I attended a terrific reading today
at the Bowery Poetry Club given by
two of my all-time favorite poets,
Lynne Dreyer and Steve McCaffery.
Lynne is from DC and Steve is from
Toronto (teaches at York U) and both
read great new work. Bob Holman,the
owner and master poetry impresario
met me at the door with a kind reference
to my continued presence here in blogland.
Lynne read first, introduced by Nada Gordon,
and these exciting readings would have been
worth going to just to listen to Nada's introduction.
Nada must be a great teacher because she is so
easy to listen to at a podium (maybe a few of you
old time bloggers remember the phrase
"kick the podium" and what that signifiies).
She had great things to say about Lynne's work
but I don't remember most of them because
I was unfortunately too busy being jealous of how
relaxed she is onstage, and thinking how I wish
I could be like that when I read- especially
since I will be standing in exactly the same spot
there in two weeks (please come if you can.) I do
remember that she mentioned that Lynne
hasn't published much since her Roof book
*White Museum* that came out in 1986. Lynne
read truly moving, great new work, including a piece
that dealt sensitively and lyrically with her feelings
about her hiatus from writing and how she felt about
writing now (excited and gratified, I think).
My bet is that her piece "Keeper" will show up
in print sometime soon.

Steve McCaffery read a number of hilarious and
brilliantly witty works including one that he said
dealt with his feelings about entering into
male menopause. The piece was riotously funny,
and kept the packed audience laughing throughout.
It included the unforgettable line
(afterwards he admitted to me it was one of his
own favorites): "I'm too nervous to die."Another
favorite line:"A pocket quide to architecture
or an architectural guide to pockets." There was
another line I won't quote now because I'm saving
it to use when I begin my reading in two weeks.

At this point I want to mention that
Maryann Shaneen was sitting next to me
for part of the reading and I noticed her
taking lots of notes. I assumed she would
blog those notes or I would have copied out more
of Lynne's lines. I have read Lynne's books
*Tamoka*, *Stampede*
and *Lamplights Used To Feed The Deer* literally dozens of
times, (collected in her Roof Book *The White Museum*).
Her books are still the most likely writing I would turn
to in a time of personal stress.
Does this mean a comeback for
Froth?
Let's hope so, because Maryann is a fine writer and
Froth is a great blog. I'm seriously hoping to see a report
on this reading by Maryann tomorrow morning on
Froth because
I miss Maryann in Blogland and I know I'm not the only one.

Audience members included Lytle Shaw, Emilie Clarke,
Jackson Mac Low, Douglas Rothschild, Laura Willey (!),
Bruce Andrews, Charles Bernstein, Sally Silvers,
Liz Fodaski, Cori Copp (who was present when
outside at the break Mitch Highfill asked me
what I would be reading at the BPC in two weeks
and when I mentioned that I would start with
my new haikus, her mouth dropped- I tried to
explain that they weren't *typical* haikus, but
I'm not sure that helped), Ann Tardos,
Alex Trimble Young (!), Rob Fitterman, Kim Rosenfeld,
Drew Gardner (!), Sam Truitt, Abigail Child, Miles Champion,
Michael Coffey, Brian Kim Stefans, Ulla Dydo, Cole Heinowitz
and, no doubt, at least two dozen luminaries
I have not yet met, but hope to soon!

As always, the BPC was on a tight schedule,
and as we left, Keith Waldop was on his way
in to read some translations in the following BPC event.

Next week's reading, October 11, again curated by
Nada Gordon (!) and Gary Sullivan(!),
is titled "In Others' Words: Parody and Pastiche" and will include
Charles Bernstein, Jack Kimball, Brendan Lorber, Michael Magee,
Brandon Downing, and Benjamin Friedlander.

And the BPC beat goes on...

