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Planetary Wildlife Survey: Xeon-13.7
Thursday, December 17, 2009 IV.12.4. This is the last post I'll have for you until the new year. I'd love to be able to feature on a regular basis next year a weekly presentation of images, either photos or paintings, from readers. To do that I need 20 to 25 images for each feature. Until I get those kind of submissions, I'm afraid I'm going to be stuck often like I was this week, having to screw around with old pictures of my own so that they don't look like the pictures I screwed around with before. The same goes for poets. I'd love to feature a different webpoet each week. To do that, I need at least 3, but no more than 5, poems per poet per week. In short, I'd like to present more of my readers' work on "Here and Now" wvery week, along with own stuff and stuff from my library. And, speaking of poets, here's the batting order for his week. Junkman's Obbligato Me the best part of the day Cynthia James turtle watching - i Sue Clennell Solitaire Gin Rummy James Laughlin Those To Come The Green Hair Me a winter day on Grape Creek Road David Dabydeen El Dorado Walter Durk Whispers Audre Lorde Restoration: A Memorial - 9/18/91 Me beyond the fence Cyril Dabydeen Adrift Norman Anderson Sun Devil Richard Wilbur Security Lights, Key West Charles Baudelaire Correspondences Me it's a Christian Nation, i'm told Chang Chui-ling Looking at the Moon and Longing for a Distant Lover Liu Shen-hsu Poem Wang Wei Written by My Country Estate by the River Wang, After Heavy Rain Li Po Tzu-Yeh's Autumn Song Me/Thomas Costales Four poetry/photography experiments Leslie Ullman Running Horse Me watching through the window at the drift of morning fog  I begin the week with this poem by Lawrence Ferlinghetti from his book A Coney Island of the Mind, published in the mid-fifties by New Directions Paperbook. This is the book that, fifty-plus years ago, showed me there was more to poetry than "by the shores of Gitchee Gumee" (knowledge I kept to myself for many years for reasons of personal security) and the book that planted the seed that twenty or so years later led me to write my first poem. It is a long poem, longer, it seems, in print than when read aloud. So read it aloud. Junkman's Obbligato Let's go Come on Let's go Empty out our pockets and disappear. Missing all our appointments and turning up unshaven years later old cigarette papers stuck to our pants leaves in our hair. Let us not worry about the payments anymore. Let them come and take it away whatever it was we were paying for. And us with it. Let us arise and go now to where dogs do it Over the Hill where they keep the earthquakes behind the city dumps lost among the gasmains and garbage. Let us see the city Dumps for what they are. My country tears of thee. Let us disappear in automobile graveyards and reappear years later picking rags and newspapers drying our drawers on garbage fires patches on our ass. Do not bother to say goodbye to anyone. Your missus will not miss us. Let's go smelling of sterno where the benches are filled with discarded Bowling Green statues in the interior dark night of the flowery bowery our eyes watery with the contemplation of empty bottles of muscatel. Let us recite from broken bibles on streetcorners Follow dogs on docks Speak wild songs Throw stones Say anything Blink at the sun and scratch and stumble into silence Diddle in doorways Know whores thirdhand after everyone else is finished Stagger befuddled into East River sunsets Sleep in phone booths Puke in pawnshops wailing of a winter overcoat. Let us arise and go now under the city where ashcans roll and reappear in putrid clothes as the uncrowned underground kings of subway men's rooms. Let us feed the pigeons at the City Hall urging them to do their duty in the Mayor's office. Hurry up please it's time. The end is coming Flash floods Disasters in the sun Dogs unleashed Sister in the street her brassiere backwards. Let's arise and go now into the interior dark night of the soul's bowery and find ourselves anew where subways stall and wait under the River. Cross over into full puzzlement. South Ferry will not run forever. They are cutting out the Bay ferries But it is still not too late to get lost in Oakland. Washington has not yet toppled from his horse. There is still time to goose him and go leaving our income tax form behind and our waterproof wristwatch with it staggering blind after alleycats under Booklyn's Bridge brown statues in baggy pants our tincan cries and garbage voices trailing. Junk for sale! Let's cut out let's go into the real interior of the country where hockshops reign mere unblind anarchy upon us, The end is here but golf goes on at Burning Tree. It's raining it's pouring The Ole Man is snoring. Another flood is coming though not the kind you think. There is still time to sink and think. I wish to descend in society. I wish to make like free. Swing low sweet Chariot. Let us not wait for the cadillacs to carry us triumphant into the interior waving at the natives like roman senators in the provinces