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
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Self Similar Writing: Jukka Pekka Kervinen
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Lisa Jarnot's Blog
Poetry Hut: Jilly Dybka (has moved here)
Pornfeld: Michael Hoerman
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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
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Spaceship Tumblers! Tony Tost
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E-Po
Zotz!
Optative Mood: Tim Morris
ecritures bleues: Laura Carter
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Semio-Karl M&M
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a New Word Placements
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Jukka Pekka Kervinen: Nonlinear Poetry
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SB POET
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|||AS/IS2|||
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YaY!! Eileen Tabios: Chatelaine Poetics !
Jill Jones: Ruby Street
Geoffrey Gatza's BlazeVox
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Gary Sullivan's Elsewhere
GoldenRuleJones
Poetry_Heat
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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
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Jordan Davis: Equanimity
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Michelle Bautista
Ironic Cinema
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Farewell Tonio!
In Through the Out Door
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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
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Radio UTA: Toni's Thursday Poetry Show
Tim Morris: Lection
Gabe Gudding
Constant Critic
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Fanaticus
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Stephen Vincent
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Lanny Quarles: (solipsis)//:phaneronoemikon
States Writes
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Sentence
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Poeta Empirica
poetry for the people: canwehaveourballback?
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Chris Sullivan's Slight Publications
Chris Sullivan's Department of Culture
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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

---

chris at 3:22 PM |

 

Yes, Poetry Is Made Real at Shampoo by the Gracious Del Ray Cross

* * *

& So: my turn to blush: awww, gee, Steve!-- thanks so much for your good words: and every bit of that passage in the poem is right out of an afternoon in my experience: the rush into, the rush of, an SFO Orthodox Saint Shop!--I have the cards to show for it! (am literally a card carrying saint-shop member, I swear!).

* * *

But now, Y'all, see below:
my sonnet dedicated to Steve Tills (who rocks!)

(but hey tell me, too,
now, ha' ya, er, um didja, um
an' git that thar blog-bongy thingy
brought around to marxian flava use values yet, man?--

jus' askin' ... : )

* * *

here's my sonnet dedicated to Steve Tills-- for all the good springs that you do... YaY!! and btw, I like that cover to the mag--it is lookin good :

* * *

LaLa Ism


ladoremi
babylala
do. dogwood violet hair i say
re. lalala
lafalaughfafa
la. fa. fa.
so fafa lalala. mi.
lalalalala mi o~o/
fafa spring showers a red bud just one fa fa
fafafafa tresses yes
so okay
la cherry bloss-bloss, too
ti y ti
da mi spring is mama given a 15th :
(if sonnet still means little song?)


* * *

Many asterisks of thanks without commas
to Del Ray Cross,
and to Steve Tills.

xoxo
cm

chris at 12:05 AM |

Saturday, March 06, 2004

 

Reading contemporary Galician poet, Chus Pato!--just beautiful--as recently translated by Erin Moure.

"The waters: what an architecture to house civilizations, sister! ...
It's like waking from a dream, of the body, words."

chris at 6:30 PM |

 

Wondrous :
"... Cecilia connects us to the others by giving us a point to hold in the taut unwinding of purple thread. Purplum—a royal color here in the bottom of an urban drain-off. The juice from our cars washes through here under ground to the Edward's Aquifer. ..."

chris at 4:03 PM |

Friday, March 05, 2004

 

from Found * :


Man and the Moon


In the screaming man-made
light, a chorus of "Hey"
& "Nay" light of the moving
headlights--wandering
the unsaids

& outlines
of a school, outside some screaming

sports fans, cheering the good

players--
where scraggle-wired
a beard is letting go
words
one, two,

at a time, hooked
together by wheezes
& a glue
of beer spittle
about monkey-jangle
& nay, no any
money & how
homeless is

man setting up shop for life

wanting only Red

Bull & Marlboro, but both
where just one
breath is easy on fast
food & curb, "a good spot"

off the eight-lane, in breaths
the boneful knuckle ego
slow as bent pine fence, pointing
out how it was, countable, leaving
Tarrant County
jail this afternoon
all in one piece
& celebrating
now,

now it is enough
to say--

"Hey, this's old--
a thermos
I found.
This, jeans shirt, too.
And that sleeping
bag I
found is mine
and this folding
table. Nice, i'n't?--Mine.
Nay, now don't
run off. I won't
forget

this pinkly lowering other
light of moon up
there,

it's mine, too,
but I'll share, y'all
understand?"