11/29/85

Large print into smaller and smaller print=
significant into less and less significant. Mallarme-
different types of print set in varied ways on and
around the surface of the page. Find the intuitive,
the prophetic in the specific details. Maybe it will
smell (for example) like very old paper. So, this
poem composed of large type and then smaller and
smaller type, like a newspaper with large type and
smaller and smaller type restores some of the powers of
the pictographic aspect of language. Speculation:
that the combinatory aspects of the
inguistic and sensory stimuli of experience
can point to a field of untapped or less
tapped resources that could be a source of
a tremendous release of energy. It's possible
that this "resounding" meaning merely indicates
that something is "more" for now only because
it is an emphasis not yet exhausted by
experience. In this sense, boredom with something
more indicates that its power to stimulate is
over for *now*, it isn't necessarily a comment
on the limits of its usefulness. Time=timing.
In this sense, what we experience as time
may be a kind of "space" for the changing
of a choice of materials. Substance accumulates
differently thru knowledge.

One parameter: simulaneity of already combined experiences
another parameter: an individual sensory experience
(duration of one sensory experience)

9/91-2/92

The Phases of The Moon

Life has been engulfed by words
Only silence moves me
An ironic sun
A black hole of incomprehension
And passion evaporates into
Transparent calm
There are no complete entities
Only systems in flux
Breathless and stunned states
The precipice of change

But only when I've placed the silences
(Continual recurrence of the idea of the whole)
At equal distances
Each guarded by its separate host
The person and the transcendent object
For sytactical freedom
For isolation in the individual signature
Not beginning, not ending
Social security for primal insecurity
A tap-root to androgynous species
Combines of doubt bunched into selves
Which is the spontaneous experience
Which is so much less obvious in the daydream
Or the fantasy
Can equivalence of movement calm
Which appraises situations
With a watchful eye to sufficiency

The excitement would be
Waves on the sea
A changing and moving part
On the surface of a medium
Suitable for living within
Troubled by storms above
It watches, distant

You repeat yourself
Said the publisher
Very well then I repeat myself
I am large, I contain Gertrude
And I contain multitudes

You can easily be too thin or too rich
But you can never be too slow
*Che chelida manina*
What cold hands you have

It proceeds
Of itself
Pain and pleasure
Fall away from it
Like rain
Whether outside circles it
Or inside inhabits it
It continues in the names
And goes on, undressed or in
Full regalia
And it's good to have one foot in
And one foot out
Sometimes

Let them breathe
Take from the beginning
The soggy apples that Fall
Dropped pointlessly
On the concrete
Gifted hands, etching a first name
Feeling the too-much which here
Is almost not quite enough
Which snits this world
Its clothes are not on so straight
That you can understand the words
Because you have the book
Things know their range from centuries
Of ignorance
This half is full
What comes before appreciates its place
Let them move
The things done

There are certain things that can't be felt
By feeling
There are other things that can't be said
By saying
There are little things that can't be sung
By singing
There are bigger things that can't be touched
By touching
There are sad things that can't be wept
By weeping
There are complex things that can't be thought
By thinking
There are delicious things that can't be drunk
By drinking

Fundamentally nothing has changed
The mind resists awakening
One morning the stem says sing
Next day it speaks philosophy
Or is it that words are more than what they mean
The shy master of ceremonies (language)
Introduces them
This is impossible: no, stay
Someone is shaking me
The glass is half emtpy
Here's the tee-shirt
Here's the scale
Here's the light

What does a reader want?
The mind dances or regrets
Sounds silence such questions
And words of enigmatic calm
Which make time perish without a will
And something gone- a thing afraid

The agonizing problem
The unspeakable exaltation
The lip service
The paradox of the simultaneous occurrence
Of contradictory realizations
The old moon

What is reading?
Opposites contract
Allowing a subtraction of content
From the object of the declaration
The half moon
Sleight of hand (not slight of hand)
The disappearance (or silence)
Represents disappointment
Watch his face
He avoids embarassment

Here-or where
(We're here)
What we're? What's this?
That's who
That's when

Don't you see how things
Return to us
Sometimes even more so
When we push them away?
If they want to remain
Their shapes resemble ours
But the intentions are similarly hidden
The new moon

The sense that everything's prearranged
Grows out of an appreciation of proportions
The attributes of a sunset are encircled immediately
By other, equally important reflections
This is where time comes in, when there is some
Uncanny that words lead out in front of our sentences
I more than take note
More than something to endure, to admire
Very light hues of reddish yellow
A long line and branches against blue
Which one- but that is a question
Barges-racks-patience
Something that fits into something else
At first, a smile
Quiet, mysterious strings and only that
Then the piano in very soft chords
Each moment absorbed and counter-absorbed
Tubas, and then amulets

