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"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
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Saturday, December 20, 2003
Dept. of a "Rocking Disco Santa" Response
As he usually does, my father, James T. Murray, who lives in the area of Rochester, New York, sent a holiday card with a Santa Claus on it. Well, that's understandable--he was Santa for a long time for six little people (Chris, Joanne, Nancy, Jayne, Jimmy, Patrick) and then to a large degree, also Santa for their children, too, over the last twenty-some years.
On picking up the mail, I recognize the handwriting immediately in the pile, and eagerly open the envelope to see what Dad has thought up this year by way of a card--it's an art for him, sending offbeat cards or sending ordinary ones and tweaking them to make something offbeat, noticeable, different, a kind of signature-Jim-Murray. But there's somethin' more than a little off about this year's card-image of Santa: he has a very bright face: a very bright green face. And the red suit looks a little frayed, ill-fit, worn out. The hands look gray-green though not so green as the face. And then there is all that dishevelled (this is a word that always reminds me of the word, "devil," because of its sound) hair: long white-ash-looking hair falling any which way from the head, long beard, falling same, scraggly. This Santa's hat, too, is ill-fitting, kind of deflated, the way a wind sock looks when a gust suddenly vacates it.
I walk away to think about this odd card--there is no doubt that it has a joke built-in to it. My father has a wonderful sense of humor--something is always funny to him, and he passes it on to others easily. So, I don't trust this card to be something straightforwardly sentimental, as such cards usually are. And it's certainly nothing out the ribald genre. This is my father here, afterall.
Opening the card, it has this message: "Christmas: it takes its toll on everybody." Okay. True enough. But something's still not sinking in here, I just know it. So shutting it and turning it over, I see that it is made by an outfit called "Actual Pictures from Holidays Past."
So I return to the card's front side, looking more closely at the green face of this Santa. Jeeze: it's my father's face, I finally notice. Dressed up or foto-funned-up to be Santa, sure, but also the Grinch!--so how did I miss all that the first time around?!
Many Thanks to you Dad, for all your generous Christmas-ing. Also, not least for your good humor--in honor of which I send out this Christmas song ** for you:
Rocking Disco Santa !
**courtesy of information about American Song Poem Music Archives and its links, found 20 dec 03, at Slight Publications blogspot--with thanks!
chris at
11:11 PM
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"... fingers made of rain /wanting breath or branches /computerless Ahhhhh... "--Guillermo J. Parra
keep rockin, Guillermo!
chris at
3:39 PM
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UTA email is down. If trying to reach me, please use one of these addresses:
cmrry88@aol.com
cmurray88@yahoo.com
chris at
3:23 PM
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Books Within Reach (books currently on the writing desk):
--Simon Ortiz, Woven Stone (U of AZ, 1991)
--Joe Ahearn, sin.thet.ik (Firewheel Editions, 2002)
--Carolyn Forche, Blue Hour (Harper Collins, 2003)
--Beverly Dahlen, A Reading, 1-7 (Momo's Press, 1985)
--Anne Carson, Sappho: If Not, Winter (Vintage, 2003)
(Sappho Transl)
--Nathaniel Mackey, Four for Glenn (Chax Press, 2002)
--Cesar Vallejo, The Complete Posthumous Poetry (UCal Press, 1980PB)
(transl. Clayton Eshleman & Jose Rubia Barcia)
--Geoffrey Chaucer, Canterbury Tales (Modern Lib, 1994
--William Carlos Williams, Collected Poems, Vol. 1 (New Directions, 1991PB)
--Columbia Poetry Review, no. 16 (Columbia Coll, Chicago, 2003)
chris at
1:14 PM
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Friday, December 19, 2003
Going out to walk. Then to get some Vietnamese Pho--lately a favorite since discovering a new cafe 5 or so miles away over by the Hong Kong Asian Foods Big Supermarket that Fei and I go to. But closer to home here the other day I did find some good Thai food just up the street, neat little drive through cafe (huh?--drive through cafe?--that must be an oxymoron, no?). Daughter Holly says the place is not that good, but what does she kno?--she's not me!