wearing poet's laurels on lighted brows. Let us not wait for the write-up on page one of The New York Times Book Review images of insane success smiling from the photo. By the time they print your picture in Life Magazine you will have become a negative anyway a print with a glossy finish. They will have come and gotten you to be famous and you still will not be free. Goodbye I'm going I'm selling everything and giving away the rest to the Good Will Industries. It will be dark out there with the Salvation Army Band. And mind its own illumination. Goodbye I'm walking out on the whole scene. Close down the joint. The system is all loused up. Rome was never like this. I'm tired of waiting for Godot. I am going where turtles win I am going where conmen puke and die Down the sand esplanades of the official world. Junk for sale! My country tears of thee. Let us go then you and I leaving our neckties behind on lampposts Take up the full beard of walking anarchy looking like Walt Whitman a homemade bomb in the pocket. I wish to descend in the social scale. High society is low society. I am a social climber climbing downward And the descent is difficult. The Upper Middle Class Ideal is for the birds but the birds have no use for it having their own kind of pecking order based upon birdsong. Pigeons on the grass alas. Le us arise and go now to the Isle of manisfree. Let loose the hogs of peace. Hurry up please it's time. Let us arise and go now into the interior of Foster's Cafeteria. So long Emily Post. So long Lowell Thomas. Goodbye Broadway. Goodbye Herald Square. Turn it off. Confound the system. Cancel all our leases. Lose the War without killing anybody. Let horses scream and ladies run to flushless powderrooms. The end has just begun. I wish to announce it. Run don't walk to the nearest exit. The real earthquake is coming. I can feel the building shake. I am the refined type. I cannot stand it. I am going where asses lie down with customs collectors who call themselves literary critics. My tool is dusty. My body hung up too long in strange suspenders. Get me a bright bandana for a jockstrap. Turn loose and we'll be off where sports cars collapse and he world begins again. Hurry up please it's time. It's time and a half and there's the rub. The thinkpad makes homeboys of us all. Let us cut out into stray eternity. Somewhere the fields are full of larks. Somewhere the land is swinging. My country 'tis of them I'm singing. Let us arise and go now to the Isle of Manisfree and live the true blue simple life of wisdom and wonderment where all things grow straight up aslant and singing in the yellow sun poppies out of cowpods thinking angels out of turds. I must arise and go now to the Isle of Manisfree way up behind the broken words and woods of Arcady.  After retiring three times, I have come to the conclusion that one of the things that has driven me back to work before, even when I didn't really want to go, was a need for structure in my life. Understanding this, I have, in my current and last retirement, taken care to establish structure to my day. From the time I get up in the morning, I have someplace to go and something to do (usually something connected to writing) when I get there. I allow myself opportunities to break out of that structure, usually by taking a couple-of-day drive-around, when I begin to feel too constricted by the schedule I have constructed for myself. This is a long way around to explain a short poem about my favorite part of my daily schedule. the best part of the day this is the best part of the day for me after the long hours of my short night, having breakfast here, reading my newspapers, watching out the great windows as the day grows as it will large or small, clear, or as today, clouded in winter gray whatever the day becomes, it begins here  I have a poem now from the anthology Crossing Water, subtitled "Contemporary Poetry of The English-Speaking Caribbean." The poem I select to use this week is by Cynthia James of Trinidad. James studied at the University of the West Indies and is a poet, fiction writer and teacher of high school books. She has published two books, My Love, poetry, and Sooth Me, Music, Soothe Me, a book of short stories. turtle watching - i That night she land emerged in clouded afterbirth out of the burst dam of the sprawled out sea and the sky a jeweled hammock prepared to cradle its innocence, its infancy, that night the leatherbacks labored up the sparkling strand to lay her faith, then heaved her beast towards the insistent percussion of the sea most other June nights were brittle nights night without a reforming poetry when the moon in spite refused to light, leered down tongue-in-cheek, those night under a torchlight violation of her privacy the leatherback humped onto the land, cut and swirled the sand with the precision of a cement grinder, to lay and pack tears fastened to her bleary eyes most nights humping her darkened way down to the vacant water's edge she left a million years of weariness behind.  