chris murray's *Texfiles*

"A note to Pound in heaven: Only one mistake, Ezra! You should have talked to women" --George Oppen, _Twenty Six Fragments_





Archives:





xoxo Hey, E-Mail Me! xoxo







ManY PoETiKaL HaTs LisT:

Holly's Pirate-girl Hat, chrismurray in a straw hat, Michael Helsem's Gray Wyvern NOLA Fedora. Duchamp's Rrose Selavy's flirting hat. Max Ernst's Hats of The Hat Makes the Man. Jordan Davis' The Hat! poetry. hks' smelly head baseball cap. Samuel Beckett's Lucky's Black bowler hat, giving his oration on what's questionable in mankind, in *Waiting for 'God-ot'*. my friend John Phillips's 1969 dove gray fedora w/ wild feather. Bob Dylan's mystery lover's Panama Hat. Bob Creeley's Black Mountain Felt Boater Hat. Duke Ellington's Satin Top Hat. Acorn Hats of Tree. Freud's 1950 City Fedora. Joseph Brodsky's Sailor Cap. Harry K Stammer's Copper Hat Hell. Lewis LaCook's bowler hat(s). Tom Beckett's Bad Hair Day Furry Pimp Hat. Daughter Holly's black beret. harry k stammer's fez. Cat in the Hat's Hat & best hat, Googling Texfiles: crocheted hat with flames. Harry K Stammer's tinseled berets. Tex's 10 gallon Gary Cooper felt Stetson cowboy hat. Jordan Davis's fedora. Dali's High-heel Shoe Hat. Harry K Stammer's en-blog LAPD Hat & aluminum baseball cap. cap'n caps. NY-Yankees caps. the HKS-in-person-caps are blue or green no logos nor captions. Ma Skanky Possum 10's nighttime cap. moose antler hat. propeller beenie hat. doo rag. knit face mask hat. Bob Dylan's & photographer Laziz Hamani's panama hats. Mark Weiss's Publisher's Hat. Rebecca Loudon's Seattle-TX-Hats'n'boots.




Ever-Evolving Links:


Silliman's Links
Dominic Rivron
Unidentified
Br Tom @ One & Plainer
Dan Waber: ars poetica anthology
Dan Waber: altered books anthology
chris daniels: Notes to a Fellow Traveller
Chris Daniels: Toward an Anti-Capitalist Poetry
David Daniels: The Gates Of Paradise
subterranean poets: Beijing Poetry Group
Charles Alexander/Chax Press: Chaxblog
Headlines Poetry: the latest weblog entries
Henry Gould's AlephoeBooks
Julie Choffel's Understory
Tom Murphy's former one
Jean Vengua's New Okir
Roger Pao's Asian-American Poetry
Tom Lisk: Oilcloth and Linoleum
Kevin Doran
Reb Livingston's Cackling Jackal Blog
Janet Holmes: Humanophone
Lorna Dee Cervantes
Mark Young's gamma ways
Brian Campbell: Out of the Woodwork
Shanna's DIY Publishing Blog
Galatea Resurrects: a Poetry Review
Tom Beckett
John Sakkis: BOTH BOTH
New Francois Luong:Voices in Utter Dark, KaBlow!sm is...
Old Francois Luong: Voices in Utter Dark
Margin Walker: Andrew Lundwall
Free Space Comix: the latest BK Stefans blog
Adam Lockhart, Experimentalist Composer
Antic View: Alan Bramhall & Jeff Harrison
lookouchblog: Jessica Smith
MiPOradio
Web Log -- Charles Bernstein
Google Poem Generator: Leevi Lehto
Marie Mutsuki Mockett
Feral Scholar: Stan Goff
worderos: Tom Beckett
In Galatea's Purse
Japundit
Quiet Desperation: Jim Ryal
Luca Antara: Martin Edmond
Brief Epigrams: Ryan Alexander MacDonald
Radio My Vocabulary: 4 pm Sunday Poetry Streams
Mark Lamoreaux: [[[0{:}0]]]
Hot Whiskey Blog
louder
Nick Bruno: They Shoot Poets Don't They?
Joe Massey: Rooted Fool
Kate Greenstreet: every other day
heuriskein: Tom Orange
Chiaroscuro Metropoli: Tom Beckett
Behrle's latest spout!
Fluffy Dollars: Michelle Detorie
Jane Dark's Sugar High!
The Katherine Anne Porter Literary Center
(Charles) Olson Now: Michael Kellaher & Ammiel Alcalay
kari edwards' TranssubMUTATION
Notes on the Revival: Jeremy Hawkins
PurPur: Petrus Pokus
Snapper Missives: Scott Pierce
A Sad Day for Sad Birds II: Gina Meyers
Great Works: Peter Philpot
zafusy: experimental poetry journal
Writeboard: a collaborative writing tool
John Latta: Rue Hazard
KP Harris: Croissant Factory
Stephanie Young's New Site
Stephen Vincent's New Site
Portable Press@Yo~Yo Labs
Square America
Amy King's blog
Robert: Peyoetry Hut
Muisti Kirja: Karri Kokko
Karri Kokko's Blonde on Blonde
Yummeee Blog (recipes)
Nice Guy Syndrome: Tim Botta
Left Hook
Del Ray Cross: anachronizms
Juan Cole: Informed Comment
BuzzFlash - Daily Headlines, Breaking News, Links
Aaron McCollough
Chris Lott's Cosmopoetica
Chad Parenteau
Little Emerson
Fever, Light--by Sawako Nakayasu
Second Wish
Nomadics
Alison Croggon
Radical Druid
Ron is Ron: the Ron Silliman Cartoon by Jim Behrle
Dagzine: Positions, Poetics, Populations: Gary Norris
Shadows within Shadows: Tom Beckett
Self Similar Writing: Jukka Pekka Kervinen
The Little Workshop: Cassie Lewis
Sky Bright: Jay Rosevear
Poesy Galore: Emily Lloyd
Lisa Jarnot's Blog
Poetry Hut: Jilly Dybka (has moved here)
Pornfeld: Michael Hoerman
Seven Apples: Justin Ulmer
Hi Spirits: Andrew Burke
Bacon Bargain!: Joe Massey
Ivy is here: Ivy Alvarez
Whimsy Speaks: Jeff Bahr
Umbrella: Jeff Wietor
Chicanas! (Susana L. Gallardo)
Masters of Photography
Blog of Disquiet: Gary Norris' Teaching Blog
Suzanna Gig Jig
Bad with Titles: Jay Thomas
Spaceship Tumblers! Tony Tost
Desert City: Ken Rumble
E-Po
Zotz!
Optative Mood: Tim Morris
ecritures bleues: Laura Carter
The Ingredient: Alli Warren
Skanky Possum Pouch
Slight Publications
Jewishy-Irishy: Laurel Snyder
Sea-Camel: Alberto Romero Bermo
Growing Nations: Jordan Stempleman
Tom Raworth
Entropy and Me: Hal Johnson
Scott Pierce: Snapper's Junk
Chicano Poet: Reyes Cardenas
Semio-Karl M&M
Stephen Vincent
Hoa Nguyen/Teacher's & Writers
a New Word Placements
Narcissus Works: Anny Ballardini
Richard Lopez
Tributary: Allen Bramhall
The_Delay: Chris Vitiello
Jukka Pekka Kervinen: Nonlinear Poetry
Lanny Quarles: Phaneronoemikon
Clifford Duffy: Fictions of Deleuze & Guattari
DagZine
Carrboro Poetry Festival
Steve Evans: Third Factory
DEBORAH PATILLO
SKANKY POSSUM PRESS
Tim Peterson: Mappemunde
WOOD'S LOT
Geof Huth: DBQP
Ann Marie Eldon
Jim Behrle: The Jim Side
Ray Bianchi:Postmodern Collage Poetry
Never Mind the Beasts
Diaryo
New Broom
Flingdump Scattershot
Tony Tost: Unquiet Grave
Grapez
SB POET
Mark Young's Pelican Dreaming
|||AS/IS2|||
Li's A Private Studio
Anny Ballardini's Poet's Corner
Tom Beckett: Vanishing Points
Dumbfoundry
BadGurrrlNest
Jean Vengua's Okir
Hear-it dot org: info on hearing problems
Tim Yu's Tympan
James Yeager's Modern Lives
Tony Robinson: Geneva Convention
Daniel Nestor's Unpleasant Event
Ex-Lion Tamer
Carlos Arribas: Scriptorium
David Nemeth
Ela's Incertain Plume
Mairead Byrne's Heaven
Catherine Daly
Black Spring
Br.Tom's Finish Yr Phrase
Shin Yu Pai: makura-no-soshi
Harry K. Stammer: Downtown LA
Corina's Fledgling Wordsmith
Jilly Dybka's Poetry Hut
Ben Basan's Luminations
Katey: Chewing on Pencils
YaY!! Eileen Tabios: Chatelaine Poetics !
Jill Jones: Ruby Street
Geoffrey Gatza's BlazeVox
Bill Allegrezza's P-Ramblings
Gary Sullivan's Elsewhere
GoldenRuleJones
Poetry_Heat
Bookslut
Chickee's SuperDeluxeGoodPoems
As-Is !
John Latta's Hotel Point
Sawako Nakayasu's Ongoing Show
Shanna Compton's Brand New Insects
Crag Hill
kari edwards: transdada
Fluss
Michael Helsem's Gray Wyvern
Word Placement
Bogue's Blog
Jordan Davis: Equanimity
Robert Flach's Unadulterated Text
Michelle Bautista
Ironic Cinema
Mike Snider
Farewell Tonio!