More soon. Maybe more poetry soon.
chris at
6:11 PM
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Check out this Gender-Fender-Bender
from Texfiles Poet of the Week, Patrick Herron :
Smashing Girls and Boys
"Girls are what they wear,
and boys are who they hit."
Shit not worth one dead hair.
This prescribed bloodstained valance,
It's a bullshit visaged balance,
panache-ridden parlance, barren farm passed
as palace and panacea. See here, is this
dissimilarity or peaceful parity:
this is a cock here in my panties.
Smashing girls and boys.
!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!Smashing Poetry!!!!!!by !!!!!!Patrick Herron!!!!!!!!!
chris at
4:30 PM
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&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&
UTA sent a msg around saying email will be off this weekend. If trying to reach me from midnight tonight to 8 a.m. Monday, use one of these:
cmrry88@aol.com
cmurray88@yahoo.com
thanks.
&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&
chris at
9:39 AM
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from daughter Holly, a little seasonal fun:
Get Yr Mouse Ready for Snowglobe!
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
some things are just so twisted, so wucking fazey, you know?
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
chris at
4:22 AM
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Some New Linx & Things
A. "Andrew I found this thing for you... "
B. "Babel-17: ... Rimbaud was knocked off ... "
W. "What did Beckett say? ..."
Squatter & Cracky are heavin the sponge around like it wz a little volleyball, sayin' : Linx & things are lookin' good !
chris at
3:23 AM
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********************************************************
Announcing a new Texfiles Poet of the Week Feature:
** Patrick Herron ! **
A warm welcome, then, to you, Patrick.
You Rock!! Especially when Politicians are lyin (that's always... )
But hey, here is some of Patrick's Best Bad-Boy
Oh-So-Ginsu Wit (including his mp3 reading aloud) :
Patrick Herron's "What Basho Wrote"
What Basho wrote me about the dust of Gautama
Dear Patrick,
Empty your mind and your hat will follow. So please begin by transcribing the following seventeen hats, and do hold onto your own hat for the duration. Only the hat will remain. I'll explain later.
The Ten Hats of Buddhism
A Zen Buddhist is not a Zen Buddhist
but a person faking paradox
and a person faking paradox
is a fake Zen Buddhist paradox and
"A Zen Buddhist is not a Zen Buddhist"
is an attempt by a fake Zen Buddhist
to fake a fake Zen Buddhist paradox
and the fake attempt of a fake person
who is of course a person and yet empty,
not a person or even a Zen Buddhist at all.
The Four Noble Hats of Buddhism
Which is to say Zen Buddhism is fake
so to be a real Zen Buddhist (Listen up! Kneel, slave! Thwack!) you must be fake at faking the forsaking of Zen Buddhism
and be a fake paradox or even a fake fake fake.
The Two Hats of Buddhism
Perhaps paradoxically, three fakes
do not negate each other when they do.
Buddha, The Enlightened Hat
They merely give nothing a cover.
Love,
Basho
PS My final and perhaps only coherent recommendation is that you always wear a hat. It will help one of you to appear as if you are flying above the dust in the wind, above the hatless masses. I'm giving up on the cold austerity shtick altogether and am heading to someplace warmer. Look for me there, where it's warm. I'm the one in the hat.
************* Pottery Hats by Patrick Herron****crak-crak-crak****
chris at
12:53 AM
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India/US Hellos: Gurudev Bhat!
I have had a very nice email from Gurudev Sirsi Bhat who is from India, and is a former computer lab tech/admin here at UTA, in the Writing Center I direct. After graduation, Gurudev wanted to remain here in the US to work, which is a very competetive job market for international students. But he was able to secure what many students consider a dream job in computer engineering here in the US. I am happy for Gurudev--having seen his achievements here. And now he sends good wishes for the holidays, so nice to hear! I am very grateful for Gurudev's good will whenever he writes.
