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.

---

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ultimate: Stephanie Young's First Well Nourished Moon
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Eileen Tabios: Corpsepoetics [see Chatelaine above]
YaY! Liz's Thirdwish
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---

chris at 11:42 PM |

 

 just testing		just



	testing 		this out 	for  



		just testing 		this one

out for a \\\\\///// VVVVVVVV%%%%!!!!^^^****~~~~~~~~~~

hmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm 

YaY!!! it worked! Thanks, Tim Morris!

chris at 4:07 PM |

 

Just out: the April issue of Poetic Inhalation & vol. 3, issue 15 of tin lustre mobile--rockin' with poetry by petra backonja, mark young, david breeden, aryan kaganof, chris stroffolino, william allegrezza, and art by trupthi

chris at 12:21 PM |

Friday, April 02, 2004

 

This Queenie series rocks!--and do have a look-see-read on the Walking Theories, & the Distributed Novel --I'm always so pleased and intrigued to read here...

chris at 1:50 PM |

 

Happy to say I will be resuming the weekly feature of a poet here on Texfiles, announcing the next Texfiles Poet of the Week, sometime over this coming weekend...

for that, and more shenanigans, please stay tuned--or even cartooned--according to your favorite lectionary pleasures ...

Look, as well, to some more posting of Chus Pato's fine work beautifully translated by Erin Moure, and I think we will have a very fine readerly weekend indeed...

: )

chris at 1:11 PM |

 

from William Carlos Williams, Pictures from Brueghel


VI. Haymaking


The living quality of
the man's mind
stands out

and its covert assertions
for art, art, art!
painting

that the Renaissance
tried to absorb
but

it remained a wheat field
over which the
wind played

men with scythes tumbling
the wheat in
rows

the gleaners already busy
it was his own--
magpies

the patient horses no one
could take that
from him

(242)


* William Carlos Williams, Pictures from Brueghel. Charles Tomlinson, Ed. New York: New Directions, 1985.

chris at 1:00 PM |

Thursday, April 01, 2004

 

from the Nomados Chapbook of Chus Pato's m-Tala, translated by Erin Moure * :

--BECAUSE IT'S NOT ONLY LANGUAGE THAT'S UNDER THREAT

BUT OUR VERY LINGUISTIC CAPACITY, regardless of the idiom we speak

LANGUAGE IS PRODUCTION, language produces, produces COMMUNICATION, PRODUCES THOUGHT, PRODUCES POETIC CAPACITY, produces profit and gain, PRODUCES US as HUMANS, produces us as HAPPINESS

Language is PRODUCTION, thus CAPITAL's attempts to PRIVATIZE language, to leave us WORDLESS

------------------------------------------------------

LANGUAGE, any LANGUAGE UNDER CAPITAL, tends to wither, to be converted into an object to consume. Into a thing we as speakers no longer PRODUCE, but which CAPITAL, in its attempt to privatize us, PRODUCES FOR US

------------------------------------------------------

Under CAPITAL the creators of Language, its speakers, turn into

CONSUMERS; Language, any Language under Capital, becomes a consumer product, the same as any other MERCHANDISE

----------------------
LANGUAGE-LINGUISTIC SERVITUDE
KAPITAL-KILLER
ASSASSIN

(with Paco Sampedro)

* * *

--there's eight boats in a row
--I see twenty-four
--twenty-seven, sir

when the fog lifted we knew the enemy's full strength. We advanced pell-mell just like squadrons that break rank and leap singly into the fray. They'd cut the cables. I remember the ships breaking for open sea and the bowsprit--waves towering! --argh the waves that lashed us. So we dived into the thick of it, twenty-four boats and the rear-guard totally surrounded
--if we keep on, sir, we?ll run aground: Arousa and arousal -
--I don't care if there's fifty of them, we're attacking
our boats yes are hearts of oak, our brigantines twins of shining copper
'o'er the sea into my bower/ comes the one who bears love's flower?
Onega remembered ships and the boy?s arm and torchlight dancing across the deck, the story of Jeanne de Belleville
--traitor, him? traitor? Philip de Valois was the real traitor, he who launched his most powerful armed galleys aimless, without victuals or water, between strange reefs and islands, Oliverio de Clisson's son in agony in that mother's arms, lady of Fortune