In Through the Out Door
The Blonde Brunette
Awake at Dawn on Someone's Couch is Toast
Jukka-Pekka Kervinen:Non-Linear
Xpress(ed) !
Chris Lott's Ruminate
Venepoetics
Laura: Yellowslip
Stick Poet Super Hero
Mighty Jens!
Radio UTA: Toni's Thursday Poetry Show
Tim Morris: Lection
Gabe Gudding
Constant Critic
Sappho's Breathing
Waves of Reading
Jhananin's Insite
Fanaticus
AdvExpo
Stephen Vincent
Stephanie Young: New Well Nourished Moon
Kasey Silem Mohammad's Newest Limetree
Lanny Quarles: (solipsis)//:phaneronoemikon
States Writes
Rebecca's Pocket
Simulacro
Braincase Links
Sentence
Sor Juana
73 Urban Bus Journeys
Poeta Empirica
poetry for the people: canwehaveourballback?
Ernesto Priego's Never Neutral
Nick Piombino's Fait Accompli
Weekly Incite blogresearch
Jim Behrle's first monkey
Jim Behrle's Monkey's Gone to Heaven
David Kirschenbaum's Boog City
Not Nick Moudry
Laurable
David Hess Heathens in Heat
Jack Kimball's Pantaloons
Li Bloom's Abolone
Ron Silliman
Chris Sullivan's Bloggchaff
Chris Sullivan's Slight Publications
Chris Sullivan's Department of Culture
Kasey S. Mohammad's Old-New Limetree
Kasey's Old Limetree
James Meetze: Brutal Kittens
Cassie Lewis: The Jetty
Joseph Mosconi's Harlequin Knights
Nada Gordon's Ululate
ultimate: Stephanie Young's First Well Nourished Moon
Steve Evans: Third Factory
Noah Eli Gordon's Human Verb
Jean Vengua's Blue Kangaroo
Sawako Nakayasu: Texture Notes
Free Space Comix: BK Stefans
Crosfader
Malcolm Davidson's eeksy peeksy
Marsh Hawk Press group
Catherine Meng's Porthole Redux
Josh Corey's Cahiers de Corey
Very Nice! Shampoopoetry
UTA's Lit Mag: ZNine
Wild Honey Press
Jacket
JFK's Poetinresidence
Malcolm Davidson's Tram Spark poems
HYepez: RealiTi
HYpez: Mexperimental
Aimee Nez's Gila Monster
BestMaX: Jim Behrle's jismblog
Cori Copp's Littleshirleybean
Jordan Davis: Million Poems
Eileen Tabios: Corpsepoetics [see Chatelaine above]
YaY! Liz's Thirdwish
Ultra Linking
Henry Gould's HG Poetics




Saturday, September 27, 2003

 

Listening: Fugees; Dirty Vegas; Cubanismo; ricki lee jones

Introducing:
My New Series of Poems
(retired the Tornado Alley series for a while), but here is


A-Z Sonnet Chemistry Set,


W: When We Wz !


whole lotta sirens goin' on
up the street
nothing Olive Oyl
or your way Brutus
tho she must be a Saturday
spandex night
tight walking spinach
away more sticky cherry
weather than any damned
other waiting Popeye

no hey don't getchur all-self
worked up
stay sailor on your
early cool sea
my every blur
deadpan face


chris at 10:24 PM |

 

           "... I am red and brown
I would take you to a balcony

      I swear it..."--Ron Silliman, "Berkeley" **


Those are only a few lines shamelessly plucked by me for this writing purpose (also see my response in Ron's Comments Box for this post) from what is a considerably longer-thus-wiser, great poem that genially disperses forever any sense of a monumentalized, poetic "I." The writer, Ron Silliman, talks about this poem and has posted it in its entirety today on his blog. He also offers a detailed & informative response to my post of Wednesday, Sept. 24, which had originated in questions over another of Ron's posts, that of Monday, Sept. 22. Dizzy yet?--as Ron also notes, it is this aspect of closely interlinked discourse that is a prominent feature of blogging--in a sort of "serendipituous" if also a little rhetorically "incestuous," way.

My Wednesday post was about the work of students in my writing course here at UTA, English 3371-002, Advanced Expository Writing, a course primarily geared to exploring and practicing differing modes of academic critical writing, but for me this also means a commitment to the place(s) of creativity: where and how does it enter what is known as essay writing? I am also one with a constant eye on contemporary rhetorics, so also like to have students look into what is happening in the current moment. Additionally, the students read and respond to a wide variety of writings in contemporary theory. I have taught this course here for several years now, but this time I have included some considerations on blogging: students have choice to complete the summary/responses to reading assignments by creating and maintaining a blog. Many--a good third of the class--have done so. I am pleased with this, and those who are blogging find it a fun adventure, they have said, as well as good reason to reconsider writing in many ways.

We had a class discussion Tuesday (9/23/03), focused to reading and sorting out a heavily descriptive (in the sense of concretion rather than abstraction) though short piece of writing, a difficult to categorize piece of creativity from the online journal, Double Room. The students are currently preparing a descriptive writing assignment--an "essay" in which part of the learning for their assignment is to experiment with how differing modes of voice and images inform the writing. So, indeed, ascribing genre quickly becomes a difficulty with this kind of writing; it is close to the problematic raised by creative non-fiction writing as a category. But that's exactly what I think critical readers and writers, especially in the academy, need to reconsider right now, pedagogically and otherwise. So I wanted students to apply some of the things they are learning to the immediacy of contemporary discourse, here, on poetry and poetics. On seeing what Ron had posted Monday with questions of genre, I saw it as "serendipitous" toward that end. Today Ron expands on these things by commenting on more implications and directions for questioning which would apply to the differing genres of writing and the criteria used to form them.