Five months ago he sent the most elaborate wedding invitation!--beautiful. Of course I could not make it to India for the celebration, sorry to say. I know I would have loved it. But now, 5 months into the beautiful marriage he writes that he and his wife send happy holiday wishes. And
"If you're coming down to California, please do come and stay in our little
place whenever you pass by San Jose or San Francisco.
Wish you a Very Happy Christmas to you and your family."--Gurudev Bhat
Gurudev, that is so sweet!--I would love to! Thanks so much. I will be coming to California before too long and I will not fail to be in touch so we can all say warm hellos! I hope you and your new wife are happy and that all goes well for you during these holidays, and always.
Best Regards, Best Wishes, and Hugz to You Both!
Chris
chris at
12:16 AM
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Thursday, December 18, 2003
getting ready to post a Texfiles Poet of the Week feature here shortly.
"shortly"? ever thought much about that word? it's a little strange: we don't ever say "longly" or "middlely"--so why do we say shortly? Must look this up, um ... shortly. Will send little Fido. BRB. arf
chris at
9:46 PM
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Listening (on recall, livin that one of a kind, plush, serial, trailer park life--diapers hangin on the line for years--you think I am joking...):
Well, i sent the puppy dog into the prefab mini-storage to dig way back (well not *that* far!) in the *likelies* pile (rather than the other music stacks--for we love books, music, and fotos here more than anything and have lots of both--which music stacks contain the*neveragainnotfornothins,* the *neveragainbutnottradineithers,* the *maybies*, the *onceinawhiles* or the *bankonits*). **
And the puppy dog came back up with
Maria Muldaur !
long time, yes.
But for that stupid Oasis juke-song, mostly her music and especially that quivery-quavery voice of hers I like--and then, her back-up bluegrass folks really rock. No matter that none of that can possibly still sound so resilient now yet it does. Still rocks like violins in sandstone canyons: sculpted, random with delight, lots of curved side spaces full of breeze and birdseyeviews to fill if ya want to.... okay.
**love these asterisks this evenin'--but the reason for this one is that these categories are useful (soundin a little Marianne Moore for a minute there) for organizing all kinds of paper clips, fake nails, or just plain old phenomena--but never friends: they always belong in one category mixed up all together so much better to jam.
chris at
9:11 PM
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I will be announcing a new featured Texfiles Poet of the Week this evening.
chris at
6:44 PM
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VVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVV
from Hannah Craig, of Awake at Dawn on Someone's Couch, the last post of poetry for the present feature as Texfiles Poet of the Week: "Perceptioning" (this is post # two, parts I and II of the poem; parts III and IV are posted just below) :
Perceptioning
I.
Orioles fall like dark seeds, the pica-pica-picaro
of sky tossed down. Near ground, they accelerate,
flare up. In the garden of the self,
the days stretch barley stem, cottonwood. The days
eke water. Lambs saltate in their spring wool,
blimpish pulses split open, sponge rainwater.
Call her, Demeter,
from the mouth of home. The high house
windowed and grave. Call, but the well
will answer gurgle with gurgle. She’s awander
in her lavender skirts, playing witch-in-the-holler
with the seaman’s daughters. They clutch one another,
stare the bored stares of nascent nymphs.
You cannot figure them out, let alone call them home.
II.
Cabala cabala, the creek breathes. Cabala, salaamoselah.
Halt there.
Where you go, willow? Where you sleep,
narcissus? Beloved, I am the wild-plum, busty with leaves. Or the straw-man,
leaning on a pitchfork. I am clean fun, a run
through the summer bracken. The gitchy-gitchy-one,
itching through a case of acne bad enough to hurt.
Boombox hoisted on one shoulder,
I lead a Hamlin march through the small towns,
past the grain silos.
Oh the hollow
of your back, darling,
it moves me to tears.
Your mother turns the tea-cup over. She sees a dark man in the mirror.
She sees he knows how to use his tongue. And then you're minde,
little hussy-fuzz, little bee-bush with your hair oak-spoor,
mushroom. You pose lakeside, in the act of thrusting
shoulders back, carry your new self
distributed evenly over the old self. Woman,
in the half-light of girlhood, swallowing, swallowing...