From prow to poop, flames leapt, beneath what someone called 'moonlight's cold pallor.' Masts collapsed in the sea's phosphorus, in the battle core, Eleanor, Elenaus, Eletpolis, Eleanor, destroyer of ships, of the city, Eleeeeeeanor!!!, blood through the portholes, the diamond, the hoist. We fell between puffs of artillery smoke, powdery, beer soured and bread good only for casting overboard
--cut the line, sir
Sacau burst in with all the ships of the Corme division
--ever seen sea-swallows on September dunes? such were Sacau's resisting forces. The Nebrija destroyed

at daybreak the Admiral Kumiko Heathrow swept out his own quarters and fed the chickens
horseshoes in the cliffs and clefts, ensign of Jamaica in the depths
--get back to your post if you don't want to be summarily shot
drowning in your own tears
in the sea's agonies
in yours
Eros.

(21-23)

* Chus Pato, m-Tala. Erin Moure, transl. Chapbook available from Nomados Press:

Nomados Printer

with thanks & please note : ~~~~~~~~~copyright Chus Pato~Erin Moure~Nomados Press~~~~~

chris at 5:20 PM |

 

Lanny!--you so Rock : the 'Too-loose-crowbar' & so much more-bar

chris at 12:58 PM |

 

Definitely got on a roll, a reading roll : check these out :

chris at 3:42 AM |

 

Figure Polish




--with Many Happy Thanks to Anny Ballardini for this treasure!

And do check out the rest of the pieces here at Oculart dot com, perhaps especially the "harp siesta."

chris at 3:17 AM |

 

"This is why they blind their slaves... "

chris at 2:45 AM |

 

"... Things as they are must be changed on the blue guitar... ." I wonder if I need to say this?--I'm with that.

chris at 1:29 AM |

 

"face on the grate dreaming still (formed) then dropped to death..."--
harry k stammer rocks
on

chris at 1:21 AM |

 

Br. Tom: you do know how to put some phrasing into action, bro. thank you for all the good reading and please do keep on.

chris at 1:19 AM |

 

Exactly how I'm feelin' : "... until our wheels rattled off into the weeds..."

chris at 1:16 AM |

 

Oh, yes, Jean: so very cool in pic,
and a lovely entry

on something from Stephen Vincent's
many important works...

chris at 12:52 AM |

Wednesday, March 31, 2004

 

YaY!! Happy Homerathon Day


UTA has an annual Homerathon, a reading of The Odyssey aloud, straight through (takes a day and a half), by volunteer readers who sign up for given slots to read through.

Today marks the start of this year's Homerathon, and I'm reading (as is Tim Morris). My favorite sections come at the end of this text, but that will be read in the wee hours of tomorrow morning and I don't really want to be on campus then.

So I've signed on for Book 13, where our "resourceful" hero almost gets off easy on his goal to get home to Ithaca--the Phaeacians kindly dropping him off on his homeland shore with lots of gold and goodies, greater than what he should have gotten from Troy, had Troy been rich (that's a backhanded piece of rhetoric out of Poseidon's argument to Zeus about the situation). But, the god's never happy to let mortals have an easy turn of it, Poseidon petitions Zeus to let him give Odysseus some more flack, arguing that Odysseus hadn't had nearly enough of a hard time yet.

Here's some (we're using the Fagles translation, which overall, I like very much--though having been raised on Lattimore, I have to say I like Lattimore, too, and in a more telescopic way):

"But now Poseidon, god of the earthquake, never once
forgetting the first threats he leveled at the hero,
probed almighty Zeus to learn his plans in full:
'Zeus, Father, I will lose all my honor now
among the immortals, now there are mortal men
who show me no respect--Phaeacians, too,
born of my own loins! I said myself
that Odysseus would suffer long and hard
before he made it home, but I never dreamed
of blocking [Hah! I just mistyped that as 'blogging'!] his return, not absolutely at least,
once you had pledged your word and bowed your head.
But now they've swept him across the sea in their swift ship,
they've set him down in Ithaca, sound asleep, and loaded the man
with boundless gifts--bronze and hoards of gold and robes--
aye more plunder than he could ever have won from Troy
if Odysseus had returned intact with his fair share!' " XIII. 142-157

(290-291) *

Alas, why does this sound so contemporary, so very *timeless*?--to be candid if also cynical: one thing seems clear from Poseidon's slick-mouthed piece of rhetoric -toward-influencing-human-relations: people and power haven't changed much, no?--gee, good thing we don't have Poseidon for a god anymore... so that instead we have Bushbags... & etc ad nauseum... even if we also could not have a great story unless we had such sources of tension, no? Just sayin'.