Here are two poems from our friend Sue Clennell. The second poem was previously published by Empowa 2. Solitaire My father as a boy watched his grandmother play cards, and told her she hadn't placed the red nine on the black ten. Now seventy years later he wishes for someone to tell him to put the black jack on the red queen. Gin Rummy The pack of cards were well fingered, it was no crime in my family to play cards, and I played with little grey Sarah who always lost her hair pins. Not my aunt dad's aunt who coughed when upset and was bowed down towards the earth. She cried at the ending of a World War one movie when the four brothers walked in the sky, and it was only many years after I remembered her lover had been killed and she thought he too was drifting through clouds.  I have two poems now by James Laughlin, from his book The Secret Room, published by New Directions in the late 1990s. Those To Come Will those who come after us remember who we were except for three or four generations of family? Will there be a child who amuses herself by going through cartons of old letters in the attic? Will she draw crayon pictures of the people she reads about, showing what she imagines we were like? I'd be a fool to hope that any of my verses would remain in print. I must value them by the amusement I have in composing them. Just that, nothing more. But what happened to make me grow old so soon? When I was young I never thought of old age, of what it would be like. And why can't I recall only part of some scene I'd like to relive now? Where have the lost fragments gone? As I Iie wakeful in bed what I see is a long corridor of closed doors. The Green Hair My hair is turning from gray to green. The villagers pretend not to notice it except for a few of the kids. The pharmacist gave me a bottle of something he said would recolor my hair but it didn't work. It just made it more green, and greasy too. My wife has knitted a little ski hat to cover it up, but I have to shave extra hard to get the green off from my chin. I went to the Cymotrical Institute in Hartford. They said my condition would require drastic treatment. They proposed that all my old hair be pulled out and they would implant new hair on my scalp. They quoted a price of five thousand dollars for doing that. The hell with them. I grew resigned to having green hair. Then a friend suggested consultation with his shrink. The shrink, a very experienced man, though my trouble must be psychosomatic. He had never seen anything like it. After several sessions of Freudian therapy he reached a conclusion. "You appear to be in good shape physically but it's clear that your head wants to cease living. Your hair is going green because it wants to match the green of the grass where you are going soon. You have, let me put it scientifically, 'graveyard hair.'" He charged me five hundred dollars for that wisdom. The hell with him.  I suppose it would of made more sense to post this poem last week, but by the time I had the poem written last week's blog was already put together, including pictures and title. Logic! I do'n need no stinkin' logic. a winter day on Grape Creek Road the road twists and winds with the creek through the hills and across pastures, past ponds, depressions where the water collects, past trickles barely seen below flat pasture grass, past bubbles and swirls of rushing flow through deep cuts in granite and limestone, past oak groves crowded thirstily at water's edge, all the hills and trees and pastures, brown and gray on this clear and crystal cold winter day - the dry canvas of the season, the stark truth hidden elsewhere beneath softly lying snow  I'm returning to the Crossing Water Caribbean anthology for another poem because I'm really liking what I'm reading there. This one is by David Dabydeen, born in 1957 in Guyana. He studied English at Cambridge and Oxford universities and currently teaches at the University of Warwick. He is the author of two books of poetry, Slave Song, winner of the Commonwealth Poetry prize, and Coolie Odyssey. He also published a novel, The Intended. El Dorado Juncha slowly dying of jaundice Or yellow fever or blight or jumbie or neighbor's spite, No-one knows why he turns the color of cane. Small boys come to peep, wondering At the hush of the death-hut Until their mothers bawl them out. Skin flaking like goldleaf Casts a halo round his bed. He goes out in a puff of gold dust. Bathed like a newborn child by the women. Laid out in his hammock in the yard. Put out to feel the last sun. They bury him like treasure, The coolie who worked two shillings all day But kept his value from the overseer.  It's been a while since we've heard from Walter Durk. And now, here he is again. Whispers As the moon whispers to the ocean I whisper my dream to you Everything is best left unsaid Intensity subdued Quench the fires of our hearts No, let them burn! Immolation suits me as I simmer with you There is no shame in exposing oneself Think What is love other than the fulfillment of a short-lived dream? There are no boundaries, no laws no lines of demarcation Love is the sun's rays hitting earth nothing obstructs them We burn as two distinct fires in remote regions One old, one new Each dream a dream of you.  