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~poetry by Hannah Craig~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
chris at
6:25 PM
|
Many thanks to Hanna Craig, Texfiles Poet of the Week. I have one more of her beautiful poems to post, and since it is a long poem I will post part of it now and part later this afternoon.
Here is part one (the poem's III & IV, for linear order on the blog) of a two part post of "Perceptioning" :
III.
Like a gong, she beats
her way through pumpkin farms, grouse-hunts.
Crests the red-roads, past the Methodist galilee
and old Mag's country grill. The tumbrel-growl
of autumn hangs in the ear, trundling between death
and the doorstop. The girl's gone
heavy in her brassy days, dullness settles like a cake-bell.
Rain. Hey, play that song again.
Rain. He lays down with her
but he doesn't feel nothing good. She just holds
herself in the doorway, sighs in front of the TV.
After third-shift in the belly of a red-hot machine---the ghosts
play tricks with his eyes. First a marshmallow-moon,
then this river of lava. Sticks she pins into the shape of a man.
Honey, did you meet the one I love? Her laughter, the cold
whip-snap of a branch under ice. Oh, but there's the water.
He ruined her, now she's his to keep.
The wheat-fields gone to bronze,
the whickering of nanny-mares, the apples
hanging rotten on their branch.
And the girl
in her heyday, now hung from a sackcloth of fever,
bare feet atremble. She sees the meadow
and the meadow is all she can see.
IV.
You send the skin-and-bone hounds on a run, white
raucous in the dead hills. The only sounds
in the house are water, and its relevant search for air,
the insistence of this dying cicada,
his coldfrock hoary with frost, his buzzing almost
sickening, constant as it is. You shut the window.
You go to the door and remember, this is what for.
This is it. You turn the lock, click of tongues connecting,
walk up three flights to stars you cannot see.
Daughter, if you want to, you can take apart the night-glass,
the jar from which smoke gathered. From which panther awoke.
You can brush the lamp low, touch the sloe-tongued memory,
its mulish observance every year the same. I’ve put aside
the gabion of day. I’ve dyed these heretical signs
in gray. Who chooses me?
Seed-heart, the broom of me,
gloom-song of me, lying
head across bed, lying so still
the heat moving absent, heat moving
gone, gone, gone.
Tell me snowheart, icicle yin-yang,
where does this end? Who chooses me?
I walk away on my own two feet.
chris at
12:16 PM
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I will be announcing another Texfiles featured Poet of the Week later today--probably not till early evening.
chris at
12:04 PM
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"Ghost Ships"
--a critical-creative work by Lanny Quarles--
chris at
2:33 AM
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Wednesday, December 17, 2003
from Joseph Ceravolo's (exquisite!)
_Ho Ho Ho Caribou_ *
V
Where is that bug going?
Why are your hips
rounded as the sand?
What is jewelry?
Baby sleeps. Sleeping on
the cliff is dangerous.
The television of all voice is
way far behind.
Do we flow nothing?
Where did you follow that bug
to?
See quick ....... is flying.
VI
Caribou, what have I
done? See how her
heart moves like a little
bug....... under my thumb.
Throw me deeply.
I am the floes.
Ho ho ho caribou,
light brown and wetness
caribou. I stink and
I know it.
"Screw you! ....you're right."
IX
No one should be mean.
Making affection and all the green
winters wide awake.
Blubber is desert. Out on
the firm lake, o firm
and aboriginal kiss.
To dance, to hunt, to sing,
no one should be mean.
Not needing these things.
X
Like a flower, little light, you open
and we make believe
we die. We die all around
you like a snake in a
well and we come up out
of the warm well and
are born again out of dry
mammas, nourishing mammas, always
holding you as I
love you and am
received inside you, but
die in you and am
never born again in
the same place; never
stop!
(292-294)
*Joseph Ceravolo, "Ho Ho Ho Caribou," in Post Modern American Poetry.