But most interestingly for me, I want briefly to say here, and then to return to at some point on the blog and elsewhere in my writing, is that the questions of speaking positions in poetry--the manifestation of interrelational subjectivity that often has some bearing on criteria for genre--fascinate me. In other words: pronouns, their dynamic relations, and what is indicated socially and politically as such, are of great interest to me critically and creatively. Indeed this is one focal point of my dissertation on contemporary poetry. The "I" and "You" as open, (happily) null sets of linked signifiers, is most interesting. Add to that whatever a "We" is or thinks it is. These are basic elements for a lot of human thinking and activity, so are fundamental criteria for rhetorical or poetic study.

To put it figuratively into one large Romantic "conceit": to finally recognize these as changeable (or, interchangeable) rhetorically, as has been done philosophically only very recently, relieves us all of the burden of lugging around those mechanistic magnetic poles*** of the frozen zones. Those poles_I, You, We_, even in warmest of climes, can also attract indiscriminantly way too many heavy, fidgety iron filings--cultural values of all kinds. These go unquestioned for the most part since part and parcel of the fundamental relations of speaking positions. I'm not saying anything new or exceptional here: there's a lot of research out there on these matters, and from many quarters.

But what Ron's post today does, especially with his poem, "Berkeley," as examplar, is to show how a poem can break out of and make playful fun of monumentalized & thus unquestioned basic categories. (For a better indication of the rhetorical context for this poem, visit Gary Sullivan's blog, Elsewhere, where he writes eloquently today about it.) That is, how, in a history-of-rhetoric-perspective, what amounts to a lot of metal filings are packing themselves onto the magnetic-monumental "I" with its infinite "other," its equally packed "You." To break down this relation and transform its epistemological hegemony (usually attributed to developments since the western "Enlightenment" but I'm never satisfied with that too-easy assumption) is not just experimental, it is a reckoning. Indeed, it is cause to consider again how, in the sense of cultural work, it may be easier for poetry to perform this rhetorical work and play than any other genre. Though, of course, what Ron's initial post last week called into question was, once we start that process then we have also to question the larger categories, such as genre! This nicely ups the ante. Thanks, then, Ron, for that great poem, "Berkeley," and for all these reasons for further consideration of what poetry does in this regard.

**Ron Silliman notes that this wonderful dispersion of "I"s is one of his early poems, originally in This 5, and then anthologized in Mike Lally's None of the Above.

***This is a little unnerving: I wrote this specific image into my text before going over to Gary Sullivan's blog response to read the tribute he writes to Ron's "Berkeley." Gary Sullivan used the same figure: magnetism, to describe what the "I" does, the capacity it can have.


chris at 1:51 PM |

Friday, September 26, 2003

 

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From Paul Celan ** :

With Wind and Lostness, with
the dregs of both:

I rode through the snow, do you hear,
I rode God into the distance--the nearness, he sang,
it was
our last ride over
human hurdles.

They ducked when
they heard us overhead, they
wrote, they
lied our whinnying
into one of
their painted lingos.

(139)

**Selected Poems and Prose of Paul Celan. Transl. John Felstiner. (New York: Norton, 2001)


chris at 7:19 PM |

 

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From Benjamin Peret ** :

Do You Know

My sandpaper head rubbing so long on a crystal glass
of your image like a bird a wild boar keeps from its first flight
is full of the seaspray of your eyes like two oranges not to be picked
your eyes like a split stone or a tree lightning-struck
just like the small heart I hold in my pocket
against a stove redder than a burning zeppelin
like an agave flower burst open
a red flag
more tattered than wind-swept hair
longing to caress you like a bird just born
and so blue you'd say a wafer in a bath
where you'd seem just a water lily leaf in the woods
just a wild strawberry in an air chamber
just my life at the bend of the road.

(101)

**Surrealist Love Poems. Marianne Caws, ed. ( U of Chicago, 2002)


chris at 7:05 PM |

 

Powered by audblogaudio post powered by audblog



From Joseph Brodsky:

Centaurs III

A marble-white close-up of the past-cum-future hybrid,
cast as a cross between muscular torso and horse's ibid,
or else as a simple grammatical "was" and "will" in
the present continuous. Cast this thing as a million
boring details! in the fairy tale's hut on chicken
feet! Plus, ourselves in its chairs--to cheapen
the sight. Or merged with those whom we loved, or loved to
merge with on horizontal sheets. Or in the nubile auto-
mobile, i.e., as a perspective's captives. Or willy-nilly
in the brain's gray recesses. Cast it out loud, shrilly,
as a thought about death--frequent, tactile, aching.
Cast it as life right now mixed with afterlife where, like eggs in
a string bag, we all are alike and equally petrifying
to the mother hen who, sparing its yolk the frying
pan, flutters up by the means of our era
the six-winged mixture of faith and the stratosphere.

(29)

** Joseph Brodsky, So Forth. (New York: Noonday, 1996).


chris at 5:06 PM |

 

Tribute to Edward Said:

"He was a guide and an example. In the most private
conversation, as well as in public, he was always human, always
fair, always inclusive. "What is the matter with these people?" he
asked after a recent debate. "Why does no one mention truth or
justice any more?" He believed that ordinary people, all over the
world, still cared about truth and justice. My life and many others'
are desolate without him."-- Ahdaf Soueif, "Edward Said: My Friend," The Guardian, Friday, Sept. 26, 2003


I never had the privilege of meeting Edward Said, but as a thinker and scholar he has figured strongly in my own thinking. It is hard to say this about authors, since textuality is such a nebulous thing, but I will miss him--am feeling some desolation about this loss to the world of letters, of good will and profoundness in humanity.

cm


chris at 4:21 PM |

 

From a PBS interview, July, 2003:

"LINDA PASTAN: Well, I want every word to have to be there. I want a certain kind of impact on the reader or on myself when I read it, the sort of condensed energy that can then go out. ... It may seem like smooth surfaces, but there are tensions and dangers right underneath, and those are what I'm trying to get at. ... I've just always been very conscious of the fragility of life and relationships."




chris at 2:01 PM |

 

Well, Hello again, Mr. Lott ! Thanks for the shout--and especially because it concerns the hard work my students did on the questions raised about criteria in prose poem or other forms for their description assignment (please see below, my Wednesday entry on this).

But Chris, I guess if I'm going to be "good" then I'd prefer to hear it in the "Goodie Mob" way...
cm


chris at 1:06 PM |

 

(still) listening: Goodie Mob, "Still Standing" ; Tracy Chapman, "Talkin Bout a Revolution" ; Chris Stroffolino & Continuous Peasant, "Exile in Babyville" ; Peter Gabriel, "Shaking the Tree"


chris at 12:56 PM |

 

Fabsolutely,

Stephanie!
Yes, "The comment box is like thumb wrestling..."