So, then: on to the UTA Homerathon!

* Homer, The Odyssey. Robert Fagles, transl. New York: Penguin, 1996.

chris at 10:37 AM |

 

from Chus Pato,
pages 49-51 of her manuscript, m-Tala,
as translated by Erin Moure * :


The poet, she gets all emotional, like more and further landscapes unfolding. Fourth voyage of the third prostitute of Qumran or sands that Mandelshtam desired

because I hear my voice in another and another voice, in another
such wizened trees

?? nationalism is a question of identity, they rob you of your identity, because that identity can?t really exist, and later you suffer all your life from the theft, trying to get restitution from them, staring straight at the thieves and trying to make them do you justice. The rebuilding of this identity, its impossible reconstruction, is the history of the nation, is the history of the poem

I?m self-cryogenating
in that un-place: Tundra gnawed open

Enshamanize yourself
So you may flourish me.

(for Helena Gonz?lez)


* * *

What wind whistles in your garden? which is the ardent necessity of your night? what do you know? girl, are you condemned? falling? do the pale stars of fear flee? do you know of the Creator? do you know his desire? are you OK? under what maternal breast? what do you want of me? dances with the leaves and the pleasure of summer? what are you doing in this city? do you desire my life, my gazelle life, my antelope life? do the spheres intone a funereal lament? for you? do winds whistle through the city of the dead? pull light from your life? are your eyes clear as arrugiums? was sadness a guest in your home? fatigue burn you out? will you breathe my soul, breathe the eternal? are you sick of all the heavens? would you murmur in the woods and the garden of silver? are you my favourite buffoon? are you savage as the sun? will you kiss the pulse of my lit-up viscerae, my snowslide? did you watch the sky? i love you. i love you. did you choose me? are these the colours of your soul? must I think of you? do nights grow in your head? do you know where we?re going? silence, does silence sound in your voice? will we see each other again? do you hide your eye before me? are your eyes starved for play? what aroma captivates you? will my heart soar near your fountains? will you rouge my heart? will you paint your lips with the red colour of clouds? will you remember me? will our dreams fall into the world?

Our ascension
(ah)
perfect.


(with Else Laser-S?ler)


for Cecilia Dreym?ller


* * *


THE AUTHOR SHE

Chus Pato was born in the Galician city of Ourense in 1955.
She teaches History at the college level in the interior of Galicia. In her words: ?writing metabolizes the world, even that world that cannot be absorbed into writing.? And: ?I have a predilection for those constructions which investigate the possibility of a language-thinking that refuses to repeat the already-written and lives in contact-lamination with the seams of the unsayable, of what hasn?t yet been written into the corporeality of the poem.? ?To me, the poem is a freedom-machine.? ?My autobiography? It does not always seem to be mine; sometimes I would rather have other lives. Insofar as all autobiography participates in fiction, I prefer not to be forced to choose, so I opt not to have one.?

Her work:
Urania, Ourense: Calpurnia (1991), Helo?sa A Coru?a: Espiral Maior (1994), Fascinio Santiago de Compostela: Toxosoutos, (1995), N?nive, Vigo: Xerais (1996), A ponte das poldras, Santiago de Compostela: Noitarenga (1996), m-Tal?, Vigo: Xerais(2000) and a selected translated into Spanish by Ir?s Coch?n Un Ganges de palabras, M?laga: Puerta del Mar, 2003. As well, as part of pato & esteir?n & ru?do productions, she has given many performances, among which are ?I Killed Him Because He Was Mine,? ?The Little Mermaid,? and ?The Ethics of Care.?


From review in El Pa?s, Madrid, of Un Ganges de Palabras, (Saturday, September 6, 2003, in the book supplement Babelia? translated from Spanish by EM):

?In contrast to the innocuous poetic proposals now in fashion, this book offers a vision of the world that is replete, differentiated and far-reaching despite being formulated from ?a frontier outpost.? Chus Pato presents a project of an individual and of a country. The book evidences a rigorous process of exploration of the possibilities of poetry from within an engaged contemporaneity. In it, we grasp the importance of the work of Chus Pato and, also, its risk. Whosoever writes ?the madhouse,? whosoever conceives of the world as chaos, lets go of safety handles and securities. Not only does Chus Pato not falter in her intention but she demonstrates, in A Ganges of Words, the formidable reach of poetry.?