Paul Hoover, ed. New York: Norton, 1994.
chris at
6:28 PM
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Happy holiday trip to Mexico, Danny O'Connell!
hugz + xoxo
chris at
5:39 PM
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Listening:
a DJ mix from Jeff Brimager (daughter Holly's friend),
electronic sound poems--what a treat!--Thanks.
These are so percussionally and culturally collage: very nice, Jeff.
This cut right now is sounding a lot like
Issac Hayes partially outrunning
then jump-turning-back on the eighties
Blade Runner standing in concrete
beach visuals & dialogue
fade to sand background a wallpaper
of po-po vice-voices
satellite triangle-beamings definitely not yet Jodie
in the muchos Canned Heat sound quotes
layering samba or Havana with the Hayes
perpetual water reverb canyon genera--
light metal contraptions--Fly Wright Bros Now
Be Everywhere in 2003 & something traveling
tourist: very leaf-blower fumes
over whisper choruses:
"quickest way to change things" --
kissing is
the verb to be
felt hat zen yellow
bell to revamp mosses of early
monks of seventies canyon flooring
coolest when laying up
cm
chris at
2:34 PM
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Not Madonna--Martin Amis vs Catherine MacKinnon: Yellow Hypothetical Porn Dog, Doggone It All
a reader (Hannah Craig, Texfiles Poet of the Week) responds* to and insightfully analyzes Amis's Yellow Dog
*to which this other reader (me!) says thanks! i enjoyed reading this: it kept me thinking
chris at
2:21 PM
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"Elves Have Left the Building" !
--Malcolm Davidson at Eeksy Peeksy
chris at
5:57 AM
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Combo for amazement and gratitude: Josef Sudek!
Special thanks to Jean Vengua at Blue Kangaroo (hey, so good of you to dig out and to put up the link! thanks--I love Sudek: some very lived-in, small, thick spaces, cooling soups of black and white, foto-ing: gee, Ansel, yr too much in landscapes!--move inside, or move on down the line, yeah). Jean I also really like that piece on mail art.
For some semiotic reason unexplainable, it brought to mind SFO's own Journal of Public Domain, too (tho anyone interested may first want to email the publisher (nice to see the Gram Parsons Project mention over there...), at Slight Publications, regarding that excellent collection, the JPD.
& hey! --Great Happy Thanks, as well, to Mark Woods of Wood's Lot (for one fine unit of recall in the history of visual texture: your post on Sudek). Oh, that 1896 Kodak camera! So cool... & I saw that 1974 retrospective in Roch at Eastman House--I used to live right around the corner from that house and its fabulous grounds and gardens; it was a favorite haunt of mine evenings after work, or weekends, to see the collection, once upon a time--
wow--so nice to see this, Mark!
& p.s. for those who have read some of my poetry that levels complaint against Kodak the corporation--for dumping toxic waste in the region: George Eastman started Kodak, which grew to be an environmentally irresponsible company/corporation. But he also laid some basic technological groundwork for photography to go a long ways toward that art, one we are grateful to have today. It seems few things that delve in or even that deliberate with power are ever either all sacred or all profane (Hurry: must consult Milton and Eliade, immediately!--be right back. I promise... )
pps. I showed daughter Holly all this very fine Sudek en-blog-material. She was too small to remember George's house (and certainly not even an eye-twinkle in 1974!). We do favor best that one foto of the egg & bowl, best--for the wood grain, the lived-on table, aching window frame.
o. & o, la. & more la.
chris at
12:56 AM
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Tuesday, December 16, 2003
from ** Hannah Craig (YaY!!) Texfiles Poet of the Week ** :
(I love all Hannah's poems, but this one is extra special in my book! Hannah: thanks for writing it so very well... )
La Violins, this Spring
La Violins
Le Blizzard
La Flautist Dans le matin
Lads, in the morning, I am weary. Home from war,
I say, la violins is playing out its
part. [Enter Horn]
Have thee desired
So shall I give to thee
Have thee a soap in hand
So lather the windows
of they soul-they know, they soul
is quickly risen, given easy
Roll them drums! Away lads, and fast
away. There snaps the miserly mouth of the goat.
The clitter of his hooves.