And I am caught red-handed: I love the Goodie Mob-here's one line I like:
"Poetry deep in the team... "


Hey, All--Also, scroll down here several posts to Thursday 9/25 at 3:58 p.m. and click a link to Li Bloom's (tho this link will take you to her blog, Abolone) new ebook on Faux Press. It rocks!


chris at 3:01 AM |

 

The Q of Tupperware Party!!?--

Linda Pastan's Poetry: On the Questions of Annoying, Boring, Flat,
and/or Interesting & Valued Things in it:

I posted the following to the Comments Box at Limetree. Scroll way down if you click over--there are a lot of comments! And do click over to Aimee's Gila Monster Blog, too: there's more Pastan poetry and commentary there. Pastan's work is a dissertation chapter of mine, so I am not coming at this without having given it some extensive thought and study.

The questions raised over Pastan elucidate a further, more meta problem with poetics, however. I, too, have been in touch with Kent Johnson (who I admire for many reasons, but most immediately for digging in and trying to get some more focused, needed & useful dialogues underway over conflicts in contemporary poetics) the last several days, talking over the prospect of a series of discussions about trends and conflicts in the aesthetics or poetic frameworks of contemporary poetry. Michael Neff, owner of webdelsol, has agreed to host it. I'd really like to see this happen: it would be good to air the subject and the conflicts out in an environment more focused specifically to this. As it is, things pertaining to the conflicts are commented on piecemeal, monlogically, or, at worst, in itsy flamo jabs, it seems. So let's find a way to put this together more like a community in dialogue. I know: what an ideal idea!--but why not? We're all very busy right now, sure. I am. But some things are worth making time for. This is one of those things, to my mind, anyway. To that end I am emailing Michael Neff to add my vote to this proposed series of discussion.


*************************************************************

My comment at Limetree:

Gee. I just woke up from a long worker's nap and look what porridge's going on. But here's another LP poem--nothing stellar, but still, has merit I think--along with some comments:

"A Short History of Judaic Thought"

The rabbis wrote:
although it is forbidden
to touch a dying person,
nevertheless, if the house
catches fire
he must be removed
from the house.
Barbaric!
I say,
and whom may I touch then,
aren't we all
dying?
You smile
your old negotiator's smile
and ask:
but aren't all our houses
burning?
[AM/PM: New and Selected Poems, p. 70]

Rhetorically this works in an ancient, back and forth way of posing and juxtaposing--sorting-- argument to get to a point of creating and relaying some practical wisdom--useful knowledge, though not pushily didactic about it, no? It can be kind of pleasing that way, and if poetry serves that end sometimes, why should that be a problem? This poem can make some folks think a little--I mean, if we want to discuss LP's work as rhetorical, then we probably have to discuss audience on some level, though what audience can ever be finally determined, anyway?--it's an exercise, but one worth doing in order to remember that these things do not exist statically lone, but in larger interactive systems.

And in this poem there's some okay enjambment going on, I think, so it would not fall in or line out so flatly or prosaically as some of the others. For that matter, here's one of Creeley's but in prose:

"Like They Say"
__Underneath the tree on some soft grass I sat, I watched two happy woodpeckers be disturbed by my presence. And why not, I thought to myself, why not.__ [*Selected Poems* p. 44]

About all that anthropomorhism--apparently it's an LP habit: it recurs throughout the poetry--is very annoying, I agree.
Anyway: she's someone who has cranked out a lot of poems, so maybe it's better to take a wider sample before dumping too much either into or onto the work? I think there is value here, though not necessarily experimentally so. But does every value in poetry inhere only due to what can be defined in a given moment as experimental?--that seems pretty limiting. But maybe I haven't adequately framed the problem here.

So then, on the question of whether a larger discussion--hosted at Neff's place (I'm contacting him to add my vote in urging this on)--would be beneficial? Most definitely, if only to mediate tendencies that might too tightly define, thus contain, poetry & poetic boundaries: tupperware was invented for leftovers, the ladies do not hesitate to tell me at all those lovely parties.

Thanks for listening to this.

Chris Murray



chris at 1:56 AM |

 

Dept of New Bloggy Welcomes:

"Random Remarks with Nonlinear Dynamics" :
Nonlinear is Jukka-Pekka Kervinen's Blog
--Poetry machine is definitely on boo-coo BTUs over there! Keep On...
******************************************************
Update:
I just had a very gracious, warm, and patient (thank-you!) email from Jukka-Pekka Kervinen, to clarify some things:

"Poetry machine," the way I am using it above, is something of a misnomer:

"I just wanted you to know, what is behind 'mysterious' nonlinear poetry blog, actually nothing mysterious, I just tested how 'motime' weblog system
works... ."

"Nonlinear' is not actually 'poetry machine', although poems are made using computer programs I have programmed. They are still 'handmade' and posted (through email) to 'nonlinear' blog. Nonlinear comes from nonlinear dynamic (chaotic) systems, which I have used in some of my programs to generate texts and use it also in this site. Only those
small poems behind hyperlinks in some words are made by 'conventional'
poetry machine. I have planned to use this blog to study some mathematical
structures (like these nonlinear iterative dynamics, some recursive
systems (perhaps there are some recursion behind works like Gertrude
Stein ?), anyway certainly not Markovian systems this time (typical
system in usual poetry machines). "

So, Nonlinear Blog is one of two blogsn put up by the same writer, the other being what I thought mysterious as Someone's Couch blog, below. Gosh, I'm glad that got clarified.

And here's this pleasantly put together but mysterious one
(I'm open for hearing polite guesses...
but maybe the blogger will just send an email to say hi?)

Awake at Dawn on Someone's Couch : ?'s Blog Forgive me if this is impertinent at all, but am I just not looking closely enough, or is there really no name or contact info for this blogger at the site? Now I have to wonder...
************************************************************

And then, check this out:

Okay, I can be a little too Carly myself sometimes, so this one made me laugh aloud

from Lyn at Wish/Wash Blog:

"I'm so vain, I probably think this site's about me..."




chris at 1:25 AM |

 

Sad Farewell: Edward Said

The world will miss you, kind, brilliant, savvy, strong, Edward Said. I thank you for the many valuable things I've learned about people, conceptualizing the *world,* and valuing the best of being human. Go peacefully, sir.

cm


chris at 12:56 AM |

Thursday, September 25, 2003

 

Fanaticus on Freire, and more


chris at 5:47 PM |

 

OntheRadioOntheRadioOntheRadioOntheRadioOntheRadioOntheRadioOntheRadio

Tune in now to Radio UTA: Tim Morris is reading from 5-6 pm (click on the Listen Now button) from his new work--he's a lot of fun in writing (and in person!)--so check it out.

Tim is a Prof of English and Director of Creative Writing at UTA.



chris at 4:51 PM |

 

Check out Li Bloom's fabulous!! new e-book, **Cork and Fire,** at Faux Press:


"This is love coming home
These are speakers that potentially blow-out
          positive-negative wires fry when
touching..."--Cheerleader


Li: Wow.
c


chris at 3:58 PM |

 

from Robert Creeley ** :

"Shadow"


There is a shadow
to intention a place
it comes through and
is itself each stasis
of its mindedness ex-
plicit walled into
semblance it is a
seemingly living place
it wants it fades it
comes and goes it puts
a yellow flower in a pot
in a cirlce and looks.

(350)

** Selected Poems. Berkeley: U of Cal Press, 1991.


chris at 3:39 AM |

Wednesday, September 24, 2003

 

From Rosemarie Waldrop's Inserting the Mirror

"The body is useful. I can send it on errands while I stay in bed and pull the blue blanket up to my neck. Once I coaxed it to get married. It trembled and cried on the way to the altar, but then gently pushed the groom down to the floor and sat on him while the family crowded closer to get in on the excitement. The black and white flagstones seemed to be rocking, though more slowly than people could see, which made their gestures uncertain. Many of them slipped and lay down. Because they closed their eyes in the hope of opening their bodies I rekindled the attentions of love. High tension wires very different from propensity and yet again from mirror images. Even if we could not remember the color of heat the dominant fuel would still consume us."

