I skipped all the myriad poetry activities in the area to go hear Faro’s new band, 5 Flavor Discount, down in Cranston tonight. Good funk and decent rock. Band was tight, there were go-go dancers on stage, people laughing and dancing, and the Sox won on the big screen. Lots of fun.
Man does not live by poetry alone. Sometimes, he needs a dose of Parliament.
Take a moment,
he said, and drink from
this spring —
first you have to pump
the handle a few times
and then it’s going to come out fast
so be ready to put your hand
under the spout and catch a handful
of the water, then
hold it to your mouth
and drink — be careful, it’s going
to be cold, colder than what we get
from the tap, cold as snow almost,
just drink it and it will hurt your teeth
a bit but it’ll be worth it.
It was. It was, and although
the sweat had run down
from under my headband
since we’d started, I forgot about that
and all the hard, sulky work of mowing
and raking four and one half acres
in no time as I pumped and drank
handful after handful until he stopped me
and said, it’ll be here when you need it,
there’s no reason to overdo it,
it was here before we were, it’ll be here
after us, you can always come back.
I do not know it the pump’s still there
but the spring is still, I trust, because
when he spoke of things like that,
he usually told the truth, I could trust him
when it came to things that weren’t
about what was between us, especially when I was thirsty
or hot or lazy; anytime, really,
I wasn’t able to take care of myself.
It’s good that I have outgrown that.
So I’ve been having bad stomach trouble for the last two days…and I think I’ve found the cause: it seems that tomatoes/tomato sauce are causing me major pain and other, um, issues. Pretty obvious once I tried some this afternoon, and considering my love of tomatoes, puzzling — nothing like this has ever happened before. Hell, I grew up on tomatoes…
As a result, I’m staying close to home tonight. Sorry, all you poets…
I say "cathedral"
when I want to speak of
a holy place that is dark
when seen from outside
through a door and instead
turns out to be
full of light. That’s
what a Catholic boy does
when he looks past his lapse,
back at what he once felt.
If I had been born
elsewhere, as another man,
I might instead speak of
the synagogue of Worms, Germany, called
the Rashi Shul, razed twice
and built back to God each time;
might mention
the Blue Mosque of Istanbul,
repurposed long ago
into mosque from cathedral,
and which still can sharpen
any viewer’s inhale.
I am not any of the men
who still look to brick and mortar,
stone and glass, as a house of God.
I know there are evils buried in their foundations,
I know how the good words spoken inside them
have some times set in motion the chains, whips,
biases, murders, wars…
I am far down a highway
now, one where asphalt and desert
have opened me to spirit and light
I never dreamed of. I am no Catholic boy,
no chosen man, no hajji any other hajjii
would recognize…
I know enough, though, to understand
that every highway starts somewhere,
and God at the beginning is God at the end,
and where there is God, even a hidden one,
even one masked by profanity,
there is always a story
worth hearing
of a journey
from someplace to
this place.
I was born
open at the joints, soft all over,
more ready to fold
than to break.
When my bones knit
at last, I was left
with lines
on the inside.
I try to cross them
as often
as possible,
but sometimes
it’s all I can do
even to see them.
Instead, I feel my way along
the fissures in the dark.
The other day,
I came to one I’d thought
had long ago ossified
but which still gave a little
when poked, gently at first,
then more firmly, with
the now rigid length
of my outstretched index.
I forced it then, a little
at a time, until I could step
over the edges and enter
what lay beneath it.
I am still here. I am
unable to find a light
anywhere, and I’ve stopped
seeking one.
Instead, I sit on the floor
of a long hall. There is an altar
at one end, smoking incense,
the sound of voices I can’t name
yet, though I am struggling
to hear them: hawk cry of a celebrant,
sobs of goosedown, breathy chanting
of others who came here before me.
Is it my imagination
or is there now some shine above me
that makes me think I can see reeds
along a riverbank
outside the margins of the hall?
I promise myself
that later,
when I’ve grown to love the dark,
I will step to that water
and float away, navigating
the hushed canyons of my bones
toward places that were peopled
before they fused, before
I stopped folding and bouncing back
whenever I happened to fall — back before
I was taught
that to be solid and brittle
was my lot, was everyone’s lot;
before I forgot
that there is a kind of starlight
that can guide a person
to cities and rivers
if one is willing to push open
what has not, in fact, hardened.
Busy day ahead, with lots of stuff to do for work followed by the Junkyard Ghost Show tonight at Brown.