His Hornedness, His Clovenness.
Roll them drums!
Where was this war?
Not so much war. I hung black cloth in the windows.
And the dying cried out. There was a little smoke
from the guttered candles, from wet apple wood.
A nosebleed, darlings, from the cold.
Amok, amok,
here the lady on her kite, her violins
so kind, so kind. She said leave them
all behind, the wife, the young.
Here the lady with her white bassoon,
her long swan screaming, the singing
passing over us.
Der Kinder Kiln, Der Flame, Der Matchstick.
La Violins calls to the Horn. Wake now, my gray sons,
and ride the pattern of the world. I am weary, wife,
weary-cold. Hold me. Here come the cellos.
Keep me warm. The bittern speaks, the nut, nut
chickadee outside. His tap-tap-tap. I wants
my life back. Flee, you harridan, you tongue-cleaved
glut, and take your silver sleeves.
I stand in the frost-door and breathing.
I stand on the threshold and glitter.
**** O poems. ***O beauties.*******By Hannah Craig** (who rocks)**
O poems.*****&*******O beauties.********endlessly & rocking*****
: )
chris at
5:41 PM
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Mucho Happy Grats!--to Sarah Gambito--
winner of the Alice James Poetry Competition!
Check out Sarah's poem,
"The Glitter Lamb,"
posted where the ooooo always meets the aahhhhh :
Chatelaine Poetics
very nice, eileen!--rock on
chris at
1:23 AM
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Monday, December 15, 2003
 audio post powered by audblog
YaY!! an Audblog from Hannah Craig, Texfiles Poet of the Week
For M.
Wight, I have seen you. Two stars
on your chest. A fig in the left star
on your chest. In the center of the fig,
a stone.
The thin sheet
on the summer bed trembles. Lo, the cat
under the sheet, shaking himself.
Hurry. Your daughter on the telephone,
and you can only manage to say
the place where the lilac once bloomed
is torn, missing. The cat comes through
the door with a dove in his mouth, held out
like a gift. Yes. We suffer all at once,
forever.
You hang your stars on this hook. The beach-house rug
with its muted yarns, its pulled-loose
blue. Fish on the wall. A bowl of glass and shell.
How quickly all the nights
become day, and quicker then
to bed, to bed.
Your husband pulls you from the floor.
Go to sleep, the turnkeys whistle,
sibyl sleep now sleep now. White
on the frame of black. You hang the words back.
Nailed there. Fig. Star.
It spreads, and they say
there’s no stopping.
************************************poetry by Hannah Craig**********
chris at
5:32 PM
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from Texfiles Poet of the Week, Hannah Craig :
Here's a bit of bio on Hannah Craig, for those who do not yet know her and the fine poetry she writes, as well as the blog she keeps, Awake at Dawn on Someone's Couch (linked above on Hannah's name). She currently resides in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania, grew up in Indiana, is a graduate of the University of Chicago with 2 degrees in Anthropology, and is presently having a love-hate relationship with Pittsburgh, PA. Among other notables, she has recently published in the journal, Stirring.
So then, here are two more of Hannah's evocatively textured and sensuous poems:
The Story In Translation
Over the killed trees (or dead, sleeping, miserly)
a flock of herons, their long legs
dangle in fly-by. This is the season
for ghost (white, churlish) stories,
the boy who swallowed a watermelon seed,
the vines that grew from his ears. Or the sacrum
mistaken for a ?? (bowl, candle, lamp). The woman
stands at the window. The black dog stands
at the window. Toward dawn, she lifts her hand
and squashes a moth, febrile, (weak, pulsing)
fluttering blue. [Word obscured by ink]
comes through the bamboo, the sheaf of his poetry
under-arm. In the last regime he had
his own syndicated column on the beautiful
countryside. Twice a week, weeping trees
on their knees, willows bent down,
songbirds flitter-skit (fast and skipping, jaunty,
full of motion) through the seed-grass.
