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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,
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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.
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Duke Ellington's Satin
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Hell. Lewis LaCook's bowler hat(s).
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harry k stammer's fez. Cat
in the Hat's Hat & best
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crocheted hat with flames.
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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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Dan Waber: ars poetica anthology
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chris daniels: Notes to a Fellow Traveller
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louder
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|||AS/IS2|||
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James Meetze: Brutal Kittens
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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
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Josh Corey's Cahiers de Corey
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UTA's Lit Mag: ZNine
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Malcolm Davidson's Tram Spark poems
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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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Wednesday, April 07, 2004
UTA Poetry_Heat Reading Tonight
UTA is proud to announce its second Poetry_Heat 2004 event,
7:00 p.m.
Rady Room, Nedderman Hall
Wendy Taylor Carlisle, Mary Kim Kitchen, Robert Flach
Wendy Taylor Carlisle lives in East Texas. Her poems have appeared in can we have our ball back? Shampoo Poetry, Monserrat Review, Cider Press Review, Borderlands, Passager, Prairie Dog, Maverick, 2 River View, Unlikely Stories, Perihelion, The Astrophysicist’s Tango Partner, Isibongo, Conspire, Tintern Abbey, Zuzu's Petals, Three Candles, and Pig Iron Malt. She has won The Lipscomb Award from Centenary College, a Passager Poetry Contest Award, and has been three times nominated for a Pushcart Prize. Her first book, Reading Berryman to the Dog, was published by Jacaranda Press in 2000, and her work appears in Athens Avenue: A Collection of Poetry (Funky Dog Publishing, 1999).
Mary Kim Kitchen is a poet and associate director, UTA Upward Bound Program
Robert Flach is a graduating English major and accomplished poet
Poetry_Heat is sponsored by the UTA Writing Center, Chris Murray, Director
chris at
11:11 AM
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from Michael Snider, Texfiles Poet of the Week :
Another set of poems rewritten one to the other in the mode of one of the ancient western rhetorical exercises, this one with a perspectival change in the form, as well as narrators.
Mysterious Ways
I found her on my porch one night, half stoned,
Black-eyed, and broke. I had a sofa-bed,
Where passing out "Will I be safe?" she moaned--
I figured while she snored she wasn't dead.
Next morning came the tale. It was her son
Who'd beat her up and robbed her for cocaine,
And daughter who, not to be outdone,
Had dropped her off with whiskey for her pain.
She wouldn't call the cops, and I got mad.
I didn't see her till the hurricane
Had come and gone and taken all she had:
"My Kenny stole so much from me God swore
He'd send a storm so he can't steal no more."
* * *
Mysterious Ways
Kenny just took and took from me till God
Said "That's enough!" and washed away my house.
I reckon it's because I spared the rod
Kenny just took and took from me till God
Had had enough of him and gave His nod
To the hurricane to stop the thieving louse.
Kenny just took and took from me till God
Said "That's enough," and washed away my house.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~copyright of michael snider~~~~~~~~~~~~~
chris at
10:56 AM
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Sawako has "a field of fried umbrellas" !
chris at
3:18 AM
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reading over at Tim Yu's blog and found this good news:
Ali Warren has a book out (congratulations, Ali)! Schema. I'm ordering that one, yes!
chris at
2:10 AM
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YaY!!
Shampoo 20 is up: checkitout!--tim yu, stephanie young, cassie lewis, del ray cross, mark du charme, tanya brolaski, carl annarummo and many more fine poets/works.
chris at
2:04 AM
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I am ever indebted to owls.
I was surprised by one owl one time. Mottled. Speckles. The only owl. Marked by. This meaning of soft. No one hurt but the owl. Preserved on the grille of my night driving jeep. Highway 180 between Flagstaff and Junction 64 to Grand Canyon, AZ. Just coming. Down. Wave of double. Striped road. Out of the Kaibab pines into the next plateau. The Coconino pinons. Coyotes running the road now and. Pitch midnight near milkyway. Colder than stars with. World? Blackeyed Susans leaning into asphalt all the way. Dashboard greens. Radio on Emmylou: "Before Believing." Bundle of incoherent contradiction criss-crosses these are: high beams out of nowhere. Is, everywhere. Is gone. Something to pause. Then to keep going (as life will). Embodiment of fifty miles later. Home at Grand Canyon (lived there for ten or so years in another life). Owl wingspread, body crisp, across the wide grille of the Jeep, exquisitely preserved instant about no grief. Beautifully, as in. Golden, Godlen, Godling, Golem, God/Lent. Feathers on the ling and the wisp and the uplift in a breeze against the still-hot engine. Debt and talisman, fortunate unfortune transfer complete. I am indebted over. This is ever. In owls. For and Given.
chris at
1:01 AM
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The Owls
chris at
12:52 AM
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Tuesday, April 06, 2004
So very happy to be reminded here of the magical: via Gustav Moreau on the post of 6 April and (I'm adding hours later) on the 7th, that it is Billie Holiday's birthday: Happiness wisht, lady.
