Neither Google News nor CNN mentions Stanley Kunitz’ passing at all.
Google News, however, prominently features a story on Doug Flutie’s retirement.
This also gets mentioned on NPR’s Boston affiliate, but once again, nothing of Stanley.
Monthly Archives: May 2006
capsule review
Saturday night went to Providence and got to see a bunch of good punk bands at a private party in a dark warehouse rehearsal space that was made to hold 10 or 15 people and was holding 35-40.
Bands seen:
The Agitators — 15 and 16 year old Clash/Ramones/Social D worshippers who BLEW ME AWAY with originals and covers (Beat on the Brat, White Riot, Ring of Fire — they opened with Clampdown). This was like those moments in ’77 when people saw an act on Friday night and were fronting a band on the following Friday. Lead guitarist is like johnnylexicon with braces, chops, and charisma to burn.
The Goners — Crampalicious power trio with a 6’9″ drummer who dwarfs his kit. Cool As Shit.
The Declined — Hard to categorize. Female fronted band (she looks and dresses like she should be cheerleading) with an extraordinarily quirky style — a little B-52s, a little X-Ray Spex. Not sure how I felt about the band as a whole. The bass player, Salty, was slamming though — playing a Danelectro longhorn bass. Again, maybe 17 – 18 years old, clearly the bass was the lead instrument in this band.
Engine Room — My buddies. Four piece metal-punk hybrid (they cover “The Trooper” by Iron Maiden as well as “That’s When I Reach For My Revolver” by Mission of Burma). Love these guys. We all became quite drunk last night (my fault, I fed them bourbon).
For What It’s Worth — Polished near-hardcore three piece with amazing Jennifer on guitar and vocals. Also a favorite of mine. Loud Fast Rules!
I was more than a little drunk at the finish, and crashed in Providence. A night of Magners hard cider and Jim Beam will do that to you.
guitar pain
I love how much my fingers hurt tonight…
Yesterday, I spent a good deal of time working with myainsel on music to back up some of the poems/songs she’s set to music. Dug out every guitar I own (almost) and banged away. Got a couple pretty settled and more on the way.
I woke up to sore calluses like I haven’t had in a while, and there’s still some residual tenderness even at this point.
I like that. It feels good to have a reason to play that much.
I also found that interestingly enough, I’m a far better player backing someone else than I am when I try to accompany myself. I suppose that makes sense, but as I haven’t done much of the former, it was still a bit of a surprise.
jeans
I’m just getting up after a VERY bad night of sleep disturbance, ineffective pills, and general mayhem…
Pulled on my favorite black jeans to go out and do some errands. Thought about jeans in general.
Tell me the stories of your favorite jeans.
Also: the new Zero Point Zero is up at http://www.gotpoetry.com right now. Go, hit it, respond, love, hate, whatever.
flood
1.
i open every night with a prayer: sleep, come sooner than the flood.
then, the lifting faces.
julie’s blonde hair floating out. paul robichaux’s rockabilly daring submerged in white. grandmother’s dear severe wrinkles. grandfather’s mean low brow. eddie with his broken head still full of tar. blue glaze of paul gentile holding a gun up to a temple. mysteries upon cellar stairs: blood stars, whimpering, sticks breaking underfoot.
there in a corner, impossible things happening: my own head, my own hands on my own ears. worlds built of centipedes. sharp stones in the back of a baby.
in europe they have gargoyles for things like this. in bali there are chants for things like this. in new england we just do not allow things like this, so when they come we keep them under our scalps.
the lifting faces.
george and jerry barone rise from the shell of their Volkswagen. the twins died angry. wayne king never knew me but i knew him and he was everywhere after he died and now he’s here again. the man died surprised that he was the only one.
in the corner my hands fling my head to the cement mouth first. i spit a tooth out and it lands and grows into the next piece of me to be terrified.
the myth of the hydra explains everything: a horror killed begets more horror.
and still, those lifting faces: stricky the flying head, veech the forlorn missile, carole the rolling bag of bones, jacob the ghost before he even passed, martin the bisected prince of the railroad track.
all that sleep that has lasted to this day, and i am still awake.
those lifting faces.
that’s me in the center, my eyes shut, squeezed tight, knowing what is coming…
2.
i have every site on the internet bookmarked.
everything is in my hands. conspiracy? i know who to talk to. davinci code? i’ve got the ring.
i know everything to know about out there. in here is unfound.
3.
some sounds will not go away: a woman’s voice saying slink, dove, scrap, green face, sun on a gourd, crumbs on a dragon, coupons, carver, slide, rumble, escapement, cliffed, stolen, pulse, penlight, painting, clips, bands, pickup, relate, lard, gungrease, quillon, medallion…
then words appear that mean themselves and no other thing: unspecific twoolyala, skevot, abbredient briest…if they could be translated they might fall in love and breed absolution.
no word means nothing. deny that and the clock stops.
