Saturday, December 22, 2012


Kind of a bah humbug poem for December 22, but at least at the end I do restrain myself.


Youth wasted
on the young.
Metamorophosis wasted on
bugs. Exquisite sensitivity and cognition...
I don't want to say it.

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Saturday, April 07, 2012


Clearing My Throat...

It's been a weight on me for a long time that I have stopped blogging...I've had my reasons, but I should not have let them conquer me!

For instance...I have been disheartened by what has been going on in the Internet universe that any blog is a part of, especially Ron Silliman's calling a halt to commenting/conversation on Silliman's Blog, (and, what's worse, his destruction of the record of all such previous discourse); and the painful shriveling of the Buffalo Poetics List to ALMOST NOTHING (which amazingly I don't see anyone talking about).

For two or three years, I have been back in Buffalo, where I studied English at SUNY/Buffalo in the 70s, and this return provides me with so so much to talk about...and I haven't known where to begin!

[Geez!--I'm the sort of person who sees good things as a problem!]

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Friday, April 01, 2011


"Everybody plays the fool"

As the song says. "No exceptions to the rule".

And there's the old saying, "even Homer nods".

But I was very surprised in a library some years ago to see that the editors of Pegasus Descending: A Book of the Best Bad Verse had thought to include in that anthology Emily Dickinson's Poem #566-"A Dying Tiger--moaned for Drink--", which I find to be very powerful, and believe to be oft-acclaimed.

It's of course because of line five--"His Mighty Balls--in death were thick--". Anyone familiar with Dickinson's diction knows she is referring to "EYEballs", but yes, the line is rather funny, if one wants to make an issue of it.

If one bad line is sufficient to whisk an excellent poem away into the bad, bad, bad category, I wonder if William Blake's pithy wise notebook poem "Never pain to tell thy Love" will ever be fated for inclusion in such a collection:

Never pain to tell thy Love
Love that never told can be
For the gentle wind does move
Silently invisibly

I told my love I told my love
I told her all my heart
Trembling cold in ghastly fears
Ah she doth depart

Soon as she was gone from me
A traveler came by
Silently invisibly
O was no deny

We know very well what he means by it, but the last line is excruciatingly clumsy, is it not? The excuse for W.B.'s line might be: it's not something published, it's just something in a notebook. The excuse for E.D.'s, of course, is that she likely wasn't aware of such slang as "balls" meaning testicles. Or that you should leave your dirty mind out of it as you read what she wrote about her Tyger's eyes extinguished.

NOTE: Pegasus Descending was edited by the odd triumvarate of James Camp, X.J. Kennedy, and Keith Waldrop. I don't know who Camp is, but Kennedy and Waldrop are very different figures.

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Monday, August 16, 2010


Trees, Leaders, Labors: a beginning on Larry Eigner's Collected Poems


On Friday August the 6th I picked up the four volume Larry Eigner Collected Poems [edited by Curtis Faville and Robert Grenier; and if ever there were a labor of love!...--kudos to them] from the Buffalo Manhattan Avenue post office, and carried the fairly heavy carton the almost exactly one mile [Yahoo Local says 1.08 miles] back to my apartment--but no problem, believe me, if it had actually been a strain, I would have called a taxi.

In the subsequent almost-two weeks, perhaps I haven't strained myself enough exploring these stunning volumes, but I'd like to examine now a little of what I've seen in them:

As ever with Eigner, I encountered his brilliant--but not fancy; simple--ways of conceiving common natural phenomena like trees and birds, etc.: a challenge to all poets and other writers as regards whether we could create similar imaginations, quite apart from the question of whether we are(whether Eigner was?) adept at indentifying specific tree or bird species.

Eigner's June 20, 1966 poem [Volume II, p. 726], reads:

that bird got
  deep in the hedge

      a tree is an island


        cloud  fades off

Here trees (and hedges) are seen as islands of rest and refuge for birds.

When we get to the "rain" of lines four and five, there is a mild suddenness as we learn why the birds Eigner has been looking at were seeking refuge.

A reader's led to think: it's likely a day of shifting, highly localized raining, so the rain "passes" as regards space as well as time. And so the rain can be thought of as something like the birds.

When, finally, we focus on a cloud shifting out of sight, Eigner interestingly fuses our imagination of this cloud's lateral movement with a sense of other ways the cloud might have disappeared, since the cloud "fades off", suggesting 'fading out' or 'fading away'.

There's this, from April 12, 1966 [Volume II, p. 710]:

 the way a bird flies
from the 3rd brick step to
  the tree  towards the sky

 the burden of twigs

One is first surprised to read of diminutive "twigs" as a burden; but then you think of the tree trunk 'carrying' the rest of the tree--of each large branch 'burdened' by its tributaries--and you think, well yes, the numerous twigs add up.

So this one is fairly simply a contrast of the tree's rootedness and weights, and the lightness of the bird--plus at least two other things to think about. The reader might feel the need to decide: do I think of the bird's flight up to the tree as a motion "towards the sky"; or would I reserve that phrase for when the bird leaves the tree and actually begins directing its flight towards the upper atmosphere? And there is certainly an enigma as to how the thought of "the way [this bird flies in the path that I describe in the 2nd and 3rd line]..." is to be completed.