Many thanks to Mark, of Wood's Lot, one of my all-time favorite reads in blogland.
chris at
6:52 PM
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From Michael Snider, Texfiles Poet of the Week :
Michael often writes in forms, and is well known for his way with the sonnet. Here are two, on the same subject, one a rewrite of the other, which is a standard exercise in the western history of rhetoric, the specific use of poetry this way going back at least to Erasmus.
Casual Conversation
He said he was an angel
but he didn't look so good.
Asked him what was up
"Not me, man--
This job sucks."
So I bought him a draught
and settled in. "I thought
the percs'd be pretty good--
I mean, unless you're
somebody's guardian angel--
I'd hate to be mine."
"I do hate it, man."
And he drained his mug
and stood up--"See ya, pal."
Some Stranger
3 beers before he'd tell me what he did,
And I just laughed. An angel? Cherub, right?
He lost those rosy cheeks--May God forbid
You meet their kind. You'd wither in that light.
When I heard that the booth got smaller quick.
It made me wonder if beer was all he'd had--
So pale! I asked him was he feeling sick.
He shook himself. He grinned, Not near as bad
As some will feel. Now that was really weird.
I played it safe and asked about his work--
Not bad to live forever, be revered,
Unless you're guardian to some wise-ass jerk...
You got it, pal. He drained his mug and stood.
I'm damned if I know how to do you good.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~copyright of michael snider~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
chris at
11:28 AM
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Exciting: Wendy Taylor Carlisle coming in today. She's doing a workshop with my students and giving a reading for Poetry_Heat tomorrow night. Welcome, Wendy!
chris at
10:59 AM
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In the morn: new poems from Michael Snider, Texfiles Poet of the Week
chris at
3:23 AM
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Oh (absofrabulously promotional) Yeah, gimme more: the new
Moria Poetry is up !
and doin' good things, including:
--some very fine LYX ISH
(this is just terrific in terms of tribute-wise: special thanks for this, Bill)
--& from the rest of us wee volk:
strong work from YaY!! harry k stammer
--& Oh Yeah: mr. blues rockin' clayton couch
(personal faves of mine, i have to say)
--& not to be missed in the pleasures of the faves: jean vengua,
--& whooooowheeee:
eileen tabios,
--& sueyen juliette lee
(en total: les femmes extrordinairiandefinitely methinks).
--but please do not stop there:
go see this fine piece by the infamously fabulificus ela kotkowska !! on B-longing.
no, i mean B-logging--yeah, that's it... bloggering...
--& pulling up the caboose: lil ol me with 2 squalling new bratty ones:
The Idea of Border
&
Hysterical Homunculi
OH MAMA!
Enjoy ! !
chris at
1:31 AM
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Just Reading Around.
Like a Slut-- oops, sorry Jessa! fell into that one!
Oh, like I do so love to
do.
& Found this very nice bloggie thing I didn't realize Tim Peterson runs,
and now feel so silly, for,
I should definitely have looked sooner, and found this good readerly work:
(i love this name:) Mappemunde...
Well, ya kno:
it's an architechtonic, geo-been-to-AZ for
love & listening thing...
chris at
12:48 AM
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Monday, April 05, 2004
So nice to hear: "Home again... "-- YaY!!
chris at
11:45 PM
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I am so sick of George Bushbag pop-ups that I could just puke.
Sorry, all. Just had to say that. I feel better now.
chris at
11:37 PM
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Just finished reading a great article I strongly recommend: "Reformulating Forms," by Ravi Shankar, in the current Contemporary Poetry Review. It's an article on two contemporary Indian poets and their rhetorical situations of Indian and internationalist perspectives.