The full moon
But all is forgiven in this particular turn
The phases behind a fragment in front
Explanation or exploration
Yet even the facsimile of the event
Had a real present quality which gave it
A lingering past-tense kind of absence
Don't you agree? That we're only thinking
In voices separated out from a cohesive memory
Shattered, syballine
The fact of its mistakeness was not yet
Or only the central thing'
Yet only an uttterance
An open door
A spray, a figure
Far up, over and out
A synchrony, a symphony
Entranced in finding yourself there
Settled in and already gone
The place already part of the next thing
Unfolding, simple presence of a feeling
A delicacy, a warmth I usually associate with music
Memory, next to memory, next to memory

Two things unbelievable together
The human ability to tolerate
And time
More than two, but it doesn't
Matter
The great pleasure of remembering
Blankness of waiting
Incomparable combination
Unnecessary to be so scared about survival
But this too is part of it
The fear and the daring
Pushing us forward
Blankness and memories
Providing the ballast
And exhiliration the wind
And travelled there by its lightness
And by reaction
And bubbled over
Such excruciating times
A storm of locusts
And remembering hard because of pain
Images returning gradually in snatches
Rest, rest

I shall prove beyond a shadow of a doubt
The valley of the shadow of death
I shall fear no beyond
I shall prove beyond a shadow of the valley of doubt
I shall fear no doubt
Thy proof and thy shadow
They doubt me
They comfort me

haven't tried playing "Stay Up Later Than Nick" in a while. Well, two words: job market.
posted by Tim | 2:10 AM
------------------------------------------------------------------------
Hope you find a job you like, Tim. Anyway, at 2:10 AM you may have beaten me, partly because the weather's still nice so I want to get up earlier, partly because now I'm just as likely to blog in the morning, as long as I blog before all those office bloggers get to work.

Weekends? Fuhgetaboudit, work bloggers expect to be paid to blog. But shhhhh, don't tell the boss!

"Get a horse!" Derailed Commodity...Alexander Trimble Young explains why he can't read a poem online.

Now, how do those fandangled typewriters work, anyway, and where did I put that quill pen?

Oops, gotta go take that goshdurned record off the turntable, it's skipping again.

Dad, what's a record?

10/2/99

From the standpoint of true
happiness all of the usual
props for enjoyment stand out
as superfluous.

An idea for a sentence
or an idea for a new
category of sentences.

Observe yourself in your
round of lesser events.
You move again and
again, from place to
place. Look at it as if
you don't know how you
got there. Now, what
does this mean.


10/4/99

"You know much better than
me what is customary in
this land."

The failed poems streak
like falling stars across
the sky of understanding.
This is why a poem must
wear a mask.The poem
that announces itself
risks not being
heard because somehow
it speaks out of turn.

It's hard to get people
to read what you write.
Keep writing anyway.

c.1979

Fragment

Previous thought: "Empire Boulevard."
Or how about "experimental" thought.
Wrong. The figurative meaning. Quarantine.
The shape of thought to come. Lucrative.
Bank president. Amiable. Not only
the function of the comma. Minor. Only
the function of the comma. Il n'existe pas
the comma. It comes between
place that were heretofore
not exact. Maybe all those are before
thoughts. 1, 2, 3. The comma maybe just
separates numbers. The tone falls. It is
autumn. Absolute September.
What I'm getting at is. Approximation
in a hurry. Then a big stop.
Literature ultimately. The hand
grew out of the arm. But since he
claims I go on to him here
the voice falls, dolphin
speaking to him in Front
of a background of waves.
Days. Roundabout. But
if you disappears. Baby I
them the photograph,
the photograph. Brontosaurus.
Flash and, with that phrase:
history, histology, fissures
token a list. Hieroglyphic
heretofore. Spliced
airplane in. Whatever
the. 20 minutes. No
longer than that
telephone call. You know
uh huh. You were
there for that. Backing
into, horizon horizontal. Al
with a big
slap on the back. Bar
mitzvah. Brother,
But you were there for that
backing out . Just in time.
No, not withdrawal
actually affirmative. A big
smile warms you up.
Arbitrarily adding you.
For that it
folds one moment.
Explosion equals.
Stamps, Implosion.
So, enigma (strings)
you can use words
on target. Plasma.
But still that was
an illusion. Multiplication
chimera. So many
almost accurate.
Remember that?
Glissandos. Words.
An allusion. Exact.
Still there were
words for the
unambiguous
punctuation. Mountainous
region. Reason. At
length. Just an amount of
time and rain. Lagoon.
An on rush. I was
with the
shaman. 1950's
South American. Dashes
represented the part
the space between
words and the
thoughts didn't
represent.
I didn't...