Now he comes through the walls, his sick cough
straddling the swamp air [Consider allusion to Isis carrying Horus
through the Delta reeds]. Tonight is the witch (misread: wish)
tale, the boy who never returns to his bed. Grandfather (Uncle, Mother),
sit here beside me on the bed and say
[paper torn, line missing]
[paper torn, line missing]
which is all I can ask.
*
Arcs sur Argens
Snow, shell, snake. Roseline, the white hem
and the eye. Third miracle, the body
which will not decompose. First, roses from your skirt.
Second verse, same as the first. Snow, shell, snake.
Angels cut cake, pass the plates. The nuns return
for tea and find you. Trance, product of faith. Divide by crazy,
subtract 5. Pocket-calculator, mutter-mutter,
die Mutter, der Inbegriff.
Now you’re black---shriven, shrunk. The moisture of your claw-hands
hooked to heart. Intercessor, you protect the grapes. You perform
this-is-my-body for the crickets. Or you watch over the fountain,
cracked and full of cold, clean.
Cannot aid a traveler, a spark
of light-love-left,
or heal or tend the spirit. Cannot even rain
your roses down at will.
Still here on the prie-dieu of the road, sunk
on sandals. Heel-toe-blister-toe. Tired and dust. A photograph
of my back, turned away, walking. Hassock of fine white
flowers, little lithium bells. I ask for whatever you can give.
*
********************poetry by Hannah Craig*********************
chris at
5:06 PM
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Corina from Fledgling Wordsmith--I would very much like to thank you!--please email me...
cmurray@uta.edu
chris at
1:59 PM
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mmmm. blueberry yogurt. gala apple slices. oxygen. jasmine green tea.
chris at
1:13 PM
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Will be posting some more fine work from Hannah Craig, Texfiles Poet of the Week, later today toward evening.
chris at
12:58 PM
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Just had a very nice email from Clayton Eshleman.
I am looking into bringing him here to speak at UTA.
So nice.
In honor of his fine work, I want to post this poem:
Un Poco Loco
Bud Powell's story is never complete.
The image of a man playing blues
who earlier that day
sipped lunch on all fours
is rudimentary turning, crawling
chorus after chorus, lifting I Covers,
to view simmering Waterfront splinters,
he is visiting fist shacks,
the sipped milk becomes dug root,
he bites into the horizon
wearing keyboard braces, he winds within
the steel cord all
who have pulled through mother recall
as the bastard spirit beyond her strength.
(56-57)
Amen. For Goodness in Life. For Grace. For Bud Powell. For us all.
Thank you Clayton Eshleman.
* Clayton Eshleman, "Un Poco Loco," in The Jazz Poetry Anthology. Sascha Feinstein and Yusef Komunyakaa. Bloomington: Indiana UP, 1991
chris at
12:29 AM
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Sunday, December 14, 2003
Dept of R$ceipt
looking at a find from today's walk:
leaf, deep red, mahagony deep red, laced with leathery gold veins, stem innocent as an apple's.
home and took off my old felt gloves to absentmindedly reach back into my jacket pocket to clean it out.
Pocket I thought contained merely some old paper receipts from the grocery store: milk dollar sign tax bread dollar sign tax tomato dollar sign tax & etc.
But what I thought was only paper felt, to touch, sooo very cold: damp dead skin? Yikes!
I wondered what had gotten into that paper?--the six-foot-under-earth? Shock, a little. Funny how the discovery of illogic is so shocking.
Loving logic. Loving to rely on it. Boom. The not-happening-logic. Too cold.
but of course it was logical, just not yet accounted for in perception: the leaf, still cold from the damp, near-frozen sidewalk I had scooped it off to then stow in my pocket, to now retrieve absentmindedly. sheesh.
and then this one unaccountable image of action pops quickly to mind (but why?): swaddling--and seems like a nightmare pop up.
so significant for this particular season, the term, swaddling, when one is raised christian: various (whichever church could help the most over the specific family crisis at the time since heaven apparently forbade any kind of spiritual unity of ecclectic interests): catholic and protestant blends (especially ironic when i discovered at 13 or so how the word, "catholic" means "universal"?!).