Next I have a poem by Audre Lorde from her book The Marvelous Arithmetics of Distance, Poems 1987-1992, published by W. W. Norton in 1993. This poem is, among other things, a reminder that for folks who live on the coast, every hurricane season is like playing a game of Russian Roulette without knowing how many bullets are in the chamber and when the trigger will be pulled. A lot like life, that way. Restoration: A Memorial - 9/18/91 Berlin again after chemotherapy I reach behind me once more for days to come sweeping around the edges of authenticity two years after Hugo blew one life away Death like a burnt star perched on the rim of my teacup flaming the honey drips from my spoon sunlight flouncing off the gargoyles opposite. Somewhere it is Tuesday in the ordinary world ravishment fades into compelling tasks our bodies learn to perform quite a bit of the house is left our bedroom spared except for the ankle-deep water and terrible stench. Would I exchange this safety of exile for the muddy hand-drawn water wash buckets stashed where our front porch had been half-rotten vegetables the antique grey settling over your face that October. I want you laughing again After the stinking rugs are dragged away the crystal chandelier dug from the dining-room floor refrigerator righted broken cupboards stacked outside to dry for our dinner fire. A few trees still stand in a brand-new landscape but the sea road is impassable. Your red shirt hung out on a bush to dry is the only flower for weeks. No escape. No return. No other life half so sane. In this alien and temporary haven my poisoned fingers slowly return to normal I read your letter dreaming the perspective of a bluefish or a fugitive parrot watch the chemicals driving my nails as my skin takes back its weaknesses. Learning to laugh again.  Here I go again, talking about the weather. beyond the fence four days in a row of dreary winter-wet and the weather grumbles start from the always-greener crowd but not me for i know what's on the other side of the fence and it's not green pastures, but a hundred kinds of south texas summer misery, ticks and cactus, dead, dry grass, rattlesnakes on flat-rock hot days and dead-still sulfur-tasting nights i am a northern light hung on a southern cross and i know all to well what is coming all too soon  Here's one last piece from Crossing Water. This piece is by Cyril Dabykdeen, a poet born in Guyana and currently teaching Fiction Writing at the University of Ottawa. He has published four volumes of poetry, two short story collections, and two novels. Adrift You knew the world, miraculously, like an egg on your palm, studying its shape, geodesic in a way ... Italy's or Spain's shores, going farther away, our Europe's distance, an entire ocean throbbing in th sun's eye - each wave an eyebrow really... beginnings all over again, other places, a twig's foreshadowing, a travel of lost time, twirling fingers, all hands on deck. This thrashing of waves all around, the momentum of a fish flying suddenly, or a miracle of trinity-peaked mountains. Further images of men with heads between their shoulders, beasts or gods; my Arawak's or Carib's face of fear - welcoming, mirageous again. The ocean rolling back like a giant carpet, and mindful of you, lifted up, pushing, from behind a huge boulder, feet firmly planted. On new soil, this groundless earth, looking up at a contemptuous sky.  Norman Anderson, also, has not been with us in a while. Well, here he is again, with an interesting twist on an old story. Sun Devil Well, I was born in 1925 in a little town known as Wilcox, Arizona Mom split up with dad so I lived with the Carbajal family we were dirt poor but I made it to Arizona State and then USC then what do I do? I go off and join the Army I was in airborne then in '51 I was sheep dipped by the Company oh, it was a happy day. See, I had "Old Glory" wrapped around my brain get the commies that was the name of the game or take over an entire nation we all got on board the cold war train In Guatemala we hit Arbenz I did what i was told In Chile we tracked down Che Guevara 'ol Felix Rodriguez still has Che's Rolex watch yah know Che wasn't that bad of a guy but, I had "Old Glory" wrapped around my brain I was the top "Mechanic" for The Company My mind was made up it's all about security for our great nation and the rest is history In '61 we hit the beach the Bay of Pigs Jack left us out to dry many a great man died on the sand Bobby tried to keep it going with the Zenith Corporation it was just a front man, me and Johnny Roselli and Bill Harvey, Ted Shackley we had us some fun in Miami JMWAVE then there was Operation 40 and Alpha 66 but we all knew it was a big pile of sh## Like I said, We had "Old Glory" wrapped around our brains we did our best so who is to blame? looking back I guess to the Company it's all fun and games In Dallas me and Frank Sturgis moved around all the time waiting for the "Big Event" Jack had no security Dealy Plaza a snipers haven the motorcade route was changed