From review by of m-Tal? in Galerna, New York City, summer 2003 (tr. EM from Spanish):

?Here we find postmodern dramatic poetry (Pato?s indispensable rewritings of Shakespeare and of innumerable fictional characters who have shaped the lyric voice), a feminist and national consciousness, critical rereadings with a lucid gaze (the poet never loses sight of the discourses that both feed and lull our consciousness), dialogues with references as robust and vital as M?ndez Ferr?n, Torres, Celan, Mandelstam and Akhmatova. In the wake of m-Tal?, which seals Pato?s work of the 1990s, the residual 19th century epic is no longer viable. There are no unique subjects, there are neither heroes nor heroines, nor the possibility of utopic stories or pure entities. And at this very moment of certainty regarding what can?t exist, here comes the construction of poems that are politically explicit and incorrect, fertilized in the tangle of discourses that surround us. From this moment on, m-Tal? is a model for all Galician poetry.?


* With much gratitude to the Nomados Press and to the online mag, Circumference. Nomados has a chapbook forthcoming. Nomados Press .

Enjoy, and look for more soon!
Thanks, Erin, chris d, and Chus!

chris at 3:14 AM |

Tuesday, March 30, 2004

 

Please Note:

I'm most pleased to announce that I heard (read) today (actually an email sent yesterday) from poet/translator, Erin Moure, in Montreal, who has let me know she and Chus Pato (from Galicia/Spain) would be happy to have some of the poems from m-Tala posted here. I'm grateful to Erin, to Chus--with special thanks, too, for my very good and dear friend, Chris Daniels--for the opportunity to bring this fine work to readers of chris murray's texfiles. Will be posting some poems later this evening. Thanks for your patience.
cm

chris at 3:52 PM |

 

from Emily Dickinson * :


200


(115)**

The inundation of
the Spring
+       Enlarges every
Soul--         +submerges
It sweeps the
tenement--       [or s] away
But leaves the
Water whole

In which the
Soul at first
+       _estranged_ -- + alarmed
Seeks +faintly for
its' Shore-- + softly
But acclima--         gropes
ted-- pines no more
For [its'] Penninsula--
        that
+submerged--

+[seeks furtive
        For its' shore]

*sideways, on bottom right*

Loses sight
Of aught
        aught Penninsular--


(p. 219)



*Emily Dickinson, "To Be Susan is Imagination," in Open Me Carefully. Ellen Louise Hart and Martha Nell Smith, Eds. Ashfield, Mass: Paris Press, 1998.

** Corresponding poem number in the Johnson edition.

chris at 11:29 AM |

 

from William Carlos Williams, Pictures from Brueghel

V. Peasant Wedding


Pour the wine bridegroom
where before you the
bride is enthroned her hair

loose at her temples a head
of ripe wheat is on
the wall beside her the

guests seated at long tables
the bagpipers are ready
there is a hound under

the table the bearded Mayor
is present women in their
starched headgear are

gabbing all but the bride
hands folded in her
lap is awkwardly silent simple

dishes are being served
clabber and what not
from a trestle made of an

unhinged barn door by two
helpers one in a red
coat a spoon in his hatband

(241)

* William Carlos Williams, "Pictures from Brueghel," in Selected Poems. New York: New Directions, 1985.

chris at 10:01 AM |

Monday, March 29, 2004

 

This "Series Magritte," well, it's Lookin' Good--
Do keep on, Mark Young !

chris at 11:31 PM |

 

dept. of alternative versions : National Anthem

chris at 11:48 AM |

 

OMiGod!--I am reading (well, actually re-reading for the third time, so compelling a piece of work this is) the most exquisite manuscript. Shall I say?--it's not out yet, but due soon:

Erin Moure's translation of Chus Pato's poetic work in Galician, m-Tala.

Poetry that reads like the dangerous novel you cannot turn your eyes away from--beautiful and terrible, the 9just a lightests touch of) story, the images, the wisdom, the word on life. If you are familiar with the Brazilian, Clarice Lispector's Hour of the Star, then you know the flava-mode here--immaculate: right down to the shivery bone.

Many thanks to Chris Daniels and Erin Moure for letting me have this preview of such a fine work! Am hoping to bring some excerpts to y'all soon, here on the Tex.

chris at 1:59 AM |

Sunday, March 28, 2004

 

oh YaY!--Drag out that Pink CD with the California song loitering around its corners!--Steve Tills is heading out to Calif, to hear stellar-wunderkind, C. Daly and, Treat of treats:

D. Bromige (check out these poems--I get jazzed on them--from Jacket 22) who Steve notes will be reading together in Sonoma (?), April 8.

