(((((echoes, re-verbs))))) off Three Sisters Mounts looming over my right shoulder just out the plate-glass door., the Sisters, not my shoulder (nadda yogini). Me who? ' - cue zen yodeler in my head, warbling Zen made/makes one, me, somewhat preponderant, or it's just inherently irreverent me, or, is it just me, if so then I shall wear the bottoms my trousers rolled'. Eliot's gin breathed growling in the noggin', Was/were my zennish days more or less or not at all, my NOW AND ZEN SOME days, my zen teacher a proponent of Wrecking Ball Zen which explains the glazed right eye and the intense left, bereft of self or no-self as the zen language games go, brilliantly so, sweetens obscurity, blurs meanings edges through which one can fall into hopeful (bad, bad, no hope no hope screams sensei) satori, or better, 'what not'.įrom the journal then, rather, yearnal, again rather, urinal - aka pissed zen, patience wearing thin, hair too, gale blowing from peaks into valley, the comb over undone, T. But never the ever-present raver's edge, er, I mean razor's edge. a few bracketed from Wallace StevensĮpimetheus Looks Back - Upon Gazing at a Photo of Sixty Year Old Me from My Now Being Sevety OneĪ decade ago, now a stacked deck of decades, seven plus one card more, was in the Adirondacks, wood stove flue over my left shoulder, the valleys of the deepening labial folds, dark ink blotting the corners of my mouth, 'goin' south', or, rather 'west' 'where the fence commences', me gazing 'at the moon till I lose my senses'. 'I am aware of being in the elegy season.' 'One feels the life of that which gives life as it is. Pull down thy vanity' - Ezra Pound, from Pisan Canto LXXXI 'The ant's a centaur in his dragon world. Poetry is a word like love: an endless confusion of different things all warped into one word because no vocabulary of discrimination exists.' - Jack Gilbert 'There isn't any one correct way to write poetry. 'There is another world, but it is inside this one.' - Paul Celan Unless it's pierced by light.' Anna Kamienska: I often hear students get exasperated if a poem stretches the bounds of what they think poetry includes.' The world went inside the internet and became the world.a poem may not conform to your worldview, your tastes, or what you think a poem can be. 'We happen to live at a moment that is going to get worse before it gets better. 'Mark the first page of the book with a red marker.įor, in the beginning, the wound is invisible.' - Edmund Jabes to begin with a swelled head and end with swelled feet.' - Ezra Pound 'Toot Toot Lovers! Bag of bones coming through! ' - Richard Hugo NightingaleĬonsider those who conform and know something's wrongĪnd need a zany few who won't obey.' - Richard Hugo Impatient, theyīlot their brightened lips, stain tissues thin between While fresh girls defy gravity while they can curving Thrill rides plummet stick children hard and down The hand relenting to degrees of gray mustard smearedĪs is the wind also gray beside the ruined amusements. On this manic strand the franks* are speechless in Keen on in staggered rhyme forgetting they Now: To the poems as autobiography, or biography of many part-selves in contention for prominence:ĭescend -and of the curveship lend a myth to god - Hart Craneīenched blondes free from restraining rides Liddell and Scott, Greek-Engish Lexicon,1897 ed (B) to drink with closed lips, to suck in. Or 'mumu', to murmur with closed lips, to mutter, Murmur - (A) to make the sound 'mu mu' (old Greek) Of a Christmas in river floods, sky responding Plankt-ruins' old stead close beside a wagon trailīarely road/not road, avails centuries shovel-preserved, Tomatoes reborn stray between rows and roses 'Graceless things grow lovely with good uses.' -John Tarrantĭoes an orchard make from stone (peach) , The question, Indeed, is 'how do we stand within these (hell) realms now? ' The other, 'How to meaningfully respond? ' The notions together evoke that which no longer, if ever, ghost's' the past century as well as the new one we're collectively/globally 'grand mal-ing' yet again in now after Millenia of the same only with dastardly advanced technology which may soon render the planet into Absence unlavish). 'Lavish Absence' is part of a title of a memoir about Edmond Jabès. 'Supreme Fiction' is part of a poem title by Wallace Stevens The Planet on the Table by Wallace StevensĪnd his poems, although makings of his self, The conjure conjectures with very good china, With Stevens on this one, the Atman project, Supreme Fiction or Lavish Absence: From The Dusk Of My Ghost House - Adventures Of An Autodactyl - A Vanity Mildly Tourettic
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