the patsy was in place Three shots? now that's funny the "Magic Bullet" I'm busting a gut here! geez ya know the last true president of this country died that day but nobody wanted a Kennedy dynasty the military complex wouldn't have it the "secret team" wouldn't have it and nothing has been the same because the shadow government plays an evil game I'm sorry but I had "Old Glory" wrapped around my brain they called me "El Indio" killing is all I know oh, forgive me for the Phoenix Program in Nam I did what I was told god, I felt like Attila the Hun somebody please save my soul we hit Bobby in '68 because he knew who killed Jack he had to go Listen I died before I could testify before the HSCA in '78 I would'a told everything I knew I did it for our country My name is David Sanchez Morales and that's my story .  The next two poems are from the works of Richard Wilbur taken from Collected Poems, 1943-2004, published by Harcourt in 2004. Wilbur was a prolific writer, known for both his translations and his own work. The book contains both so I have included in the poems below, first, one of his own poems, followed by his translation of a short poem by Charles Baudelaire. Security Lights, Key West Mere minutes from Duval Street's goings-on The midnight houses of this quiet block, With their long-lidded shutters, are withdrawn In sleep past bush and picket, bolt and lock, Yet each facade is raked by the strange glare Of halogen, in which fantastic day Verandah, turret, balustraded stair Glow like the settings of some noble play. As if the isle were Prospero's, you seem To glimpse great summoned spirits as you pass. Cordelia tells her truth, and Joan her dream, Becket prepares the sacrifice of Mass, A dog-tired watchman in that mirador Waits for the flare that tells of Troy's defeat, And other lofty ghosts are heard, before You turn into a narrow, darker street. There, where no glow or glare outshines the sky, The pitch-black houses loom on either hand Like hulks adrift in fog, as you go by. It comes to mind that they are built on sand, And that there may be drama here as well, Where so much murk looks up at star on star: Though, to be sure, you cannot always tell Whether those lights are high or merely far. by Charles Baudelaire Correspondences Nature's a temple whose living colonnades Breathe forth a mystic speech in fitful sighs; Man wanders among symbols in those glades, Where all things watch him with familiar eyes. Like dwindling echoes gathered far away Into a deep and thronging unison Huge as the night or as the light of day, All scents and sounds and colors meet as one. Perfumes there are as sweet as the oboe's sound, Green as the prairies, fresh as a child's caress, - And there are others, rich, corrupt, profound And of an infinite pervasiveness, Like myrrh, or musk, or amber, that excite The ecstasies of sense, the soul's delight.  Out of all the expressions of right-wing Christian arrogance and exclusivity, none set my teeth on edge more than the frequently stated claim that the US is "a Christian Nation." Well, just stick it where the sun don't shine, friends. The Jews can have their Jewish state and the Muslims all the Muslim republics they want, that's all none of my business. But I live in the United States of American, land of freedom and religious liberty and we don't allow no ayatollahs telling who are the select and who are not. Not in my country we don't. it's a Christian Nation, i'm told though long has been my belief that i lived in a nation of freedom and liberty, i learned instead, this week that i live in a Christian Nation and people like me aren't supposed to be here and maybe you, too, if you are Baha'i, Buddhist, Confucian, Hindu, Muslim, Jainist, Jew, Shinto, Sikh, Taoist, Voodooer, Asatru, Druid, Wiccan, Caodaist, Deist, Druze, Eckankarian, Gnostic, Gypsie, Krishnaian, Lukumi, Macumba, Mowahhidoon, Santerian, Satanist, Scientologist, Unitarian Universalist, Yazdeanist, Zeroastrianian, Itian, Neo-paganist or like me just don't have much interest or patience with any of that hocus- pocus if your are any of those Christ-denying religions, then just face it, you aren't supposed to be in this Christian Nation any more than i am and are allowed to stay (provisional status only) by temporary grant of the Council of Christ's Own Holy Posse of Pristine PooBaas who meet every Thursday over the sacred sacraments - sweet tea, chicken fried steak and pecan pie - there in Waco, Texas, right down the road from where those crazy people burned up all their kids cause they didn't think their kids could ever grow up holy enough without the AK-47's the black helicopter gov'ment guys wanted to pry from their cold dead fingers it's my continued tenure in this Great Christian Nation, that's decided every week right at God's Little Steakhouse and Titty bar, and yours, too, if you are not, like me, at one with our holy bejebbers Christian Nation, one nation, under the big dark eye, of Christ the watcher of all, highly divisible into the uses and pagan thems who better damn sure watch themselves, with liberty and justice for the