4/10/78

4 footnotes in search of a text
Between the lines
Subtitles
a few simple offhand remarks
the origin of the bicameral mind
the belly
I was reading it all as the title and the
name of the residence=one residence
listening to the ones who at that point in
the conversation, collaging the instructions
contained in the envelope I am mailing
this to you in, i.e.
as in Schwitters
c.f. Schlegel's "directing concepts"
1906
tomorrow's Wednesday
one sure way to avoid extra pain
don't knock your head against the wall

Notably, Jordan Davis' astonishing Million Poems
blog went silent on September 10th.

"The most seasoned reader...does not bother about
understandinng; not, at least, at first. I know that some
of the poetry to which I am most devoted is poetry
which I did not understand at first reading; some is
poetry which I am not sure I understand yet..."
T.S. Eliot

**
"It is better to read a difficult poem a dozen times,
than to read it once and then have it explained to you.
In the one case the process of re-creation takes place
and in the other it does not."
Leo Stein

1987

The Recondite Wayfarer

As such, a word has color.
Its program
is made of reversals,
a trapeze swings emptily
after the circus
because the performer
has jumped and is
no longer safe. These
constant switches in time
during which
an entire inheritance
of living flesh is
endangered at the
mere site of the social
occlude any impulse to name:
now the performer
(the word) has moved
to the forefront
(the forehead)
of thought.

To keep reason
in the background
brings forth the
elephants, the
elements of style.
Exactly this repetition
reminds us of
children because
here the coughing
and jumping are
gleaming with the
bright play of
babble.

Reminders are
nascent in the
American state of
the land. Noise
travels forwrds
and backwards
in time, continuously
covering it. Decisions
are made at the
edge of action.

Premises
combining with
breath
the social
makes the
shape of the
room and
determines
the shape
of liberty:
feel it
with your
heart- this is
the boundary
of the flow
of freedom.
Now you see it
whole, you see
it flowing with the
vast complexity
of temporal
networks. Such
are the voices
of the shy and the
bold, thoughts
cling like
memories, they
slide forwards in
rhythmic twangs
beating their joys
in pumping
farewells, announcing
a concurrance of
of present
rituals.

All this
happened in an
interval of time
indefinable by the grace
of received ideas. These
are measured by the
metronome of
absolute zero,
answering and swaying,
beating a fist at the
side of feelings
announcing a tone
of total trust.

Yet by this measure
time can be swayed
to unite deficiency
with a scale
of being. The
recombinant nature
of complete response
denies the limitations
of exploded
will.This torque
promises access
to the pespective
of seeing the future
curved by joining
opposites. In the end,
the apolcalypse
is a prelude, the
expected revelation
is a call for work.

What masks the slowing
of growing love,
or should I say
who? She sees
the gestural language
of bursting, while I
count the chimings
of change.This is the
same, but the
gathering memory
of childhood's shadow
sings in a turn
that must be heard.

A listening held us
captive, a hearing
meshed with the
ringing of cash
registers, blaring clock
radios, the bursting of
hydrogen, and the smooth
sucking sounds of the the
quicksand of property
engulfing its owners.

Love keeps us loose
while certainty
hardens us
for the continuous
struggle.

Congratulations to Ernesto Priego,
whose blog is Never Neutral,
for recently winning an award, in what appears
to have been a fierce competition. I'm a
faithful reader of Ernesto's
blog and recommend that you read his moving and
open revelations about his ambivalences. The same
for Chris Lott's
recent posts.

I find it fascinating and exhilirating when
writers have the courage to be open
about their feelings about their experiences
as writers. When they do so,
I want to get to know them better and to
know their work better. How is this different
from "confessional" writing? For one thing,
bloggers invite reader response and interaction
which means they prefer to connect with others
rather focussing on being or feeling special,
which frequently leads to little more
than feeling and being isolated.

c. 1994

Leaky Thicknesses

1.