Here is a taste of the poetry and the incisive perspective (s) Shankar offers:
--from Rukmini Bhaya Nair, of Delhi, Shankar writes that we are "looking anew at the materiality of language" via (I'm quoting the first line of) the feminist poem, "Genderole":
"Considerthefemalebodyyourmost
basictextanddon'tforgetit... "
This is a terrific poem incisively read by Shankar.
--and from Keki N. Daruwalla, also residing in Delhi, comes the wake-up call to realize the material result of the on-going conflicts--really, war--between the Hindus and the Muslims. Here is the last line of the brutally yet poetically clearcut "Gujarat 2002" :
"In such times is lockjaw the best--to be dumb, to be mute?"
Shankar rightly explains that, here, "metonymy is once again used to show the extent to which human beings have been turned into weapons... ."
Here is politically active poetry in some of its internationally best manifestations. Keep on.
Do check out this fine article, this fine poetry, today.
chris at
10:24 AM
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Announcing: a new Texfiles Poet of the Week!
I've long wanted to be able to feature this fine poet and person, and now, finally the day has come:
a warm welcome going out to Michael Snider, who blogs at the Formal Sonnetarium, and who is now the latest feature here on Texfiles! Here are 2 of his poems:
Read, Read, Talk, Talk *
My Buddhist shrink tells me stories
Collected in Zen Flesh, Zen Bones.
He doesn’t know I’ve bought the book
Or how I quickly solve his koans.
It’s the same at work--I read the books
That no one else has time to read
And I’m a fucking guru when
Their code is tangled in the weeds.
Even you, who should know better,
Shake your head at what I know--
I talk about the things I've read,
A never-ending trivia show--
So where's the book that teaches quiet?
Promiscuous talk and empty arms
Are all the profit reading brings me,
And at 3 am, they have no charms.
* * *
Actaeon Still, on 2nd St. **
Through the left-hand window the moon
Appears each night smaller, later,
Fainter, and finally, gone.
The third night of darkness
Its thin crescent appears
On the sine-wave of love and suicide--
I feel its sway in my genitals,
In my spine, in my legs and mouth.
Every night I forget my name,
Speak a language I never knew.
I want to steal a car
And drive madly west
To the Sierra Madre, to the Pacific,
But the moon is already there--
It is easy to name her Hunter.
I feel the horn in my brain.
* Originally published in Matrix.
** Originally published in Louisville Review
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~copyright of Michael Snider~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
chris at
3:30 AM
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Yikes: "texticles"!? it sounds a little too close for [texfiles] comfort, if I may say so... no offense intended, just good naturedly, um... wandering through the semiotic ... Richard's poetry and the idea of *correspondences* is certainly intriguing
chris at
12:41 AM
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Sunday, April 04, 2004
some favorites pastiched from Araki Yasusada, Doubled Flowering * :
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
--[undated] amidst condoms washed up on the beach
a plastic dinosaur bears its teeth (43)
--July 14, 1948
The facist is young--
Why does he carry a teapot
among the graves? (17)
--"Motokiyu, we know, would have shrugged his shoulders... "(Kent Johnson and Javier Alvarez, 124)
--Telescope with Urn
February 14, 1960
The image of the galaxies spreads out like a cloud of sperm.
Expanding, said the observatory guide, and at such and such velocity.
It is like the idea of the flowers, opening within the idea of the flowers.
I like to think of that, said the monk, arranging them with his papery fingers.
Tiny were you, and squatted over a sky-colored bowl to make water.
What a big girl! cried we, tossing you in the general direction of the stars.
Intently, then, in the dream, I folded up the great telescope on Mount Horai.
In the form of this crane, it is small enough for the urn. (32)
--Dream and Charcoal
[undated]
And then she said: I have gone toward the light and become beautiful.
And then she said: I have taken a couple of wings and attached them to the various back-parts of my body.
And then she said: all the guests are coming back to where they were and then talking.
To which she said: without the grasp-handle, how would you recognize my nakedness?
To which she replied: without nothing is when all things die.
Which is when she had a wild battle with the twigs.
Which is when the charcoal was passed from her body to mine.
Which was how she rose into the heavens, blinding the pedestrians.
Which was how our union was transposed into a dark scribble.
Which became the daughter calling, calling my name to wake me. (46)
--Mad Daughter and Big-Bang
December 25, 1945*
Walking in the vegetable patch
late at night, I was startled to find
the severed head of my
mad daughter lying on the ground.
Her eyes were upturned, gazing at me, ecstatic-like...