Post Modern American Poetry. Paul Hoover, ed. New York: Norton, 1994. p. 314


chris at 2:55 AM |

Tuesday, September 23, 2003

 

(Here's the latest news from PAW after a, um... a nice summer break from protesting and its consequences?)

From Poets Against the War : Oct. 25 Protest in D.C.


I just got an email from Poets Against the War, an organization I thought well of for a while, but am not so sure of now--though my position on this current variation on war is the same: No. That is: NO, period.

So in view of my positioning on the issues I will post this announcement, but am also proclaiming reservations about PAW, the motivation of its leadership, and some of its output.

"United for Peace and Justice (UFPJ) and Act Now to Stop War & End Racism (ANSWER) are joining forces to call on all those who oppose the war, invasion and occupation of Iraq, to unite on Saturday, October 25 in Washington, D.C., for a truly massive outpouring reflecting the growing popular opposition to the Bush Administration’s foreign
policy. It was the peace and antiwar movement in the 1960’s and 70’s that proved to be one of the decisive factors ending the US war in Vietnam."

"Organize a poetry reading against the war on or before October 25th. Go to this link to submit [even more!] poetry in protest of war and/or to Submit Your Group's Poetry Reading Date.


chris at 11:00 PM |

 

Some More Questions about Genre: UTA Student Writers Discussing Differences in Prose Poem, Flash Fiction, Creative Non-Fiction

Last evening I posted a link to Ron Silliman's blog (and I see today a fine Paul Blackburn poem, too) because I became interested in his post (of Monday, 9/22/03) that opens for discussion some exigent questions about genre distinctions in poetic writing. I promised to return today to this subject after thinking it over some more and discussing it today with my students. From Ron's post, the line of questions that drew me: what is it ("criteria") that makes a piece of writing qualify to be called a *prose poem,* and not *flash fiction*? To this I wanted to add another offshoot type, shorter manifestations of creative non-fiction, of which I think much blogging would qualify, especially when infused with allusion to personal experience explained in first person voice (when the boundaries between fiction and non-fiction become particularly blurred).

I had looked over the current issue of Double Room and selected the poem, "I'd Heard She Had A Deconstructive Personality," by Anthony Tognazzini to use as example for class discussion. One reason I chose it is very practical: because it dips into some of the theorizing students are reading in my course ("deconstructive," & "personality"= a nice inquisitive fusion there).

More importantly to my mind, however, this piece is a fast moving work of imagistic, play, nearly irresistable in lyric magnetism and energy, while at the same time it interestingly stops short of radical experimentalism: it is very conventional in terms of any narrative development: 3 predictable parts are there: beginning, middle, end (though arguably the writer has problematized this somewhat by mixing verb tense variations into the surreal atmospherics). I will also say here that I have never seen Mr. Tognazzini's work anywhere before and I do not know him or anything about him--I did not even look for a bio on the website. I did not want any personal biographical information to influence how I thought of the poem or how I very minimally presented the questions and poem to the students. I wanted them to sort out for themselves what and where the issues and questions might reside, based first on the work of the poem, as much as possible (given that to some degree students will have to follow the lead a teacher lays ground for).

I will emphasize this with enthusiasm (and to give credit where due--thanks, Ron Silliman for that inquisitive post on Monday!): in my class today, what a great discussion we had (the students enjoyed this exercise, said so, and know that I am posting this commentary).

So, what did we do, and what was decided?--the students read the Tognazzini poem example from Double Room. I then read it aloud. I posed the question of genre. They are preparing what is basically a creative non-fiction piece right now: a 3 page descriptive, first-person writing assignment that they can do almost anything with, so this also figures into their writing for the course. I would like to see them experiment. I note, though (and not for the first time teaching this course and giving this assignment) that all but a few are very uncomfortable using "I" in writing. They have for years been trained never to write in first person for their school work, here and previously. I find that a terrible prescription for hobbling writerly self-development.

Back to the Tognazzini piece at hand: initially, many students were put off by the surreal-type leaps and jarring (or so it was thought) juxtaposing of harsh images ("miserable rat hole") with those connoting affection ("A kiss... whole body a tympanic drum brushed by a broom"). One student declared that such fragmentation might indicate that the writer might habitually not (and does not know how) think clearly. Other students disputed this interpretation, of course, with a variety of responses. One student raised issues of cross cultural differences in language use and in styles of learning.

But back to the poem (one difference in teaching via dialogue instead of lecturing: lots of recentering toward focus necessarily occurs) again: what genre? And how, why? Hard to place, they said, finally, mostly because the piece itself is so captivating that the question of classifying it is of no interest. I really liked this answer!--but held my peace because I wanted them to push for more. My question to see if we could get more specific, then, was: what are the particular features or elements here that might suggest a pattern belonging to genres you know of?

First off, everyone agreed this poem is very adept with rhythm. That is usually not such an outstanding feature of prose (though it might be news to Montaigne!), at least not most prose even when it is intended to be particularly creative, today in English. I'll buy that, then. Somehow rhythm has taken a back seat in prose, has been sort of white washed out of even our creative prose. What a loss, then. But this piece highlights rhythm, plays with it by varying staccato measures with that one and only, very intriguing long, third in from last sentence. Rhetorically supreme in terms of art. The students noticed this and liked it--also noted that it sets some of the criteria for classifying this piece.

What else stands out or could be used to move us to understanding this piece as part of a tradition focused on genre making? The outstanding use of imagery, surprise, play, and other rhetorical elements, the students found very "poetic." But of course they admitted that this alone never makes something a "poem," since all these things cross over to other kinds of writitng, happily, but W.E.B. Dubois, for instance, would be surprised to hear the the essay he took so much time writing as a piece of politically moving expository writing could as easily be called only a poem, instead (if based only on use of these rhetorical criteria).

So there must, then, be a whole lot more going on before a decision can be made. What to do with the question of *who is speaking* in this piece becomes interesting too: this kind of lyrical spin really begs questions of understated autobiographical elements. What are we (readers) supposed to do with that (if anything...)? The class, of course, did not (and could not in one day!) name or discuss all possible answers or directions. But interestingly, the students noticed how very traditional is the narrative element here, although it is also couched in very experimental (to the students' sensibilities) sounding language use. The 3 part story structure. The basic theme of love/romance/affectionate relations. Between noticing this and noticing the use of rhythm they concluded that this piece is a hybrid: neither a prose poem nor strictly fiction (what would be "flash fiction"). It "stops short of being a prose poem because of this reliance on conventional narrative structure."

All of this being arguable, of course, and working here to begin to sort out more variations on question than any kind of answer much less any final answers, I found this final comment in the discussion particularly resonant (I am summarizing here) : Classifying this writing to inflexible genre notions is going to be a problem always, because this particular piece plays and works off of tension between elements of differing forms and genres.

So, hybrid forms and genres, anyone? Upside: allows for, even promotes, flexibility in both the work and the readerly expectation. Downside: could lead to equivocating. So, I don't know--that seems too easy a trade-off in some ways, but, again, I'm only looking for the questions here, not for definitive answers, even though the irony of this is that to ascribe genre means, of course, to have something definitive in mind--right?