Hey, I hope you have lots of fun, Steve, and there's one thing you could please do for me: give one big hug out especially to kari edwards (who's not having a great computer-week right now, but who keeps right on workin' the scene, regardless & bravo!).

And btw, you were also asking, so Oh, Yes--isn't Hanna Craig's blog (Hi, Hannah!) and her poetry fantastic? Check my archives from December 10-18, when Hannah was featured as a Texfiles Poet of the Week. She can be heard reading during that archival week, in an audblog of some of her poetry, too.

Enjoy!

chris at 11:38 PM |

 

from Jaime Saenz, Immanent Visitor (translated [exquisitely] by Kent Johnson and Forrest Gander) * :

I.
Este visitante profundo habita en el vello y en las trompetas, decora una penumbra.
Vaga por los acordes y los perfiles diversos y aqui, en la ventana y alla, en el
monte de la suprema finura,
este viajaro me contempla, inexplicable,
se seconde en el olor claro y denso de las luminarias
y en aquellos tejidos qu dibujo el olvido
--su mirada de piedra lisa y lavada
no suele posarse en el don de la vida,
sus ojos y aires y su baston profundo cantan vapores nocturnos a las esferas grises
y mueven desde abajo y desde lo alto los flujos y los contornnos de una broza de
los suenos
que nuestro paso aplasta ritmicamente.
Una llamarada se cierne en las platicas y ensombrece la borra de vino,
y anuncia la llegada de un muerto a lost quehaceres matinales
miedoso de la luz, el muerto de orejas de oro y cacao
tiene el torax grabado en la memoria,
lagrimas tan hermosas como las aranas
y las manos dispuestas en su sitio,
entre la quietud de los salmos.
(127)

[as translated : ]

I.
This immanent visitor haunts lilies and the body's delicate down, he adorns a
        penumbra.
He roams the chords and the manifold contours, and here, in the window and
        there, in the magnificent forest,
this wayfarer gazes at me, unreadable,
veils himself in the dense and pungent smell of lamps
and in those intricate weavings oblivion loomed
--the felicitous slips into the periphery
of his marble stare, washed and smooth,
his gaze and grace and flourished baton orchestrate a song for the fossiled stars
and from below and above undulate the flux and curve of an undergrowth of
        dreams
which our steps flatten without pity to the ground.
A flame hovers over the prattle, ensombers the wine's sediment,
and proclaims the arrival of a corpse to the rituals of morning
--light-fearing, the dead one, with ears of gold and cacao,
a torso engraved in his memory,
tears lovely as spiders
and hands alert in their place,
amid the stillness of the psalms.
(58)

Jaime Saenz, Immanent Visitor. Kent Johnson and Forrest Gander, translators. Berkeley: Univ of Calif, 2002.

chris at 8:11 PM |

 

Hysterical Homunculi

chris at 4:05 PM |

 

this valuable bit of wizdom offered in an email from Steve Vincent :
poems have "a way of dying when kept too long in the same container..."

chris at 1:45 PM |

 

a nice spring rain here, cool winds, the blossoming scent of every conceivable thing made more pungent with the rain and the ruling scent of asphalt dust...

chris at 1:43 PM |

 

HAY FOR SALE HERE !

(handmade plywood roadside sign, blue lettering,
HWY 45, mid-state Texas, dawn, 18 Mar 04)

chris at 12:22 PM |

 

from William Carlos Williams, Pictures from Brueghel * :

IV The Adoration of the Kings


From the Nativity
which I have already celebrated
the Babe in its Mother's arms

the Wise Men in their stolen
splendor
and Joseph and the soldiery

attendant
with their incredulous faces
make a scene copied we'll say

from the Italian masters
but with a difference
the mastery

of the painting
and the mind the resourceful mind
that governed the whole

the alert mind dissatisfied with
what it is asked to
and cannot do

accepted the story and painted
it in the brilliant
colors of the chronicler

the downcast eyes of the Virgin
as a work of art
for profound worship

(240)


* William Carlos Williams, Pictures from Brueghel, in Selected Poems, Charles Tomlinson, Ed. New York: New Directions, 1985.

chris at 12:11 PM |

 

So sorry to hear of the computer crash!--bless you, your work--& please keep on...

chris at 1:21 AM |