions, be taken on faith yellow school buses pass snow chains clanking Reba i go for a walk at lakeside in a park i found yesterday we are not the first to break the snow, little duck tracks, triangles divided by a line from point to base, and tracks of some bird of a larger sort, tridents in the snow a white sailboat sits offshore half hidden in the snow there yesterday as well home, home on the lake where the carp and the pelicans play The next poem is from my second book of poems by Gary Snyder, Ax Handles. It is Snyder's sixth book of poems. Born in San Francisco in 1930, he and his family live in the foothills of the Sierra Nevada. His poems, like this one, reflect his close identification and communion with the natural world. True Night Sheath of sleep in the black of the bed: From outside this dream womb Comes a clatter Comes a clatter And finally the mind rises up to a fact Like a fish to a hook A raccoon at the kitchen! A falling of metal bowls, the clashing of jars, the avalanche of plates I snap alive to the ritual Rise unsteady, find my feet, Grab the stick, dash in the dark - I'm a huge pounding demon That roars at raccoons - They whip around the corner, A scratching sound tells me they’ve gone up a tree. I stand at the base Two young ones that perch on Two dead stub limbs and Peer down from both sides of the trunk: Roar, roar, I roar you awful raccoons, you wake me up nights, you ravage our kitchen As I stay there then silent The chill of the air on my nakedness Starts off the skin I am all alive to the night. Bare foot shaping on gravel Stick in the hand, forever. Long streak of cloud giving way To a milky thin light Back of black pine bough, The moon is still full, Hillsides of Pine trees all Whispering; crickets still cricketting Faint in cold coves in the dark I turn and walk back slow Back the path to the beds With goosebumps and lose waving hair In the night of milk-moonlit thin cloud glow And black rustling pines I feel like a dandelion head Gone to seed About to be blown away Or a sea anemone open and waving in cool pearly water. Fifty years old. I still spend my time Screwing nuts down on bolts. At the shadow pool, Children are sleeping, And a lover I've lived with for years, True night. One cannot stay too long awake In this dark Dusty feet, hair tangling, I stoop and slip back to the Sheath, for the sleep I still need, For the waking that comes Every day With the dawn. Here's my last poem for the week. Not the end of my drive around - still have to get home. Maybe I'll have something on the return trip next week. adios, Nevada it is the last day before we start home, for me, it's been a week on the road and i am ready for my own front door and my own back yard the day started really bad but has cleared up since noon to bright sunshine and drying streets, so it's almost like i'm sorry to go but truth is i'm not i don't ski and i don't gamble so the question rises, what the hell am i doing here the answer to that is like the joke about the man who comes home after a business trip to find his wife, naked, in the bedroom - when he opens the door to the closet to hang up his coat and finds another man, equally naked, what the hell are you doing here. he shouts, well, everybody gots to be somewhere, the man answers and i guess that's why i'm here everybody gots to be somewhere i don't think i'll be back Nevada pulls a Puritan side out of me i didn't know was there where ever i do in the state i catch a stench of corruption casinos everywhere; slots everywhere; losers everywhere - Las Vegas - a city built out of the desert for suckers by east coast gangsters looking for a place to run their rackets without having to worry too much about honest cops and honest judges and it all worked so well the stench crossed the state like a plague of iniquity the mountains are a majestic spectacle that lifts the heart, but it's over 1,700 miles from home i can get bigger and better mountains in 500 miles closer that's the wonder of travel without expectation, finding the places, large and small that feed you soul and imagination and the other places that show you why you value all the elsewheres you've ever been so tomorrow we leave, through California, which turns out to be the fastest way back to San Antonio, Texas another surpriser to end the week That's it for this week. Still traveling, but will be back at home for next week's. Come back to us then, good stuff on tap, including poems by next week's featured poet, Canadian poet, Don Schaeffer. As usual all material posted remains the property of its creators. My stuff is available to anyone who wants it, just credit the source if you use it. And, also as usual, I'm allen itz, head of the "Here and Now" junta, honcho, even, you might say. 0 Comments: Post a Comment

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