Well, to conclude for now, here are some quotes from students (those brave ones willing to let me publicly post their off the cuff responses), to all of whom I am very grateful for the excellent discussion today and for being willing to let me write about them here (Thanks, All!) :

Dana Rothrock writes:
"[I think] the genres exist as criteria both for those who need those *standards* in order to set goals for themselves, without which they would have nothing to write, and as a springboard for those who wish to rebel against those criteria in order to create their own genre--one which previously did not exist. There is tension between these two mindsets in which neither can exist without the other. Therefore the existance and acknowledgement of genres are very important."

Jani Shuttlesworth writes:
(image-to-image, or part-to-part, metonymies, preliminary analysis of transformation process)
"whole body & panda (extinct?)
"unmotorized Victrola (mysterious--not moving, not making music, not capable of making music?)
"miserable rat hole" (how can a rat hole have feelings?!--she must be like an old Victrola that has been neglected & the rats have built a nest in it?)
"Here and then Here" (she comes and goes?)
"Poppies exploding, smoke" (she drifts off like in Oz?)
"Igloo, silly string" (cold, hard, with a distraction of silliness for defense?)
"my fingers flashed in" (noticeably?)
"Her fingers hang dry on the back of a battleship" (Basically giving up her fight?)
"... yet her legs have touched the earth where the dirt makes its list of the powerless and blessed" (but in sentence, kneeling?)
"washed her face... 'rest' " (fully changed & at peace?)

Erin Adwell writes:
"This [piece by Tognazzini] is powerful! I like the two sentences that describe "her" : 'We talked until memory milked out all her mistakes.' and 'Her fingers powerless and blessed.' They emphasize the narrator's erractic flow by juxtaposing 'her' calm. The medium length of these sentences confirm [for me] 'her' tranquility. They empower and *amplify* the final [and the only spoken] word, Rest. This is beautiful and moving! It invigorates and inspires the reader. I enjoyed reading it, and look forward to more."







chris at 10:11 PM |

 

THE NEW RACIAL PROFILE?--From The Village Voice:

Bryonn Bain's "Three Days in a NYC Jail" :

"Bryonn Bain recounts getting pulled over, thrown in jail, and diagnosed by his lawyer as bipolar. Then the assistant D.A. recognized him as a Harvard Law classmate. A true tale of mistaken identity."--Village Voice


chris at 9:52 PM |

 

From Texfiles, a Warm Welcome to Venepoetics, where Guillermo has Posted This:

"But danger is one of the unifying elements of this age. We're all in grave danger, whether politically, spiritually, or materially. Maybe this blog is my attempt to work through these dangers as a reader and writer. I've been re-reading Aijaz Ahmad's In Theory: Classes, Nations, Literatures (Verso, 1992), and finding plenty of helpful observations relating to these translations. Regardless of whatever privilege I may have lived in my postmodern Caracas of the 1970s and 80s, Venezuelan literature isstill considered marginal to the Anglo-American/European traditions. For instance, very few people have read Arturo Uslar Pietri or know his accounts of his friendship with Alejo Carpentier and Miguel Angel Asturias when all of them lived in Paris in the 1920s. During their conversations in Paris these three novelists ended up developing the initial theories behind 'el realismo magico.' "

"Ahmad's magisterial book offers insightful explorations of the relationship between "Third World" literatures and the literary traditions of the West. I read his essays like I do certain poems or novels that I cannot imagine living without. They sustain me throughout the dangers that assault us each day."


chris at 9:43 PM |

 

From Susan Howe's "Morning: Sheet of Water
at the Edge of the Woods" ** :


Ancient of Days

shadow of your wing

hint of what light

the open sky

my refuge





Came there all naked

thorns were there

many fair shields

and Beauty lost

was the Beast found

descended from harmony

enduring in unity

far back in some story

heard long ago.

(121)



** Susan Howe, Frame Structures: Early Poems, 1974-1979. New York: New Directions, 1976.


chris at 7:31 AM |

Monday, September 22, 2003

 

Dept. of Questions about Prose Poems, Flash Fiction, Creative Non-Fic (for lack of a better term)

Well hey, I like this Anthony Tognazzini poem, "I'd Heard She Had a Deconstructive Personality," a lot. It keeps ya goin'--playing (ludic) and it fully plays out in lyric mode without overdoing itself (strings are only lifted or moved, and slightly, where necessary for the *marionette*[meant figuratively here] to move in a coordinated way, as it were)--if you know what I mean. I'm thinking on more: the particularities of this poem, and the problem of genre-specificity here. I will have more to say tomorrow after some more thought and discussion with others.

The poem is in the current issue of Double Room. Ron Silliman posted today, saying that he has new work going up in the up coming issue of this zine. Good looking zine. Also: Ron had some very interesting questions about genre naming & criteria for differences between *Flash Fiction* and *Prose Poem.* And: is not what's called *creative non-fiction* often also a close relative to these--perhaps especially in blogland?

So, I'm asking myself: what are the differing ways these genres supposedly *keep ya goin'*?--do they overlap, how & why? And how can genre be said to lay claim to this fine piece of work from Tognazzini, and why? Is it possible we don't need these particular generic distinctions any longer? Sounds like an interesting line of questioning for *students to discuss in class tomorrow* (Hi, All, heads up).

More on this soon, then.


chris at 11:27 PM |

 

Listening: Miles Davis, Ballads and Blues (thanks, for this one, Cedrick!); Chopin, Piano Concertos; Isley Brothers, Beautiful Ballads; Marvin Gaye, Greatest H.

But if by chance you are looking for the post about the
Attack of the Hart Prairie Lambs,
it is two doors down on the right...


chris at 10:06 PM |

 

A Googlecrat's Flarfumdelic Concordance:
Poem for the Day's Remnants via Google Searches:


(a polite selection of some of the search terms that came through recent searches yielding Texfiles blog):

2X possessive case one jesus chris
the other chris jesus before Deputy
Dawg there was Chirs Murray (see below
for all the other Chris Murrays) a Cassandra
geologist quiz girl with directions
on how to make gum Tex flowers
after the ghost caught on camera in Bangalore
in the academic speak translator of texture

files and pebbles but and is a common word
so was left out of this search of essay's
earthquake Xmen sentinel sound exclamation
points on mla files what not again my goodness
life expectancy poor gila monster in Tex
quote mark ash leaf
end quote mark love quote mark line drawing
end quote mark love begin list of first 3 pages,
France Google multivoicedness Bakhtin Oh so funky
really how many there are
Chris Murrays:

north country now art: chris murray lily your pad or mine?
MSN counterpart, recording Special Effects Song: Nice Guys Sleep Alone
Martial Arts trainer 18 years of
Rootsy Ska Singer Songwriter Bay Area
All Caps CHRIS MURRAY ONLINE DOT COM
[um... okay]
legislative counsel, Spam Testimony
Associate Prof Economics Univ Houston
Baseball pitcher GMUS
Football Wide Receiver
Dream after Dramatic Monologue
Hockey pLayer, BC Canada

Communications Instructor, Florida State Coll
Iowa, Health Instructor
Consumer dot Org
dot is not
a search term
thank you very much for your interesting
searches for Chris Murray.










chris at 6:19 PM |

 

Thanks so much for Sending these Pics, Danny O’Connell! (Or, for Alanis Morrisette fans, "The Attack of the Hart Prairie Lambs")

I have to figure out how to do pics on this blog--it’s so primitive anymore just having text as it is, but there were even better reasons to get pic-capability here, that came up today: Dan just sent me some pics from a few (um...) years back. Pics of me on Hart Prairie, 20 miles outside Flagstaff, AZ, up on the San Francisco Peaks (we lived around 9,000 ft, the peaks are about. 12, 000; we were not far below the Snow Bowl ski slopes) one August day. The first picture is in a meadow in front of our old A-frame house walking with our dog; the other is out back, also in meadow, but I’m seated by the woodpile. I’d forgotten that there were any pics of that day. It was a strange day that has stuck with me ever since although it was nothing catastrophic or overly dramatic. Just sort of serendipitous, I guess.