I love to get lost on the way
to completing a sentence.
A heart's forum. I like
to wander blindly inside
an idea, breaking contact
with its literal referent,
traveling on the incomplete
tracks which still haunt the
casings of things that
wanted to be, but found
themselves becoming
something else just as
they were coming to exist.
I like to close my eyes and
lie down in secret memory
inside the ridges left in the
pillows and blankets of
yesterday's dreams (I was
only greeting a future friend
who I have not yet met,
whose book might be able to
open this thought at its spine-
thoughts can mark each other
like sister spirits). I have to
be funny to haunt this one-
even echoes have to be made
out of something. Because only
here does lateral motion
encompass both the heart
and head.

2.

Embrace the whole,
but let the parts also
encompass places.The
name itself lets things
join in. Forever after,
what comes before: in music.
Heard, remembered. Extending
hand, let in. Following is
moving, eventually
coming upon (melting).
But meeting is melting.
Unless, unto. Seeming,
been. Words lie
beside each other, bask
in themselves, bask in
each other. Little hurts,
words said, real too,
eyes aside, small things
not said, not yet met,
misheard, misunderstood-
face, glances averted.

3.

Labor of love-
bits and pieces.
A part to play, dance
of the sexes. Alas,
a hesitant role
for him. A sense of
humor? Don't
make me laugh.
Anyone would
probably get up
again, if you give
them time. I can't
believe how long
it has been since I
looked at those files.

4.

Leaving things
in place I
don't necessarily
get further if I
get bored with them.
In all their skilled
exactitude, inside of
the merciless control
of their cruel and
empty meanings they
will disappear, transcending
the specific by means of
going nowhere. So much
for the intrinsic value
of order. Sometimes I
want to see them
clash just to know they
are there.This can
even involve upset,
if it is in the service of
breaking away from a
threateningly stultifying
situation. To be stultifying
is a checkmate, but
even this trap may be
eventually neutralized
by time. Do I dare
indent a paragraph?
I have seen them
disseminating and
dissolving at the same
moment, emptying
themselves voluntarily
of excess meaning.

5.

Reading as an
attempt to
challenge the mind
to understand
more of what?
Of *anything.*

"If readers were not passive,
but active and true to themselves,
literature would soon acquire a
different aspect and tend toward-
what? one wonders. An active reader
makes experiments with books; tries
out, perhaps, reshuffling their contents."

Paul Valery
*Analects*, p. 111

**

"Anyhow my poems, whether well or badly
done, always say *something.*"

Here we have the principle and origin of
horrors.

"Well or badly"- what indifference! "Something"-
what presumption!

Valery,
*Analects*, 107

c. 1993

postpone

what am I to leave, careless and tired,
to chance to represent my dream,
chosen as evidence of an invisible process
with no apparent thread?
no, I never wait long enought,
never enough long,
to repeat the song
just as I heard it,
without hesitations,
framed in the paraphrenalia
of all my books, in every least thought
I chanced to record,
to once more rearrange the figures
of what represents its total order
plus mistaken points of reference
that at one time were near enough
not only as signs
but within the accidental tracings
of diagonal colors, reminders
of token space,
specific times
now too quickly gone

***

"A hundred posters absorbing the gold not understood of days,
a treason of the letter, have fled..."

Mallarme, "La Gloire"

On The Contrary

The poet's only duty
is to praise.

8/10/77

An Explanation of Listening

I'm waiting it out. There's no choice in this.
If I made it into a chalice would you drink
From it gladly? If I am, in fact, the imaginary
Person you are waiting to appear at the head of the
Door complete with endless forgettable phrases
Twice as absent in their disguised presences
Would I be just as rosy then, widening gradually into a dawn?