* Found is a manuscript I'm working on. The poems all come from things & events found on my daily walks in my neighborhood of central Arlington, Texas. cm

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~copyright of chris murray~~~~~ o~o\~~~~~~~~

chris at 8:46 PM |

 

But Geez, Updike-Hegemony?

Here are some of my observations and a response to reading Tim Yu today on how Chang-Rae Lee is being compared to Updike in the recent New York Times Magazine. Tim's is an interesting critique, since, yes, it's good to question every comparison to the likes of Updike (in my own opinion his work rates right down there with Billy Collins's--I stopped buying the New Yorker because they love Updike so unquestioningly much).

To my mind, I'll never understand why this kind of comparison--streamlined stamp of approval, re, as you rightly point out, assimilation--is supposed to be okay or is even taken seriously--though it surely is in very important lit circles. I suppose this kind of thing is a form of grandparenting (to put it as neutrally as I can think to do so at the moment, tho it rankles) into the lit world. Uh... or Um?--is the nicest thing I can say to that mosly unquestioned process that seems all too hegemonic, as well.

I'm with the following, astutely pointed out by Tim: "Imagine, for comparison, labeling some author 'the black Updike' or, better yet, 'the female Updike.' " And, this, as well: "Crotchety," "misogynist," "WASP"--which pretty much says it all.

So, Geez, Updike?--OoLah--cover yr ears if ye hail fra' th' more delicate pools of being-- Updike's work sucks!--
the ideas, the themes out of Updike's work suck! What is redeemable in Updike?
Does anyone who lives a real life know?--or even care?

The only salvagable thing in his cultural wrecks might be some talent for thick description, but even that is so overburdened with nostalgic hearkenings and heaps of WASPishness, that it isn't worth shoveling through.

Ayyyye, mi,a part of me wants to say, poor Lee!--this must be the literary insult to cap all.

Tho I suppose the prestige in this authorial comparison has some value, and certainly the New Yorker future of cross-ref will be beneficial, which leads me to ask: can any writer refuse that if/when it comes along? Probably not in their best interests to do so... what alternatives do we have?--everything building to points and crescendos, as they do...

Gosh, ain't lit-life grand?

(well, yes, I do still think so, if only for these kinds of mishaps turned to challenges)

chris at 2:16 PM |

 

kari edwards ! you rock!--thanks for all you do...

kari just emailed an eloquent reminder that we all stay active in the current energizing push to reform marriage laws to achieve gay rights:

"from before the imprisonment of oscar wilde, abuse, murder,
criminalizing of queers through most of the 20th century we fought
back, forming coalitions, organizations and action committees, but we
have lost sight, now its time to rise up again, and keep our collective
eye on the goal, on not give in... "

Please check in frequently for the ongoing, up-to-the-minute news postings at Transdada, and get involved !

chris at 1:39 PM |

 

Reverence: to the Maker of the Beautiful Dulcimer


Oh, it is an old modality, tribute. Most tributes are to well known people or monumental moments. Rarely is tribute paid to everyday folks and their endeavors, though there are pockets of such throughout poetic tradition (s). One of the best reasons I can think of to write a poem is in order to give tribute to craftspeople, the makers of things, especially the makers of musical instruments, which signify the conjuncture of several meaningful elements: music as hand-created, as connected by work to the body, its energy, music as lyric alone, as pleasure, as joined with words, as imaginative space(s). A great reverence for that...

Here is one from Carolyn Forche, a very early poem of hers, out of her first book, Gathering the Tribes * :


Dulcimer Maker


Calf-deep in spruce dust,
wood curls off his knife,
blade wet, bare bulb light.

The finish of his hands
shows oil, grain, knots
where his growth scarred him.

Planing black oak
thin to flow sounds
Tone of wind filling
bottle lips.

It is his work tying strings
across fresh-cut pine.

He sings into wood, listens:
tree rings, water!

The wood drinks his cloth,
its rots going to the depths of him,
spreading.

He wants to build a lute for music
carved on Sumarian stones, a music
no one has heard for three thousand years.