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Noticed that Hayden Carruth, poet, critic, and anthologist (The Voice That Is Great Within Us), died last week at age 89. Sadness for me; he was a great poet and specifically an excellent political writer — I try to follow his lead in making work that addresses systemic and strategic thinking versus straight issue based poems — and that anthology was the first major introduction I had to the breadth of American Contemporary poetry as of about 1975. I’ve given away more copies than I can count, and still have the nearly destroyed copy I bought when I was about 16 with all my notes — I have to keep it in a plastic bag. (I have an intact copy too.) Seriously, if you want an overview of major American poets from the turn of the 20th century to the last quarter of it, you could do worse than pick up this anthology and read it cover to cover — it’s still in print. Pretty much everyone you’ve heard of is in there, from Eliot, Frost and Pound to the Beats and beyond; did a decent (for the time) job of reaching out for under-known poets, including those of color and women as well as the usual canonical suspects. First place I ever read Diane Wakoski, as I recall. Two or three poems from each of them, for the most part.
My three favorite poetry anthologies of all time, while we’re on the subject:
The Voice That is Great Within Us; ed. Hayden Carruth
News Of the Universe: Poems of Twofold Consciousness; ed. Robert Bly (don’t hate, it’s a great book)
From Totems to Hip-Hop; ed. Ishmael Reed
There are of course many, many others I like as well, but these seem to always be close at hand.
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I had something else to say, but now I can’t recall it — was it something about zombies, pop culture, or the latest Jessica Simpson utterance? Probably not. If I remember shortly, I’ll post it; otherwise, see you at the show tonight if you’re going.
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Oh, yeah! Duende just got confirmed for a Worcester show on Nov. 9th at the Asylum. Put the date aside, gang…
Just sent this out to our mailing list…reposted here for those not on it.
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Hi everyone.
I’ve added you all to a list because you’ve been to Gotpoetry Live in Providence, featured there, expressed interest in featuring there, or in general been a friend to the series.
As most of you know, we suspended our series of 2.5 years in July to search for a new venue, and on October 14, we restart at our spanking new home, Blue State Coffee on Thayer Street in Providence. Out first feature will be Boston’s own Adam Stone!
We’re excited about this — but we need your help.
We’re on a trial basis at the facility, which is a coffee shop devoted to both serving excellent, Fair Trade coffee and snacks and serving the local community through donations and the sponsorship of worthy causes. We’d like to get your help — because our being able to settle in on a permanent basis depends on us getting great attendance in October.
We’ve got great features for you (I’m attaching a PDF of our stunning new flyer for your use — feel free to print and distribute) including a visit by renowned and established poet Stephen Dobyns on October 21st and the up and coming poetry collective Off 9 on October 28th. Please come out, read, listen, and support the series so we can show the folks at Blue State that we’re a worthy addition to the venue.
Some of you may recall that we originally settled a start date of October 7th for the restart, but we’ve pushed it back a week to allow us to flyer at Brown on the 7th at a big performance poetry show with Buddy Wakefield, Anis Mojgani, Derrick Brown, and Cristin O’Keefe Aptowicz. It goes without saying that if you can make this show, you ought to consider it!
So we’re back, and all we need to make it is You!
Thanks,
Tony
Ryk
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You know the drill, gang — come out if you can. We need you.
By the way — if you’re not on the list, it’s because I don’t have your email address. My recent computer crash wiped out my email database entirely, so I’m going on what I was able to salvage from my backup and my PDA. Let me know if you want on by sending me an email — tony DOT w dot BRown AT geemail DAWT comm. This way, I’ll have your address and can add it automatically to future mailings.
Winter is coming and I’m not ready to go.
Something that should have lasted longer
has faded, spring isn’t anywhere close at hand,
and I’m in the way of the seasonal need.
Leaves that don’t come loose from the tree
are not natural. They are supposed to die.
When they drift to the ground, they let themselves feed
the next generation. If they hang on too long
they block the way for the young.
I’ve fed too long on sun
meant for others. I am cracked, mottled,
and impatient for the end, but somehow,
I’m not capable of letting go even as I pray for the fall
to bring me to some rest, to some usefulness
for the ones who come next. It’s all
I can hope for, and I can’t even let myself
do that when the light up here is so bright,
so lovely, so warm.
There’s no point to doing this. No point
in cobbling breath, interest, and passion
until they congeal. I scrape stuff off plates
that matters more than this. Words
stopped having meaning years ago,
shortly before the advent of television,
shortly before the atom bomb made speech
irrelevant. Now that the planet itself
is boiling before our eyes, why bother with a poem
when a bullet between your brows will move you more?
There’s nothing a poem can do for you
a gun can’t do better.
Your love, your pain, your empathy and rage
make no difference to a tree that’s going to die.
Your heartbreak’s boring, your social conscience
means nothing — the world’s a dead issue, and the faster
humanity and all its conceits disappear, the better off
the world will be. You’d be better served making that happen
if you want a better planet, and forget immortality:
it’s pointless to write a poem when no one will be here to ignore it.
You’ll do it anyway, of course. You’ll do it anyway
because the clinical definition of insanity
is to do the same thing repeatedly while expecting different results.