Or is it simply an addition of commas which creates
All the work, a solid, impenetrable translation
Of unmade references so tangential so continuously unmade
Out of the touch of your arms breathing inside themselves
It's their breath dissolving into an aid, a helpmate.
Understand me, dear Mr. Rachmaninoff encourager?
I sure have learned how to hide absently bending forward.
How would you call that wrinked or periwinkled?
How dare you label it as words or call it horizontal
When it is transforming unmistakeable signals into singles
All neat, night clearly headed out for? We just wanted

To get a hieroglyph started with rain unmade into being possible
Only absently as a blurted shock of moisture
That isn't only not added properly, but vigorous
In its unadorned suddenness. A sneaky kind of sadness
Puts a poem to sleep. Anything bad has a bit of error
To disprove in clarity. The news before you made it up in your mind.
For example, now would be the time to refer to a rusty ventilator
Or venite, venite, venite adoremus. Welcome back, dear Mr.Beethoven,
Mr Bach, Mr Brahms, Van Gogh, Van Eyck, Van Johnson.

12/9/99

"The world is
a comedy to those
who think, a tragedy
to those who feel."

Horace Walpole

"Just because the
river is quiet does
not mean the
crocodiles have
left."

Malay Proverb

:: fait accompli ::
spellbound speculations- time travel

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Stick Poet Superhero

Brand New Insects

Super Deluxe Good Poems

The Philly Sound

Allodox

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[nonlinear poetry]

My Thoughts Thinking Through Nick Moudry

Kill Me Again

Rockets and Sentries

Automobile Xerox

TJ Desc

Derailed Commodity...Alexander Trimble Young

la photo du jour

Poop Chute...Brooke Nelson

This Journal

Poetry Hut...Jully Dybka

Semioanalysis Discoteche

Surf Poetry Collaborative

Fishblog

Squirrels In My Attic

Mosses from an Old Manse

Finish Your Phrase

******


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Mikarrhea

MadVerse.com...A.D. Nelson

Moonshine Highways...Amy Bernier

Stamen Pistol

The Casual Tee...Trevor Calvert

Edits

In Place of Chairs

The Unquiet Grave

Baghdad Burning

My Blog...Michael Cross

Allegrezza Blog...Bill Allegrezza

(Mollusk)...Carl Annarummo

The Openings...Alan DeNiro

Duration

Stephen Vincent



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Eeksy-Peeksy,,,Malcolm Davidson

Ptarmigan...Alan de Niro

Sorter...Patrick F.Durgin...

Ruminate...Chris Lott

Blue Kangeroo...Jean Gier

Dead Letter Game...Bill Marsh

Hatstuck Snarl...Stephen Kirbach

Zazie's Zone

*~Aimee Nezhukumatathil's gila monster~*

Topher Tune's Times...Christy Church

Yoo Doo Right...Mike County

Word Placement...Clayton A. Couch

Swimming for Dummies...Tanya Brolaski

fluss

The Skeptic...John Erhardt

Conchology...Gabriel Gudding

Parking Lot...Chris Corrigan

Process Documents...Ryan Fitzpatrick

Picoteando

Whiskey River

Dumb Monkey

Boynton

Caveat Lector

Sarah

Slight Publications...Chris Sullivan

Marsh Hawk Press Blog

xtina.org....Christina Strong

Ironstone Whirlygig...Amanda Cook

prrrowess...Nada's Poems

Wood s Lot...Mark Woods

Texture Notes...Sawaka Nakayasu

Mysterium

The Brutal Kittens...James Meetze

Porthole Redux ....Catherine Meng

The Jetty...Cassie Lewis

Arm Sasser...Carl Annarummo

Bemsha Swing...Jonathan Mayhew

Bellona Times...Ray Davis

Gasps...Eileen Tabios' Poem Journal

: (solipsis): phaneronmikon...Lanny Quarles

Never Neutral...Ernesto Priego


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Pantaloons: Tykes on Poetry... Jack Kimball

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Equanimity ...Jordan Davis

Elsewhere ... Gary Sullivan

Jim Berhle's Famous Monkey

Ron Silliman

A Laurable Log...Laura Willey

Tympan...Tim Yu

Mexperimental/Real
E.T....Heriberto Yepez

Bloggedy Blog Blog...Katie Degentesh

Overlap... Drew Gardner

Well Nourished Moon ... Stephanie Young

Limetree ... Kasey Silem Mohammad

Million Poems... Jordan's Poems

CorpsePoetics....Eileen Tabios

tex files...Chris Murray

abolone..Li Bloom

The Nightjar...Jean Gier