For this he will work
the oldest wood he can find.
It will not be as far away,
as unfamiliar.

(14)


*Carolyn Forche, Gathering the Tribes. New Haven: Yale UP, 1976.

chris at 1:01 PM |

 

Hello. My name is Troublemaking-Kinky-Fetishes-About-Letters-and-Grammar (scroll-down)--and I am a Soul.
I am a Photogenic-Quiz-based-authority-anarchizing-Soul who cannot stop consuming poetry ...

chris at 2:33 AM |

Thursday, March 04, 2004

 

Like a Pop-Up or a Persephone

I dunno. Maybe I should go back and try the quiz again and hope for a different airbrushed iconic photographic represententation of the soul as a female synechdochic archetype, one different than this one. Shouldn't the soul feel more like a pillow? I mean, I like this female-fetish-type, but this is not me. I feel like the State of Texas just found out I have a fake library card ("Don't Mess With Texas!" or else! ). She looks a little mean. I'm not mean (Cedrick May!--stop joking about that!).

What's more, if this figure were a comic book hero-type, this would not be a problem at all, hype is hype. So what in the representation makes it different? and last month it was not a problem with being Julia Kristeva for the theory quiz (since so name based?). So why is it a problem now? Tribalistic. Souls. Souls are too spooky to mess with... Lo! I've got an undercurrent of being superstitious? This is a very-too-real foto (the others in this series are more art-ed-up?). So it seems they upped the psychic-ideological ante here.

I feel over selfed and underfed--even, underarfed. Like a pop-up, or a Persephone.

Oh, dear--ARF, Oh arf!

chris at 11:56 PM |

 

Yeah!


You're a natural born trouble-maker. You hate
authority and do everything you can to get
around the law, or in some cases, break it.
Naturally stubborn, you hardly ever sway once a
decision is made. Your nature is fiery and
courageous, and always out-going. You love
attention and usually have kinky fetishes
you're not afraid to explore. People either
love you or hate you.


What Type of Soul Do You Have ?
brought to you by Quizilla

Well geez, it surprised me a little, too, when it popped up this way, but yeah ! (she just looks so real--whereas, me?--well--let's just say, absent the artifact, given the inner, as it were, ear? spirit? tattoos? In keeping w/the spirit of the spirit... )

It's been going around, I see, but I found it at Love During Wartime, via ( YaY!! ) Jilly (Hang in there: I quit smoking 15 months ago and its a real adventure, a great one!

chris at 11:40 PM |

 

Dept of Absolutely Terrifying Pleasure, IQ, and Mind Games

Daughter Holly says don't be a wimp, & recommends this one-of-a-kind, especially the chair of polka-dots that will rise from the box.

chris at 10:34 PM |

 

Do check out the newest edition of Nth Position--

especially the fine poems by Rebecca Seiferle :

"... Buddha returns, as a land iguana..." *


* a line from Rebecca's poem, Dragon Hill

chris at 6:14 PM |

 

"An Open Letter from Venezuela"
--translated by Guillermo Juan Parra

chris at 3:39 PM |

 

"listservs tend, in my experience of them, to be about all the different reasons one can't do something. Blogs tend to be about people doing things. "--Tom Beckett, Vanishing Points of Resemblance blogpost, 5 Mar 04.

chris at 3:19 PM |

 

Do add Steve Till's and Tom Beckett's insights to that recently revived discussion of the effects of blogs and blog-writing. Great stuff, Steve, and Tom Beckett ! & btw: i love that blogname: Vanishingpoints, which is the part included in the URL. And Steve's is Theenk--I theenk thar is lottsa room for poetic fun & wit in these little remarked upon slices of blog life: economies of URL naming & etc. but then, admittedly, I am a little odd. Ask my students about my wrist watch story. very odd...

chris at 3:16 PM |

 

but what is this?!--ten minutes later: sun's out, temp's gone down 10 degrees, and all's well... (that is exactly the life span of these storms, just as the cliches say)

chris at 3:01 PM |

 

not too scary yet: it's as if someone turned the whole world into one big car wash we are slowly rowing through.

chris at 2:48 PM |

 

Tornado weather! Big buckets of moonbeam rainstorm hail & cats, dogs, kitchen sinks, witches, lightnin' all over and it's honking! whewwww. time to take cover pretty soon....

chris at 2:46 PM |

 

Welcome to blogland, James Yeager!

chris at 2:41 PM |

 

Calling All Nubile Republican Females of Today: Roll Over One More Time to Make Room for Your Bushbag Hubby with His Latest Toys: Concubines!


