Tuesday, May 28, 2013

A Friend from Boston Wrote Something to Me Last Week About Not Having the Intelligence to Take as Subject for His Poems Anything Other Than His Own Life

I said yesterday that May must have more Egoslavian Holy Days than any other month. Ligeti was born ninety years ago today. Xenakis is tomorrow, then a couple of days off, then the 31st, birthday of the  Patron Saint of Autoblogography (hint: look on Left Blogroll; without doubt the past, current, and future most posted youtube on this blog forever, amen). Serendipity, when Kind, is glorious, providing kayfabe-rich bleggal festivals to front-end the first weeks of the Blog Days of Summer and ease the pangs of seasonal bleg-ennui and blogblahs.

New stuff there, will be here tomorrow (or not) when I've not someone's birthday to blogwhoringly celebrate.


M.L. Smoker

The time is important here—not because this   
has been a long winter or because it is my first   
at home since childhood—but because there is so much   
else to be unsure of. We are on the brink of an invasion.   
At a time like this how is it that when I left only a week ago
there was three feet of snow on the ground,
and now there is none, not even a single patch   
on in the shadow of the fence-line.   
And to think I paid a cousin twenty dollars   
to shovel the walk. He and two of his buddies,   
still smelling of an all-nighter, arrived at 7 am   
to begin their work. When I left them a while later   
and noticed their ungloved hands, winter made me feel   
selfish and unsure. This ground seems unsure   
of itself for its own reasons

and we do not gauge enough of our lives   
by changes in temperature.
When I first began to write poems
I was laying claim to battle.
It started with a death that I tried to say
was unjust, not because of the actual
dying, but because of what was left.
What time of year was that?
I have still not yet learned to write of war.
I have friends who speak out—as is necessary—
with subtle and unsubtle force.
But I am from this place and a great deal
has been going wrong for some time now.
The two young Indian boys who almost drowned
last night in the fast-rising creek near school
are casualties in any case.
There have been too many just like them
and I have no way to fix these things.

A friend from Boston wrote something to me last week
about not having the intelligence
to take as subject for his poems
anything other than his own life.
For a while now I have sensed this in my own mood:
This poem was never supposed to mention
itself, other writers, or me.
But I will not regret that those boys made it home,
or that thee cousins used the money at the bar.
Still, there are no lights on this street.
Still, there is so much mud outside
that we carry it indoors with us.


  1. yo, your Coetzee link points the Post article about report cards...

  2. Gah, fixed.

    And thanks for the photos the other day.

  3. i would call that sort of ... as you mention here above.. of novels .. " .. librarian itis "/ now on to what i missed of patti smith last night (?)..as mentioned to bouf and dave in l a .. of here ..on the candy post .. .