4.
god allows me to pretend that god’s existence is as i wish it to be. when faces float up to see me i pretend to understand heaven and hell, perhaps even purgatory, buying my peace from my parent’s store.
when i shrug it off god laughs like a train whistle.
5.
again, the lifting faces: who understands why they never quite break the surface? who understands why they do not speak? why the random soundtrack? why the words i don’t hear well enough to force them into service?
i sink myself in the clouded pool and dig into my ears with my eyes closed. i know how much more there is to come.
Inside and outside
I want to talk for a moment about working in a large corporation and being outside.
I got flak, over the years, from poets and other artists and activists, about working in the Fortune 200. Here’s the way I looked at it:
I was a good boss, one who was sensitive to issues of race and ethnicity and gender dynamics and sexual orientation. And I kept educating myself — frequently, through the medium of poetry and through meeting people who woke me up even further.
When I moved into training and human resourcese, I was able to affect how other supervisors and managers saw some of those issues, as well as in basic good managment practice.
As I became more senior and had a greater impact on setting policy and practice, I was able to affect the overall company position on those efforts.
Not all activism takes place outside the corporate walls. My company had 130,000 employees. I hope I helped create a better workplace for at least some of them.
a slam perception based on the number of people I see freaking about their slams right now
I try not to think of slam as a competition, but as a poetry showcase that increases audience particiption by the use of a sham competition.
If there’s nothing objective against which poems are measured, and the same poem delivered the same way two nights in a row can score differently based on a change in judges, the competition is meaningless as a measure of anything except the judges’ reaction.
Imagine a 100 metre dash which was judged by folks in the stadium who were asked to choose whichever runner they liked best, and three of the judges chose a runner because they liked his/her shorts. Would we consider that a true competition worth using as a yardstick to determine who the best runner was?
If we start explaining this to more people, slam might become more playful and less grueling for some.
god is great
i keep hearing
about suicide bombers
and wondering if they are tallied
with the casualties
when the reporters
intone the body count
i picture a young man
unimpressive in a plain wooden chair
while a friend starts
the video camera
and he begins to explain himself
to the ones he is leaving behind
later on before he triggers
he notes that the world looks amazing
and he thinks of something else he should have said
but knowing now
that there is never enough time to say everything
he shouts a phrase and ends it there
when the reporters add the bodies up
is he counted among the dead or is he
just seen as the mechanism
two legs two arms with the face leached away
bearing the bomb that had so little to say
of the man who could not say it all another way
hey — new reading and a feature tomorrow:
First Saturdays at the Zodiac Cafe
Saturday, May 6th
Noon to 2pm
50 Lake Ave. Worcester, MA
(just off rt.9 near U-Mass Med)
open mic & feature.
this month’s feature is
Tony Brown!!
the reading is all ages. a hat is passed.
the reading is PG.
hope to see you there!
in other words: get up and get over there!
bad man
if i told you
the worst thing i’ve
ever done, you would
dig both hands into my eyes
and push until i fell backwards
into the carpet. you would
kick me and then sob out loud
as i rose blinded and contrite
from the floor.
then i would tell you: i would do it again, but for you alone,
and then you might step toward me
as if i was a spotlight
you could stand in for one moment —
and perhaps i would see again
or perhaps not, see you before you were
illuminated by false hope —
and then i would do it again, just as i promised.
damn
it’s too early to be up so late.
i have been trying to write, but i’m too wired to write well.
the strangest thing about my writing recently is that i’m at this stage where i feel a change coming and i’m impatient for it to happen.
this recent series of “jim poems” is weak, i know, on the surface, but i’ve got the definite feeling that somewhere in there is the seed of something really exciting. i haven’t been putting all of them up here because i feel so odd about them right now; not sure where all of them will lead or how many will stay around.
i’ve also been working hard on the curriculum for the online course. i expect it to be completed before monday.
it’s such a strange time…i’m starting to feel really discouraged by the whole freelance/contractor process. things i thought were happening keep being postponed, and i really want to work. i’m not bored so much as i feel useless right now. after 25 years in the workforce, this is the longest i’ve been out of work ever. ever. i’m reaching the point where i might just take a full time job and forget the whole thing. it’s so hard to feel so useless.
well, springer’s on, so i can feel superior for a few minutes, anyway.
note to self:
If someone is flying into an airport near you, make sure you know which airport he is flying into before you go pick him up.
As in, Providence is not all that close to Boston, so going to the latter instead of the former makes it a LOOOOOOOOOONG trip.
At least I’ve been in two state capitals today.
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