James Yeager and Tim Cole, UTA students (James is in my poetry course), have been reading Wil Wheaton's blog, where they found his response to conservative Andrew Sullivan, on the issue of constitutional amendment regarding marriage, very interesting, so Tim commented there and James sent me the link: very much worth looking into. The post cites that article in circulation recently (okay: I can't recall the source!) that posted Biblical quotes about marriage, presumably to show how absolutely senseless and archaic is that rigid paradigm for marriage, particularly for its assumptive basis in rigid conceptions and roles of gender. Here is one:

"Marriage shall not impede a man's right to take concubines in addition to his wife or wives. (II Sam 5:13; I Kings 11:3; II Chron 11:21)"

My opinion?--We simply cannot let the Bushbag "Prayer Team" dictate archaic rules. So stay active on this front, folks, or we are going to lose our very right to say anything at all. We could all become silent concubines, politically.

While I admit that exponential mulitplicity of the intimate sort is something I'm skeptical about, rather private person that I am, this is also a matter where, okay, if multiple is going to rule, then it better rule equally for all concerned (as long as everyone's being safe...).

chris at 2:09 PM |

 

from Jill Jones, Texfiles Poet of the Week :



Yellow Perspective


One horse always disappears
behind a tree
or into yellow light.

Others have gone into
upholstery at windows
unpicking dreamy cushions.
In deep pockets old money
glints, dust will not cover
the pin hole in the curtain
fur on the window
skin cold as glass.

Along the ridge
egrets harvest cattle backs.
They say the black swans
are late this year.
Headlights have already told
their story.

The horse disappears
into raked perspective
where grass goes
wind-shivered seeds.
The dam mirror blinks
at the nostril
a hoofbeat adds to pressure
the running breath.

* * *


Onto time

Words veer away from me
a cloud and a pale break
weather shuffles its colours
somehow I am in silver

A cloud and a pale break
chopping old sentences
somehow I am in silver
the dark is always there

Chopping old sentences
there in the midst of sky
the dark is always there
how far were you?

There in the midst of sky
quitting the silence
how far were you?
above or falling onto time

Quitting the silence
weather shuffles its colours
somewhere I am unable
words veer away from me.





Skin knowledge

in the dark where skin
lights the way the rods
are perfect to hold on
to star pierce to leverage
the heights of, oh, this
small package je t’adore
just now in the know
even if you don’t hardly
in the dark where skin

from this angle you are
all fuzzed the strokes
are kind and nothing is
on the level like a
drum skin fur erect
in the cold breath of my
finger topography hands
and over the swelling
from this angle you are

our hollow-bellied our
disported hands on our
down beat sings inside
there is no name
we do and we do and
undoing after our backs
turned our reflected hands
upturned the air
our hollow-bellied our

if this repetition do I
know you can we rise
above our gods and join
above our rise
and know if this is
skin
our
are





Tickets

lonely shelter, your hands
in the west, a screen
blinds afternoon, vast wrap
and anxious cranes
split features caused by doors

light pushes like action man – it is
supposed to hurt
in this it is sociable and perverse

shadows are critical
the sun nervous but it shines, a clever trick
the haze
when knowledge isn’t transparent

we’re a-roaming
in the season after sundown
the ice night sound

what is the purpose when you run?
somehow antique
you seem farther away
where security officers
conference in neon
in sleepy excellence
cool as one more pencil ticking the list

imagination, unsure in the morning
rustles in your darkling dry hands
languages in breeze
elementals on the tips
branches, rooftops, rails

common excesses rumble
querulous signals
light cries down on hills
its immenseness
is unclear, almost insulting

patches of noise
try to worm out into the air
as you laugh with the boys
as if a cigarette would save you

you would not be confined
to moonlight with brown bars
protection, break proof
sky-lined, struggling with flight

poured into the convergence
winter floods your self light on a façade
adoration sits with money
length of days or carnal

bazaars skid and a gun
rattles in the glove box
somehow it’s a screen play
you write under your anglepoise lamp
and defend it – or its death
safe with music within
us – leaking from the box