(From a distance it had appeared
to be a stone, haloed with light,
as if cast there by the Big-Bang.)
What on earth are you doing, I said,
you look ridiculous.
Some boys buried me here,
she said sullenly.
Her dark hair, comet-like, trailed behind...
Squatting, I pulled the
turnip up by the root.
*[in the aftermath of the bombing, many survivors moved into the foothills of the Chugoku mountains surrounding Hiroshima. This was the case with Yasusada and his daughter.] (11)
--June 2, 1972
delicacy of delicacies
the breeze in the thick pines
of this ink-wash scroll (115)
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
*Araki Yasusada, Doubled Flowering: from the Notebooks of Araki Yasusada. Copyright of Kent Johnson. New York: Roof Books, 1997
chris at
11:21 PM
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Oh hey! I want to go to this!
kari... putting this wonderful thing together: you rock!
chris at
10:03 PM
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Two more posts coming up tonight, one the announcement of a new Texfiles Poet of the Week. Please stay tuned: I'm typing slower than ever!
chris at
9:34 PM
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Poetry_Heat Readings--plus an excerpt from Dale Smith's The Flood and the Garden
It gives me great pleasure to post the following. The Flood and the Garden has some of the most intelligent and vibrant commentary to be found today on the history of poetics and everyday life. If you have not yet gotten this book, look into it.
I would also like to take this moment to announce two more readings in my continuing reading series here at UTA, Poetry_Heat:
Wendy Taylor Carlisle, Mary Kim Kitchen, and Robert Flach
7:00 p.m., Wednesday, April 6, 2004
103 University Hall
University of Texas at Arlington
* * *
Dale Smith and Hoa Nguyen
7:00 p.m., Saturday, April 17, 2004
Red River Room
University of Texas, Arlington
Poetry_Heat is sponsored by the UTA Writing Center,
Chris Murray, Director
* * * * * * * * * * * * * *
from Dale Smith, The Flood and the Garden
32
Pound's concerns were occupied almost wholly with transformation. The metamorphosis of energy, forms, people, trees. The distribution of Persephone throughout the year pressed against his psyche again and again. It's hard to see those Mediterranean concerns through this arrid cacti and juniper scrub. Oak and brush on limestone gather summer heat with archaic indifference. The Steens would be a drive of several days, and present concerns of a different scale. I'm waiting for other rhythms here now. Hoa's sciatic nerve aches. I knuckle cream into her hip muscle. The light force of rain at our window resumes.
33
Dear William Carlos Williams: I read your poems tonight. June bugs pop on the porch between mosquito bites. Here, the sensual world continues, despite computers, autos, cell phones and airplanes. Words, too, drive through us. Your Kora in Hell goes strange and powerful. What looked through you then? Alone in your room late nights bringing your words to the page? Your earth tenderness took root in the freed composition of song.
37
Whitman too pushed through these things. The white death of our social urges keep us drifting. Rotating green clouds loom on some foreboding sky. Tangle of branches and thorns pull you in, poison ivy staining your arm there in the bleached topsoil. We live here between sun and moon, under sky and star, of the earth disappointed or driven by weather. Machines rage, a by-product of Western alchemy, but you understood language resembled our first forms.
49
You can gather these things everyone knows. You absorb experience--the deep past, every atom of the present. You do what you know before you know what to do. Glut of sensation beats the heart. We eat our pistachio and mint double scoops from a waffle cone.
(84-85, 89)
* Dale Smith, The Flood and the Garden. Lawrence, KS: First Intensity Press, 2002
chris at
8:22 PM
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from William Carlos Williams, Sonnet in Search of an Author * :
Nude bodies like peeled logs
sometimes give off a sweetest
odor, man and woman
under the trees in full excess
matching the cushion of
aromatic pine-drift fallen
threaded with trailing woodbine
a sonnet might be made of it
Might be made of it! odor of excess
odor of pine needles, odor of
peeled logs, odor of no odor
other than the trailing woodbine that
has no odor, odor of a nude woman
sometimes, odor of a man.
(255)
* William Carlos Williams, Selected Poems Charles Tomlinson, Ed. New York: New Directions, 1985.
chris at
3:12 PM
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Saturday, April 03, 2004
I like these, Katey.
Here is another Magritte, from Katey, on Clairvoyance...
chris at
11:42 PM
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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
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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
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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
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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
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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
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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
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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
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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~~~~~
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