uses but not for thems who never learned the necessary arts of proper prostrating - thems being me and maybe you - who, like i said, better watchit or their asses are going to be burning in hell sooner rather than later, like we all know their going to be anyway - see, it's anti-Christian comments just like that that are going to get me thrown right out of this country some day, i mean, hellfire and tarnation, how can you be a really good soldier for Christ like those poor dead Waco children tried to be, without your AK-47 and grenade launcher and ballistic missiles and Starwars fibrillating bodymass disintegrator, i mean, holy sweetpotatoes, Jesus needs all the help he can get and if he can't get it from you, well, you might just as well turn in you temporary non-Christian residency card - so that's mainly what i learned this week, about how this is a Christian Nation and all my damned humanistic, Antichrist thinking is bound to get me shipped out to France for sure so see you later, maybe, on the Champs de Ellesse - we can maybe split an espresso and baguette - though one of us is going to have to play the accordion if we want to fit in  Next, I have several poems from the anthology 300 T'ang Poems. The T'ang period in Chinese history, often called the golden age of Chinese poetry, stretched from the years 618 through 906. All subsequent Chinese poetry derives its forms from the creations of that time. The editors of the anthology include a very interesting introduction to the book that includes, among other things. discussion of the particular difficulties of translation from the Chinese language, which is non-alphabetic, has no articles, no gender, no case, no tenses, and, in poetry, few pronouns or prepositions. The first of the T'ang poets for this week is Chang Chiu-ling who lived from 673 to 740. He was a native of Ch'u-chiang in Kuangtung who rose to the highest office in the earlier part of the Emperor Hsuan-tsung's reign. As Chief Minister he tried to warn the emperor about dangers to his rule but his warnings were not heeded. He was forced out of office in 737 and was banished to Ching-chou. Looking at the Moon and Longing for a Distant Lover A clear moon climbs over the sea; To its farthest rim the whole sky is glowing. Lovers complain - how endless is the night! Their longing thoughts rise till the dawn. I blow out the candle to enjoy the clear radiance Slip on my clothes for I feel the dew grow thick. Since I cannot gather a handful of moonlight to give you, I shall go back to sleep and hope to meet you in a dream! The next poet is Liu Shen-hsu, a poet of the 8th century and holder of various official posts, including Collator of Texts in the Academy of Letters. Poem The way leads into white clouds and disappears; The spring day is long as this glassy stream Bearing away its freight of fallen petals - Their scent follows the flow of the water into the distance A hermit's door fronts the mountain path, A study set secretly in willow trees; Full sunlight ever flickers on this quiet place - Its clear shining blazes on my garments. Now here's a poem by Wang Wei, a native of T'ai-yung, Shansi. He was a success in service to the Emperor, serving as Court Musician, Censor and Court Secretary and Vice-Premier. In later life he became a Buddhist and lived very simply a his county retreat on the Wang River, where he died in 759. He was an accomplished painter, as well as poet and musician, and is considered the founder of Southern School of landscape painting. Written by My Country Retreat by the River Wang, After Heavy Rain Days of rain in the empty woods, wavering chimney smoke - They are stewing vegetable and steaming millet to send to the eastern acres. Over the still flooded fields a white heron flies, In the leafy woods of summer pipes a golden oriole. I have practiced quietude in the mountains contemplating the "morning glory": For my simple meal under the pines, I rather dewy ferns, An old countryman now, I've abandoned the struggle for gain - Why are those seagulls so suspicious of me? My last poem from this anthology is by Li Po, considered by many Chinese as their greatest poet. Born in 701, he died in 762 after a life of mostly wandering in Eastern China. He apparently never set up his own home, never took any of the official examinations and never served in any official appointment except, for some time, Court Poet. At one time, after becoming involved in court intrigues, he spent some months in prison, but was pardoned and returned to his wandering, given the nickname "Banished Immortal," He died in 762. Tzu-Yeh's Autumn Song A thin strip of moon over Ch'ang-an, From a thousand homes the sound of beating clothes; Autumn wind blows without ceasing. Their thoughts are all at Yu-men pass: "When will the Tartars be thrown back And our husbands return from the distant battlefield?"  