it’s your argument about accounts
or a great sigh as someone
hands you the cheque
prison smoke, derelict manners

next stop eternal with industry
scuttling breezy derision on hoardings
cast luck or angelic
whose youth is not suffocating

lessons of the wall taking up
your issued seat
pirates of sound in direction’s heroism
with laws in carelessness
of the shadow, the great ruin

keep looking beautiful
always be careful
catch the bittersweet
a slash of red up the lane
poinsettias, oleanders
sticky oozy plants. Bushes, trees
swilling consonants
boys talking on the station
children falling
on themselves and lights failing

examine the news
there are records being brutal
there’s weather and chance
you may wrap in hierarchies of print

but notorious people keep moving
notorious hands
under the announcements
and time’s digits wink out
as minutes become another archetypal figure –
stretchy almost
endless

today’s version of integrity
a screen saver
although pompously designed
like a court

do you sometime dislike
your system’s studied gravitas
wish for a red dog called Buddha
chasing water light and smell
around the lagoon
not like tides, anxious absolute
covering tracks

gutless, maybe too easy
your soft coins thrown out of the comfort
zone – glamour and glint
sunglasses for the warrior
being felt up by barbarians


~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~copyright of Jill Jones O~O/~~~~~~~~~~~~

chris at 4:23 AM |

 

"Blogland is a scene.

A vying irascibility makes the blogs go..."--John Latta

chris at 1:38 AM |

Wednesday, March 03, 2004

 

UBU !

check out this post on the newest stuff at UBU Web-- it's sure looking good.

& Here's the UBU link.

I'm especially curious about the Perloff essay on translating Brazilian concrete poetry,

so am heading to UBU for some reading, right now. If you are a student-reader of this post and enrolled in my current poetry-writing class at UTA, you may want to read this, in fact, to bookmark it for some context (however brief, unfortunately), since we will soon be reading Brazilian poet, Josely Vianna Baptista's "On the Shining Screen of the Eyelids (translated by Chris Daniels; Manifest Press, 2003).

chris at 11:59 PM |

 

If you are tuning in here from Australia, Sydney, in partic, then check out the Jill Jones (current Texfiles Poet of the Week) and Martin Langford, reading on Sunday, 7 March, 3 pm at Gallery East, 21 Burnie St., Clovelly. Would so like to be there with Y'all for it!

chris at 11:44 PM |

 

I don't know why and I do not care why
this blue animal day
but there is something very, very, wondrous
about the poem it belongs to, and the wondrous of it
lives especially in this not particularly complicated but oh
so lovely line :

"... o the sun the hard answer the rasp of coffee on the tongue..."

thanks, b.t. !

chris at 11:35 PM |

 

HAPPY BIRTHDAY ! YaY!!

Texfiles is one year old today.

chris at 2:02 AM |

 

Mike Snider has a request-line for poems & so a few weeks ago it was fun to think up things that might be challenging for someone who has written a lot of outstanding poetry.

I wanted a rhetorical commonplace, something like, you know: *hearts and flowers*: which stood a chance of being a real challenge to write, to estrange & make new. So I requested a poem on the subject of the heart. Well, gee! Here it is!-- Mike has done it again: the heart is made completely new, in terms of poetic figure, yet so very commonplace, so *literal.* I'm in awe of this capacity for writing the sonnet. Thanks, Michael!

chris at 1:40 AM |

 

from Leon Stokesbury * :


East Texas


The taste in my mouth
Was the taste of blood or rust on backdoor thermometers
Unread for twenty years. With my cheesecloth
Net I waited in the woods. Then the flutters
Of the giant swallowtails could be heard far away. Leaves
Moved. Sweat was acid in my eyes, and my father frowned
In his huge wheelchair. He could not get up the hill. My
          last two loves
But one sat in pine straw, waiting to see what I would do.
To my left was the sound of men standing at urinals.
But no. It was only the rain, uncontrollable, and the rain
          took
The gray shapes of stream. My father frowned. It was so
          steep.
And those shapes were the shapes of old women with
          shawls
On their heads, of old men sitting down. She shook
Me saying I was talking in my sleep.