Dan had driven into Flag for some biz, and for a while I was toolin’ around doing stuff outside the house--we hadn’t lived there for long yet--hauling water for whatever flowers I’d put in front, and avoiding unpacking more boxes, certainly. Mostly I was working inside--at that point in life I did a lot of sewing and crocheting: had designed my own line of sweaters, scarves, hats, mittens, bags (the kind you see in the stores now!) & etc., which I made and sold to order which was a nice way to make a little income, and since it was August, I had several orders I was working on. Really nice yarn, too, by the way: very soft wool--you could hardly tell it was wool--I’d gotten a huge bag full of it at a sort of rancher’s garage sale out in the boonies south of Big Thumb Mesa (Grand Canyon South Rim, then, and since was an area rescinded to Hualapai/Supai people as tribal lands) earlier that summer. But anyway, I watched a massive cloud of dust rising, coming up the road: sheep ranchers were moving their flocks into these upper meadow lands so they could graze the best of the thick timothy growth before the nights would get too cold for the recent burst of newborn lambs to be that far up the mountain. Massive lawn mown situation, it is, when a flock like that comes through a meadow that big. Amazing. So the timothy was definitely trimmer, but although not as thick, the sheep’s mullein plants, so tall in August, were still standing, just rumpled looking--the sheep didn’t seem to like eating it very much, if I recall right.

So the massive herd (must have been a thousand?) was guided out of there about four hours after arriving, and it is quiet again, mid-afternoon--or quiet in the way places like that are: some raven squawks, chipmunk jitterings and scuttles, fly buzzes, hummingbirds, and a few wind gusts in pines and aspens, but no big mechanistic-universe noises except the occasional jeep a mile away on the main dirt road. Amazing place in the sound-way. I treasured that aspect of living there. But then I heard a new sound: a little braying, seemingly way out at the pond, mid-meadow. I go looking and sure enough: there was a lamb left behind by the sheep herders.

It could hardly walk yet--so, must have been very recently born, maybe even just that morning. It followed me back., wobbling its torso as best it could between its spindly unstable legs. I wasn’t sure what to do with it, but figured I’d better find a way to get it something to feed on. I’d lived with lots of pets and domestic animals, dogs, cats, and their offspring; milk cows, too, and had been around helping with calves at calving time; kept chickens; and had once had a goat for milking, but had not ever dealt with sheep, so this was something new to me from the animal-pastoral world. It followed me as I stopped at our wood pile out back where there were several big chunky logs waiting to be split, and sat down on a log. Boom: here came that lamb, slamming its little nose-mouth apparatus into my inner left thigh just above the knee. It wasn’t strong enough to hurt, it just completely caught me off guard! Kept looking at me sort of half pissed off. And braying! Not yet having had the experience of being the sole-X-marks-the-spot, single source of body-to-body nourishment for a dependent other, I was also amazed at this mistake of drive and instinct on the part of this newborn animal. If it’s possible to feel flattered by the attentions of a lamb, then I have to admit there was some of that. I guess I was just more than adequately socialized to my gender role expectations and hadn’t yet realized it. Though I did have the sense to realize that this lamb did not really care about the human gender of this thigh it kept butting into. I could have, that is, as easily been a man ‘adequately socialized,’ flattered, & etc.

So: how to produce milk for a lamb in such an extreme situation? I thought of getting in my jeep and looking up-mountain for where-ever the herders had gone, so to deliver (if I could unpry it from my thigh) this bundle back to its proper source of nourishment. I realized, though, that I had no idea where, out of a thousand possible directions and ancient lost shepherds’ off road trails on that mountain which they might have gone--their arrival was dusty and loud, but a half hour after they were gone through the pines, there was never any sign of where they went. I also figured that even if I did know where to look, the sound of my jeep grinding over lava rock uphill on unroaded terrain a half mile away from the flock and headed in their direction would probably have caused major chaos for the herders, so I abandoned that idea. I went looking around the A-frame for something that might do in this surreal, unforeseeable situation (um...“Gee, honey, lets be sure to stock up on baby bottles, nipples, and milk in case any abandoned lambs wander into our meadow...”).

Nothing. I did have milk, plastic half gallon size, in the cooler. And of course, what cabin in the woods is ever complete without beer?--Coors in bottles. Bread, sandwich meat, tomato, juice cans, cookies, potato chips. Nothing at all lamb-like in appeal. Meanwhile the braying is getting louder. The nose butting is getting more insistent and has brazenly switched to the back of my calf as I try to walk. Also: getting wily like cats do when they want to be fed, weaving between your legs and feigning away just in time before getting accidentally stepped on? Except, when a wobbly lamb does that, it can’t get out of the way and so both of you almost crash, over and over and all that furniture and the boxes full of things you’ve just moved in are definitely a problem. Suddenly everything is a problem, yes. Bray-bray. This new element of animated neediness in my otherwise blissful & comfortably disorderly life was getting to be a serious interference. A tiny glimmer of realization came to me: jeez, how do parents ever do it all day every day for so long ?--I wondered (I started to find out two years later, but without my ever best friend, Danny). I did not want to know and anyway, this was a lamb--I could and would give it back as soon as possible.

Okay: so back to the problem, however distracted by this escalating real-live noise and this wet black nose activity around my legs and feet. Problem solver?--that is me, sometimes, sure. Need someone to rig something for a quick fix?--good. Long term? --maybe not so good--dunno--ask my kids in a few years. So, sandwich bags have corners, right?--not exactly the same texture or exquisite functioning as do nipples, but maybe could be rigged to be similar in effect? And Coors bottles. Hmm. Smallest opening around. Less unwieldy than the other choices: juice can (impossible without another mediating attachment), milk jug (impossibly big). Bag of hair ties. Good!--thus, dump beer out on grass, rinse bottle out (it won’t do to have an even more wobbly--partially inebriated--lamb), add a few ounces of milk, cut baggie diagonally, secure to lip of beer bottle with hair tie. Voila. No. Um, poke a tiny hole--I said * tiny *--hole in the tip of the baggie so the milk can dribble out (duh). Yes.

What a happy lamb all that made. Temporarily.

Later, when Danny got back (he knew where the main sheep ranch was and I hadn’t), we drove that little one back where it belonged.

In part, my point?--I was thinking one day about a month ago of this lamb and the meadow and a former me, and some other thoughts about things lost and found. I was remembering that day so clearly I was a little shocked by it. So I wrote a poem called Mullein, and posted it here. I had no idea--had completely forgotten--that there was a picture. Danny saw the poem, sent me the pictures. In the first one, the lamb is there, butting its nose/mouth against my thigh. In the other one, I'm in a field full of sheep’s mullein. So, if I can figure out the pics I'll post these pictures.




chris at 4:38 PM |

 

Just had a wonderful note from Nick Piombino, who keeps all the poetry streams flowing over at Fait Accompli.