i'd been walking past growing numbers of examples of the christian birth scene: jewel-lit , soap-opera-dramatically: 45 minutes of, three burbi streets of, various examples of,
creche scenes, twinkling lights and twinkling deer skeletals nodding head back and forthe via batteries (not to be mistaken for those deer used in target practice or seasonal sport elsewhere and often by the same folks who put such on display at christmas in the front yard... ?), even christian carols emanating from doorways--this is the same electronic mock-voice that makes brooohaahaahaa rise like an almost harmless jolt from (the same) doorways on Halloween to entertain children so they will come up and get more candy!--Sugar is so good! Haa. Haa. Haa.
red leaf. swaddling. cover. covering. damp. red. leaf.
Why did I pick up that leaf? It all seems so surreal to me now.
chris at
11:12 PM
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In Praise of Good Works: Jaime Saenz, translated by Kent Johnson and Forrest Gander, the Work of "Immanent Visitor"
I selected some translated readings to comment on a little bit today, but mostly to share the beauty of the work and of the act that brought the work to readers of English. I think of translation as a difficult act, and one of sustained wonder, a kind of commitment to no little awe and sweat and cultural Good Works that although indispensible for literary art, is never praised enough, can never be praised enough.
The care involved in translation sustains one of the most important of human interactions and forms of bonding between differing people via literacy. Translators have to be delicate, deliberate, sensitive yet secular lovers of their chosen subjects, cultures, and texts. A very beautiful and noble act is translating, one that works well only in tandem with a great amount of ethos. Without this work of textual love and ethos, literacy would be stunted, a reality of Babelesque squanderings, an act of futility. Translators of poetry, to my mind, are heroes who cannot be praised enough. (for more on this view, please read my article-interview with Chris Daniels in the Spring 03 issue of the University of Texas at Arlington, English Department's online literary journal, Znine.
I am thus very pleased to post this small excerpt of poetry translation by Kent Johnson and Forrest Gander.
It is from Jaime Saenz, Immanent Visitor * and in some meta ways can be said to speak not only of the tradition of the secular beloved--the poem's work--but also the good work of any act of love, even a textual act of love, even or perhaps in this context, especially that of translation itself. I suggest, too, perhaps as a shoring up of that which is fragmented, chaotic, disorderly and disconnected :
I
The floating world is lost, and the whole of life catches in the spring light of your looking,
--and while you repeat yourself in the echo, horizon bound in smoke, I regard your departure,
clear substance and hope dehiscing into distance:
you live on that sweetness when beauty, sorrowing, glances your way,
and you emerge in half-profile
to the iron ringing of nighttime instruments, golden and blue, a music shining and
throbbing and taking wing
in the hollow of my heart.
I don't dare look at you lest I not be inside you, and I don't praise you lest joy steal away
--I'm content just to watch you, and you know this and pretend not to look at me
and you bounce around, exaggerating everything with divine insight,
as if you were riding a horse or a motorcycle...
I yearn for you the moment I hear you,
a sepulchral music vanishes and my death steps out of you,
beloved images become visible to the musicians
when it's you who is listening
--always, the musicians exult in silence
when it's you who is listening.
II
Your crossing the streets separates you from me, as the day and the streets are
separate
--the whole city is a spider that hoards you from me,
and the light cuts you off; it isolates you and makes me see how well it cocoons
you
--resplendent, your happiness on the street corners,
at grief's hour I ask myself if I will find that sublime, deep blue of your
garments ...
the air of your voice when evening falls
--and I ask myself why I would joyously surrender to the joy you kindle in me.
Your likeness to me is not to be met in you, in me, nor in my likeness to you
but in a line randomly traced and made unforgettable by forgetfulness
--and in the scent rising from certain drawings that make us weep
and which at the same time enliven us,
because your stunning vision is a disquiet to the flavor of memories,
that gentle testimony left by youth of its leaving:
hidden image...
(5-6)
Jaime Saenz, Immanent Visitor. trans., Kent Johnson and Forrest Gander. Berkeley: U Calif Press, 2002.
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