(353)


* Leon Stokesbury, "East Texas," in "Strong Measures." Phillip Dacey & David Jauss, Ed.s--
New York: Harper & Row, 1986.

chris at 1:02 AM |

Tuesday, March 02, 2004

 

You Go, Rebel Edit--terrific poetry selections!

chris at 7:33 PM |

 

There's More to Blogs than Lists, lots of Vice Versa, and the notion of Choice(s):


Another discussion growing tempestuous over at Buffalo listserv, regarding the value of listserv and/or blog for poetry/poetics writers and readers. Thank goodness, as is always true when he comments in such situations, Tim Yu came through with extensive, very thoughtful, clearly explained ideas and reasoning.

In terms of critique of my own participation, via a post I made earlier today, I think I was beginning to fall into what seems to have been a somewhat invisible dichotomy (to me at the time) between blog and list. But Tim, it was your observation that these are "forms," which opened my eyes to a dead-end in my considerations. As forms, of course, they are only two of many, and one advantage to that is the freeing thought that, far from merely two, there are indeed lots of choices.

It's not as if that's a brand new idea to me--far from it. But in the context I guess it was a little easy to overlook--good old fashioned ideological blinders as it were, I suppose. So once again, to ask of self: How can one know something and not know it at the same time!?

Thanks, Tim (and congratulations on your new position, btw!--very nice over there in Toronto: I grew up in Rochester and had family over in that part of Canada--should be lots of fun stuff for y'all to get into there--lovely summers, autumns, museums and theaters, if you happen to like that sort of thing--good luck!).

chris at 1:43 AM |

Monday, March 01, 2004

 

This Administration's Fondness for Censorship: To What Lengths Will It Go? *

On Tracking Bushbag Trends (scroll down a bit for the article) : "... It was no slip of the tongue, but a calculated shot across the bow at people and organizations that speak out against a Bush policy. ..." --Elaine Cassel, "Reading and Writing as Terrorism: I Hate to Say I Told You So, But I Told You So..."--Counter Punch, March 1, 2004

* forwarded to Texfiles by Chris Daniels, translator of Brazilian poet, Josely Vianna Baptista, whose most recent book is "Across the Shining Screen of the Eyelids" (with artwork by Francisco Faria. Manifest Press, 2003).

Thanks, Chris!

chris at 11:59 PM |

 

Dept of Grammar Police--More Real than Ever Before :

This just in from Eliot Weinberger,
via email to Kent Johnson, forwarded to texfiles:


Regarding the legal push by the Bush administration to censor publishers and translators, Eliot says that the situation is even more disintegrated than the media have noted (the New York Times article refered to is cited below). Most difficult to imagine that a work by the master Cuban novelist, Carpentier ("El reino de este mundo"/"The Kingdom of This World")--cited as a Latin American Magic(al) Realism is discussed--might be put on hold and/or censored today, after all that his work has been through, and all his achievement, and this action, to what end?--the narrow gains or agenda of a narrow bunch of power-mongers.


"Actually it's much worse than the article * says. For example,
there is a book by Alejo Carpentier (!!) forthcoming from Smithsonian
Institute Press which has been put on indefinite hold because of this.

"Theoretically, no books by Cubans, Iranians, etc can be translated or
published in the USA-- even books by dissidents. This is not a
spur-of-the-moment decision by some low-level bureaucrat, but the
result of a two or three year deliberation on the original Iranian
electrical engineer case by the "Office of Foreign Asset Control."

"The Assoc of American University Press Publishers has been circulating a
lot on this-- they probably have a website if you want further info... ."


And thankfully on some level the personal can still prevail, as well:

"But luckily I'm off to New Zealand, with normal people and many sheep.
Avanti-- Eliot"

* * *

Hah!! Ridiculous Bushbags! It is certain that if still alive Carpentier would be walking the cumulus rooftops of paradise laughing his ass off. Since he no longer has an ass to laugh off, he must rely on Bushbags to supply a steady stream of ridiculous assedness that can be sized up as not dealing on any level with the real, more like a clueless and meanspirited Magically Weird (as in, Bush says he can do magic & so utters unrecognizable mumblings, waves his tiny pointer [um, we'll let it suffice to call it that for this venue] around, and lo: something incredibly weird happens. Unfortunately this weird stuff includes wars; zero sum games with environmental hazards and with earth's natural resources; eliminating programs and educational funding that most helps the poor survive; and censoring of the very imagination, for pete's sake!