Encountering these, and other, new-to-me and familiar, poems celebrating trees in these Collected volumes, I had a sudden thought about one of the long-tantalizing mysterious moments in Eigner's poem prompted by the assassination of Martin Luther King.

That poem is dated April 2-5, 1968 [and therein hangs a nagging perplexity about the poem's genesis, for that dating would indicate, as Steven Fama points out in his enthusiastic and industrious March 28, 2010 post ((somehow,after proofreading myself over and over I haven't been able to link specifically to that post)) about Eigner poems inspired by news events, that the poem was begun before the assassination--Doctor King was shot and killed on April the 4th; while there's nothing necessarily odd about that, since Eigner might very understandably have been inspired to begin writing an MLK-centered poem simply by virtue of this leader's visit to Memphis in solidarity with striking African American trash collectors, what's weird is that in his 1977 interview with Stony Hills magazine, reprinted in areas lights heights, the invaluable 1989 collection of Eigner prose texts edited by Benjamin Friedlander, Eigner says "James Earl Ray sure hit me, that is King did, and in the few days after he was killed--April 2-5 '68 {emphasis added}--there was a 50-line piece which just came off, no work to speak of involved, just King, and the Memphis garbage workers and all..." (areas lights heights, p. 148). I would imagine that Eigner remembered vividly, and correctly, the nature of the poem's impetus, and was simply, and consistently, mistaken as to the dating, but who can tell.]

The first seven lines of the poem are as follows:

The world that was, the glass

                            King King King King

     of fashion burst in your eyes


             all the green
            over the arm

The flash of understanding I've spoken of was in reference to lines six and seven: I thought of how garbage cans left at curbsides are frequently enough placed under trees, so that the brief moment of the collector's reaching for and raising these containers involves a pleasant canopy--suggesting a perhaps idyllic aspect to this quintessential 'it's not a nice task, but somebody has to do it--please let it not be me' sort of labor.

I'd like to offer some further conjectures on these seven lines--some of which have also occurred to me during my recent reading of the poem in the Collected [Volume III, pps. 832-833], some of which I've arrived at over the years.

I'd like to suggest that the world "glass" in the first line refers to the lens through which Americans used to look at Race--at what racial inequalities were or were not totally incompatible with the nation's proclaimed ideals, and at what indignities non-White people were or were not willing to put up with. Thus the interrupting, and shoved-to-the-side, second line's repetition of the word "King" may refer not only to the man who had done so much to change things, but also to the succession of authority figures--presidents, Cabinet members, governors of states, etc.--who continued, with whatever variations and reforms, the old oppressive patterns, like a dynasty of kings committed to common principles.

(As soon as I think of, or propose out loud, this double-meaning of the syllable "King", I feel a little frightened of this perhaps silly-sounding interpretation: I'm very pleased to notice Eigner meditating about kingship--he alludes to the Romanovs, Caeser, and [presumably British] Kings Charles and John--in what is evidently the last poem he composed before the M.L.K. elegy [the late March '68 poem that's found at the bottom of Volume III, p. 833]).

My interpretation suggests to me a 2nd meaning of the words "sanitation/men": the authority figures--the "king[s]"--can be seen as people who often made efforts to reduce the worst of the stink of America's undone business.

I think the King poem as a whole is more focused on its central theme than Steven Fama has suggested. I'll perhaps type out the whole thing at some point, and give my interpretation. When and if I do that, I'll stop evading line three.

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Thursday, August 05, 2010


corollaries from heck

"Always be ready to speak your mind, and a base man will avoid you" wrote William Blake in the Proverbs of Hell section of The Marriage of Heaven and Hell. These days, very many people, some of whom are not necessarily all that base, will avoid the person who has that readiness.

Ian Keenan once told me that I was a "classic New Yorker" because often I don't shrink from saying exactly what I think. A lot of good that did me in 80s/90s/00s Manhattan and Queens!

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Monday, August 02, 2010


a season-word saves me

A season-word saves me--that is, I hope, from the not-particularly-vibrant nature of the first-draft [it turns out] haiku I posted a few days ago, about a haiku-book stuck in an un-opening desk drawer. I was at a birthday party yesterday, and started to speak of the stuck drawer because I wanted to speak of the trapped book, and probably about trying to write about it...Somebody in the room informed me that in summer the lid of a drawer can swell, so one option I have is to wait for the change of seasons. I appreciated the scientific enlightenment, and the conversation swerved so I never completed the rest of the little story.

So on the way home I was thinking, yes it's certainly good practice for a haiku to have a season-word, and in fact, I had already been lamenting not having such a word in this, probably my first attempt ever to write one, so how the lines might read [after exploring several different possibilities], could be:

Hopeless tugs on handle,
Summer's swelling, Beary's sparkle
Caught in unbudging drawer!

So now my First Haiku's not so bad, I believe [and please don't tell me, a haiku has to be exactly 5-7-5, that's ignorant]. I don't know if these three lines have any place within the community of poems I've published, or would like to see published--or for that matter, what the title, if any, could possibly be.

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Saturday, July 31, 2010


This morning's dilemma...

Hopeless tugs on handle,
Roberta Beary's sparkle
Caught in unbudging drawer!

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