Tuesday, November 21, 2017

Refuse Refuge Refuse

  • I knew Sunday yesterday was Meredith Monk's birthday. 75 this year.
  • I prepared the birthday post Sunday night - mostly canned like most the birthday cards cause why paraphrase myself, some small new though - then, Monday morning, didn't want to post.
  • She's a refuge I go to. I tried on the way to work. Helped. Still didn't post.
  • I listened to her last night, didn't write why I didn't post her card yesterday.
  • I tweeted Vocal Frier mid-afternoon yesterday re: Monk's birthday: Hey @vocalfrier today in (sic) Meredith Monk's 75th birthday (in case you know anyone who has a radio show tonight at seven that specializes in vocal music).
  • and he responded I may know someone in that situation, with a tendency to celebrate Ms. Monk's work.
  • and he wasn't lying. Here's an hour of Meredith Monk, last night on Vocal Fry.
  • On show message board (and Dan on mic-breaks): people just happy it wasn't an RIP show.

Sunday, November 19, 2017

Where Flames in Flamings Burn Back to the Trees

  • Earthgirl on trail yesterday.
  • My favorite two weeks of the year, the ochre-ing. Post peak, pre-dearth.
  • On Richard Wilbur, a new biography, and on Richard Wilbur and his contemporaries.
  • I have not read a biography since made to, I'm not starting today. I'll never read one. Make me.
  • Hecht taught Wilbur, said Wilbur's faith animating his poetry shouldn't penalize the poetry.
  • If I put a mirror behind the otterbox maybe selfie potential.
  • Hecht said, Jeff, you wouldn't know honest faith if it blessed you.
  • Thanks to Dave for the Cat Stevens' ochre song. 
  • All I want to do is hike with Earthgirl.


Richard Wilbur

The tall camels of the spirit
Steer for their deserts, passing the last groves loud
With the sawmill shrill of the locust, to the whole honey of the arid
Sun. They are slow, proud,
And move with a stilted stride
To the land of sheer horizon, hunting Traherne's
Sensible emptiness, there where the brain's lantern-slide
Revels in vast returns.
O connoisseurs of thirst,
Beasts of my soul who long to learn to drink
Of pure mirage, those prosperous islands are accurst
That shimmer on the brink
Of absence; auras, lustres,
And all shinings need to be shaped and borne.
Think of those painted saints, capped by the early masters
With bright, jauntily-worn
Aureate plates, or even
Merry-go-round rings. Turn, O turn
From the fine sleights of the sand, from the long empty oven
Where flames in flamings burn
Back to the trees arrayed
In bursts of glare, to the halo-dialing run
Of the country creeks, and the hills' bracken tiaras made
Gold in the sunken sun,
Wisely watch for the sight
Of the supernova burgeoning over the barn,
Lampshine blurred in the steam of beasts, the spirit's right
Oasis, light incarnate.

Friday, November 17, 2017

wondered what it meant, wondered if we are writing poetry or all huddling in one big tent clasping assholes

  • Fire alarm drill yesterday at work, planned, one required each semester.
  • Asked earlier in day if our radios worked and if yes were they charged gave game away.
  • New: old colleague - who is still a colleague - barking directions like a boss when alarm sounded.
  • Life in the Assholocene: assholes demand subordinates be assholes to each other but be especially assholish to their subordinates, etc fucking forever and always, amen.
  • Get it? New permatag but for two posts a year.
  • As good as anything.


Charles Bukowski

I had just won $115 from the headshakers and
was naked upon my bed
listening to an opera by one of the Italians
and had just gotten rid of a very loose lady
when there was a knock upon the wood,
and since the cops had just raided a month or so ago,
I screamed out rather on edge—
who the hell is it? what you want, man?
I’m your publisher! somebody screamed back,
and I hollered, I don’t have a publisher,
try the place next door, and he screamed back,
you’re Charles Bukowski, aren’t you? and I got up and
peeked through the iron grill to make sure it wasn’t a cop,
and I placed a robe upon my nakedness,
kicked a beercan out of the way and bade them enter,
an editor and a poet.
only one would drink a beer (the editor)
so I drank two for the poet and one for myself
and they sat there sweating and watching me
and I sat there trying to explain
that I wasn’t really a poet in the ordinary sense,
I told them about the stockyards and the slaughterhouse
and the racetracks and the conditions of some of our jails,
and the editor suddenly pulled five magazines out of a portfolio
and tossed them in between the beercans
and we talked about Flowers of Evil, Rimbaud, Villon,
and what some of the modern poets looked like:
J.B. May and Wolf the Hedley are very immaculate, clean fingernails, etc.;
I apologized for the beercans, my beard, and everything on the floor
and pretty soon everybody was yawning
and the editor suddenly stood up and I said,
are you leaving?
and then the editor and the poet were walking out the door,
and then I thought well hell they might not have liked
what they saw
but I’m not selling beercans and Italian opera and
torn stockings under the bed and dirty fingernails,
I’m selling rhyme and life and line,
and I walked over and cracked a new can of beer
and I looked at the five magazines with my name on the cover
and wondered what it meant,
wondered if we are writing poetry or all huddling in
one big tent
                  clasping assholes.

Wednesday, November 15, 2017

emitting cat-calls as heretofore -


Marianne Moore

Man, looking into the sea—
taking the view from those who have as much right to it as you have it to yourself—
it is human nature to stand in the middle of a thing
but you cannot stand in the middle of this:
the sea has nothing to give but a well excavated grave.
The firs stand in a procession—each with an emerald turkey-foot at the top—
reserved as their contours, saying nothing;
repression, however, is not the most obvious characteristic of the sea;
the sea is a collector, quick to return a rapacious look.
There are others besides you who have worn that look—
whose expression is no longer a protest; the fish no longer investigate them
for their bones have not lasted;
men lower nets, unconscious of the fact that they are desecrating a grave,
and row quickly away—the blades of the oars   
moving together like the feet of water-spiders as if there were no such thing as death.
The wrinkles progress upon themselves in a phalanx—beautiful under networks of foam,
and fade breathlessly while the sea rustles in and out of the seaweed;
the birds swim through the air at top speed, emitting cat-calls as heretofore—
the tortoise-shell scourges about the feet of the cliffs, in motion beneath them
and the ocean, under the pulsation of light-houses and noise of bell-buoys,
advances as usual, looking as if it were not that ocean in which dropped things are bound to sink—
in which if they turn and twist, it is neither with volition nor consciousness.