Nick, please tell your friend Tom the bass player that I said "Bass players are the absolute *wit of soul* ... "

smiles,
c


chris at 8:49 AM |

Sunday, September 21, 2003

 

Call for Submissions:
Best Filipino American Poetry, edited by Eileen Tabios


chris at 11:38 PM |

 

Listening: Emmylou Harris, "Hello Stranger"; Stevie Wonder, "Musiquarium"; Rimsky-Korsakov, "Scheherazade"; Goodie Mob, "Still Standing"


chris at 11:25 PM |

 

From Rita Mae Brown ** :

Dancing the Shout to the True Gospel
Or: The Song My Movement Sisters Won't Let Me Sing

I follow the scent of a woman
Melon heavy
Ripe with joy
Inspiring me
To rip great holes in the night
So the sun blasts through.
And this is all I shall ever know:
Her breath
Filling the hollows of my neck
A luxury diminishing death.

(370)

** Penguin Book Of Homosexual Verse, Stephen Coote, editor. London: Penguin, 1983.


chris at 6:22 PM |

 

Via *Literary Moose,* this from Edna O'Brien:

"Doctrinaire opinions are anathema to art, and history has shown us that any artist who bows to pressure, political or otherwise, is a lost soul."


chris at 4:58 PM |

 

Dept. of 500 Words of&on Gertrude Stein:

"Post-Expository Qwerty Space: Oh! @!"


From Gertrude Stein: A Poem [followed by two poem-dopple-lives, 1., a qwerty-typing-variation (but incl. pronouns, some prepositions, and concrete [!] images), and 2. pronouns, prepositions, images. This is a (my) humble keyboard thinking tribute to Gertrude Stein--thanks, G!]

21 **

I love my love with a v
Because it is like that
I love my love with a b
Because I am beside that
A king.
I love my love with an a
Because she is a queen
I love my love and a a is the best of them
Think well and be a king,
Think more and think again
I love my love with a dress and a hat
I love my love and not with this or with that
I love my love with a y because she is my bride
I love her with a d because she is my love beside
Thank you for being there
Nobody has to care
Thank you for being here
Because you are not there.
          And with and without me which is and without she she can be late and then and how and all around we think and found that it is time to
cry she and I.


**************************

!r99j T347e3 W538h

@!

I o9f3 my o9f3 285yq nf
h85n 8wno8i3n 5yq5
I o9f3 my o9f3 285h qh
h3dq7w3 I qj h3w8e3 5yq5
qn king.
I o9f3 my o9f3 285yh qh q
h3dq7w3 wy3 8w queen
8 o9f3 jy qne q q 8w 5y3 h3w5 9r 5yhj
5y8h 23oo qne h3 q king
5y8ni j943 qne 5y8ni qtq8h
I o9f3 my o9f3 285h q e43ww a dress and a hat
I o93f my o9f3 qne b95 285h this 94 285h that
I o9f3 my o9f3 285y 285 q y b3dq7uw she 8w my b48d3
I o9f3 her 285h q e h3dq7w3 she 8w my o9f3 g3w8e3
5yqhi you r94 g38ht there
h9b9e6 yqw 59 care
5yqhi you r94 h38ng here
b3dq7w3 you q43 h95 not there
  nbsp&;     Qh3 285h qh3 285y975 me 288dh 8w qhe 285h75 she she dqn g3 oq53 qhe 5y3h qh3 y92 qhe qoo q497uh we 5y8ni qhe r97uhe 5yq5 85 8w 58m3
cry she qne I.


**********************
Oh! @!

I my
it
I my
I
king
i my
she queen
I my
I my dress and a hat
I my this that
I my she my
I her she my beside
you there
care
you here
you not there
me she she we it
cry she I


***************************

Expository Conclusion Severely Dependent on Cause-Effect Analytics:

Therefore: gender
and pronoun assignments
have a lot of qwerty
space that Stein nicely gives
relational flex to,
tightens, tidies, expands,
and finally just lets rip
in use of "cry."



**Gertrude Stein, "21," from Before the Flowers of Friendship Faded Faded, in The Penguin Book of Homosexual Verse.
Stephen Coote, editor. London: Penguin Group, 1983. pp. 272-73.






chris at 12:57 PM |

 

Wayan Limbak (106 years of life and love) has crossed over
& Rame, Rame: "... that the many voices are one voice:"


Check out the talk going on over poetics & cultural import:

Lanny Quarles at (solipsis)//: phaneronoemikon gives added context and question, in terms of Bali culture, custom, and art, to the "Rame Rame" ("crowded!"), cultural spaces between what in Balinese is Kecak, and Ron Silliman's *Ketjak,* as titular concept formative to his work since 1974.


chris at 2:50 AM |

 

Listening: Peter Gabriel's "Shaking the Tree"; Judy Collins, "Forever Anthology,"


chris at 2:07 AM |

 

5,000 !!!!
WHOOOOOWWWWEEEEEEE**%%%%&&&7*****************!!!!!!!!!!$$$$$$$@@@@@@@)))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))^^^^^^^^^^###############

visitor # 5,000--
Oh!
so many thanks to you from me
and so many thanks to every one of you 4,999 beautiful folks.

I am in awe--this is a lot of people. Well, gee: XOXOXO

# 5,000 is someone at rasserver.net (and the only one coming from that address)
who came through via Nick Piombino's ongoingzazen poetic
Fait Accompli on a link Nick put up today

(thanks, Nick--always # 1 on the Wisdom Crush List)

to texfiles regarding my statement yesterday about Joan Houlihan's essay being not worth reading because basically her writing is irresponsible recklessness.

Well, anyway:

my humble thanks to you, # 5,000, rasserver.net.

If you would like, email me, okay?--we can say hello!


chris at 12:42 AM |

 

Raw ingredients for affective mini-drama set in the grassy courtyard of ghetto apartment complex at midnight in Arlington, TX (life is an adventure, right?):

Survivor!

--one very big, apparently drunk fella, in and out of consciousness, mid-lawn, no relief in sight.

--one more very big, apparently not quite as drunk fella dragging a long piece of cardboard over to fella # 1: a stretcher, or what?

--enter two wimmen w/ fooooood in paper bags, acting all mothery-grocery like. "Yah, the onions didn't look too good. Glad we got the marked down hamburger, ya kno?"

--quandary: what should/can we do with fella 1, moaning expletives in the grass: hit his head (on the cast iron BBQ grill).

--Not bleeding tho, fella 2 notes aloud.

--Enter Ms. Murray acting like somebody's mother (well: I am somebody's mother, 3 times!) : is he bleeding? (no) conscious? (yes) do you want me to call an ambulance? (no) Um, well, okay...

--guy # 2 and the wimmin 1+2 , all roll guy #1 onto cardboard. this fails--cardboard is not a strong material when wet, for drunk fellas.

--troupe tries another tack: wimmin take one leg each ("Wow, I never knew a leg could be so heavy!"), while guy 2 comandeers both arms. So far so good: humans=ingenious planners in a pinch.

--3 crabsteps away, still so far, so good.

--but then (plot complication) head is lolling into the dregs of wet reclaim water lawn. Immediate future holds: looking forward?--concrete walkway, 15 stairs, a very bobbely, mostly unconscious head of someone's beloved but temporarily dumb son.

--Q: will the head survive this terrain & circumstance?

--Ms. Murray: oh definitely. Guy 2, I am putting you in charge of gently holding this kid's head so it doesn't inadvertently crack open on the cast iron rail or the concrete. I know you will do a very good job with this assignment. Life is good.



 

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