Back in the grand old days of weekly picture magazines like Life some of the greatest photographers in the world were paid very well to go around the world to take pictures to be published every week. (Imagine that, and the volume of pictures that had to be taken to meet that production schedule.) Along with the photographers, there were writers paid, not as much, to write little 15-20 word prose pieces that could turn the pictures into stories. I've been experimenting (too grand, fooling around, better) with doing the same sort of thing, combining the two arts with the idea of maybe doing a book some day. The photographs, by Thomas Costales, a series of night images, are terrific and book-ready. The problem for me is writing those little poems that catch the essence of the images. Though I still have a ways to go before my art matches the photographer's, here are a couple of my early attempts at doing just that. They are much too long and much too not good enough. But, one must forge ahead until they are good enough, or, until I decide to forget the whole idea. As I envision a book, the photos (about twice the size of the ones below) and the poems would be on facing pages.  wheels do not turn hub locked in silent watch life slips away for hours of neon dark  bright treasures beckon from an island light around the corner dark around the corner other treasures treats or maybe tricks darkly hidden around the corner - a kind of truth or maybe just little little sharp-eyed tricks a monkey-faced boy and three sharp-taloned girls blood treasures around corners dark you choose  a chubby little man with perfect little feet and perfect little buffed and polished toes a fantasy pedicurist, that's his dream, harmless, i'm told - just remember to keep your feet safely secured to you shoes  secrets nestled in the deepest shadows of night known to those who find in the dark their home and not to us, shy creatures of the lighted over-world, knowing only what we can see  eastern light brings warm promise to cold concrete night promise of light to heavy dark promise of new day to all worn by the rub of past days' loss  Here's a poem by Leslie Ullman from her book Slow Work Through Sand, winner of the 1997 Iowa Poetry Prize published by the University of Iowa Press. Author of three books of poetry and winner of numerous poetry awards, Ullman directs the creative writing program at the University of Texas - El Paso. Running Horse It's not because the halter in my hand has any final say that my black horse, floating like a planet around me the past twenty minutes, suddenly gathers himself from daybreak and air and stops just inches away, all the fireworks of first sun caught in his black tossing head - he's ready to let gravity touch his feet and settle him into mammal again: sweat, hair, hard lungfuls of air. He slips his nose through the halter and I'm caught in the current between us as though born to it, a shimmering silence, slow-motion glints of hand and hide, non-words rising like bubbles into my mind's washed light as wait, listen, touch, while the sun pulls itself up another notch and dissolves the black hole I woke to this morning alone in my breakable bones and my memory full of holes, alone in my other language forming itself again into lists. I lead him to the saddle and bridle and the corral full of jumps. His hide glows and ripples, volcanic, but his head doesn't worry the rope, doesn't lengthen or close the space between us. He moves on tight springs. The rope shivers in my hand. My pale body rises from its crouch over a fire so deep it may be a dream, rises in its blanket of fear and muscle, rises again in its blood that warms the cold caves.  Here's a poem to close out this post. I wrote this earlier this week. watching though the window at the drift of morning fog watching through the window at the drift of morning fog i'm reminded of days twenty-five years ago, driving to early meetings at the university, slowly, carefully, on the road that separates Corpus Christi Bay and Oso Bay, a swirling, shifting gray cocoon of gulf coast fog hiding everything but the patch of yellow light i cast ahead of me as i drive isolation from the world of the new day, nothing to see, the only sounds breaking through the gray mist, the faint call of a gull, the slap of jumping fish breaking the water on either side, until, faintly, the lights of the university like small lace curtains show along side the road, so close, unseen until i'm nearly passed outside, today, i see little lights passing on the interstate, like lightning bugs flickering in the gray - if i was outside i could probably hear a dove coo from a tree i could not see like this, each day brings memories of days not to return, only remembered now on new days that will pass as well, leaving us, eventually, with only memories of memories remembered  And that's it for 2009. "Here and Now"will be back, bright and early, in 2010. As usual all the material in this blog remains the property of its creators. Also as usual, any of the stuff created by me is available to whoever wants it. I am allen itz, owner and producer of this blog and I wish you a merry christmas, if you do that sort of thing; if you don't, be happy anyway. We all deserve it of ourselves and of each other. |
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