Well, very pleasant travels, Eliot, and thanks for giving us more of the story than the ostrich-like U.S. press dares to, at least, while under Bush.

& Special Thanks, too, Kent, for once again keeping us up-to-date on the reality of things!


* "Treasury is Warning Publishers of the Perils of Criminal Editing of the Enemy," by Adam Liptak, New York Times. 28 February 2004:

chris at 10:56 PM |

 

from Jill Jones, Texfiles Poet of the Week :


Unfold


After cloud though not sudden
blue drops down the outside

voices slip and whisper rooms
heat rasps on structures

and the colours move to green
gold talks undersides of leaves

I feel myself crouching
in a new and awkward seat

unbalanced unregained

a heavy weight of summer
hard at the windows

where is rain to separate us
from the metal force

pinned in a cold box
hidden from the heat

heat in skin water blood
while duties tick on

I glimpse the shifts in sky

I should be wasting time


* * *

Unguarded


All confessions lie in the accounts
each shell is hidden

Dipped in the world like a taste
only salt springs back at you

There are certain demands to being a tourist
(Of course, I was lonely)

.

The city has its goodbye signs
desire summed up in property

Carrying our various droughts
loves that surpass cliché

A walk in decreasing circles
(But, of course, I’ve turned it around)

.

Waves break into beautiful promises
where bloodlines are released

Underneath the cosmetic there is shine
a pregnant harvest and a dollar sign

Hammer rock and blow
(I understand how hard)

.

If speed is death, it figures
under the circumstances, in blinding rain

Twilight arranges its geography
waiting for the bat piss to burn

The harbour has buried the kiss
(I remember youth as artificial)

.

The facts are as round as reality
breathing like faithful dogs

The hide and seek of history
encourages all these false papers

It was hard to go on without makeup
(Only then I was lonely)

.

Containment is less than hospitable
there are miles of rustling plains

The mountain doesn’t blame its height
water falls with memory

Remember the sun, how it was
(I draw the shade from light)

.

There is a number easy to ignore
it is stored in the bones

Acid effaces the ashes
What has happened to my edges?

Colours of flowers have spread
(I am never anxious among them)

.

Skin peels when it ends
stripping away the winter

Parties are driving home
past all the concrete landscapes

The regime is finally finished
(But still it coats me)

.

Marriages are made afar
in the bright cascades of summer

What is harder to forget than Paris
the stories between the cracks

this year, that year, due mondi
(I still have the faintest wound)

.

It is hard to ride the invincible
harder to shatter the jazz

It’s a heart attack squealing
A punt kicked from a still point

Goodness alongside cant
(I have been blown like this)

.

Background shapes into weather
Where the horses are perfect

A surface adds to the clarity
Fallow waste beyond the verandah

The golden song is of death
(I have hidden in its crevices)

.

It’s easy to vote for morals
they don’t allow for adoration

Fecund mangroves on the spit
pressure on valves of the heart

Mortality and love inseparable
(You coming back)

.

Longing at the foot of a peak
the insect chime

Fire is an important task
who are the lonely when you need them

The intervals that are unguarded
(I wade into the midst)


%%%%%%%%%%%%% copyright of Jill Jones %%%%%%%%%%%

chris at 12:47 PM |

 

Keeping up the Fight Against Discrimination: "Our Families Are Here, They're Queer--so, Bush, Get Used to It"

A student from my poetry class here in north Texas, James Yeager, together with his partner, Tim Cole, has written one of the most eloquent statements on gay-marriage-rights that I have ever read. They write :

"Help us realize the dream that so many of our heterosexual counterparts take for granted, and fight this twenty-first century incarnation of segregation.

"Call your state "and national elected officials to voice your opposition against legislation that is divisive and discriminatory.... .

And "please read the essay I have written in response to President Bush's February 24th speech. Thank you."

(James' and Tim's essay, "The Changing Definition of Marriage: A Brief History Lesson for President George W. Bush," is also posted here on texfiles: scroll down to Sunday 29 Feb., 1:38 p.m.).

Go James and Tim !

chris at 12:14 PM |

 

Ides of March! Beware?--no! Let the winds tour the world and make a clean season of it and all the winter of past detritus. Happy March, all !

chris at 12:28 AM |