Poets are humans, humans are insane. Welcome to the asylum:
enjoy it while you can.
hey dwarf country
tofu is a mistake
you can bite me
you were our candy machine ring
our sticky hotball of jet fuel
our rocket out of a hot tomb
once you were chucked salt berry
a fogerty full of sloppy chords
air breathed through skip to my lou reed
till you got all slippery with your own clean sauce
tossed out your faded jism bag of dark wanderings
bought your commercial anthem in the fluorescent aisle
come back to your game desire
to be slaphappy sharp against plastic
and wooden in the chops full of truth
you used to have a mouth full of splinters
honored the dingbat and the idiot
who broke the social charm with a big fart
gas monster
huffer of free roaches
smoker of the right goddamn herbs
you feared not death when it came through charred fences
borne on tornado cellar blown open and the scent of acorn porridge
when you were delta mysterious and that devil in the crossroads still valued your willing ass
you used to not be such a freak for the safe
you used to not be such a doom escape
you used to stick your cane in the bike spokes
and watch the cards fly into the dead end street
though you knew the cut was coming
did you know the children hate you more now that you’re safer
we’ve got nothing riding on the bet against your death
we’ve got nothing in the skin we ripped open for you
you big poor land so big you’ve shrunken under your own weight
you’re better than this you know you are
you love the tawdry scent of your former scandalous past
you’re all about descent and not a scrap of care left for your tradition
dwarf country you can bite me
infect yourself
be the sick fuck we loved to love
no matter how bad you made us feel
we loved you all jazz and cotton ball friendly
we love you still you crystal fraud hippie faking wall street loving gutterpunk
surrender oprah
we’ve still got hot dogs
are we’re not afraid to say they’re the bomb
The correct thing to say right now is
"swirling." Swirling. My head’s swirling,
or something in my head’s swirling, or
there’s something that seems the same
as swirling about the way my head feels.
In truth, nothing’s swirling at all up there,
unless you count the blood making a round
through the cortex as "swirling,"
or perhaps the single cells swirl
as they move through the veins and arteries.
I can imagine that they swirl in the tight space
of a capillary while making the exchange of oxygen
and nutrients through the walls. Perhaps
they swirl with joy, and the joy slips into the brain
and covers its membranes, and that fuels my feeling
that my head itself is swirling, or perhaps this is how
the word "swirling" came to be invented — it invented itself
as it pulled letters off of the blood and created the sound
of itself, letting itself echo in me as it shifts among the other words,
words like "responsibility" and "sleep," or whole sentences made of letters
brought to me by the blood, scratched into the folds
by rival neurotransmitters, serotonin waving its glinting switchblade
at the joy that creates the swirling before it disappears too fast into
the walls of the crevices to wait for another chance, and meanwhile
the swirling continues, dervish headspace, holy spring dance, name it
as you will, a pleasure I will pay for in dizziness as I imagine
how to say the things that will make the good part of the spin last
while letting the darkness that always follows it swirl off into
a place where it will lie, still and stolid, for as long as I can keep it there.
IMPORTANT:
I wrote this last night immediately after getting home from a six-hour drive with a head cold, listening to the whole debate during the last couple of hours and to a couple of pre-debate talk shows/news shows before that. During that listening time, I heard several people comment on the topic over the air; then I found a couple of comments about it on my friends’ list when I got home. I was irritated and exhausted, and I posted without thinking my phrasing through. It’s not an excuse, but I know that’s responsible for the tone of it, in which I come off like an asshole (for which I’m sorry).
I don’t apologize, though, for my concern about how people use that pronunciation as a "tell" about her intelligence. This morning, I did more research on it (Wikipedia has a decent summary article on it with some links) and I stand by my position, if not quite as obnoxiously.
In the Wikipedia article, there’s a footnote that leads to an old article from the conservative pundit William Safire that takes Bill Clinton gently to task for using the same pronunciation. (Yup. Bill Clinton sometimes says "nucyular.") So there’s precedent on both sides of the political debate for this kind of red herring to be used as a weapon to ridicule and insult their opposition.
All I want theliberal and tolerant people of my aquaintance to do is live up to our professed standards of tolerance and understanding. To understand that making such a trivial thing a red flag for larger issues is a type of subtle bigotry and snobbery that annoys me, and that we have a long tradition of fighting that stuff when we see it; the use of such a tactic, however satisfying, is to do what we claim we will not do, and what we claim to abhor.
I apologize, again, to those I’ve offended with my tone. I trust you will take that into account and forgive my boorishness. But I am not apologizing for calling it out.
I’ve already seen people cranking about Palin’s use of the pronunciation "nucular" tonight. (Y’know…Jimmy Carter pronounces it that way too, and during his Navy career, he was involved with the early nuclear sub development…what an idiot, eh?)
Know what this reminds me of? People who think all Southerners are idiots, and who therefore use Southern accents to illustrate stupidity.
Snobs, in other words.
It’s a variation, and not even an uncommon one, and NOT one that’s limited to stupid or uneducated people.
For the record, here’s a note from Merriam-Webster concerning the fact that they list "nucular" as an alternative pronunciation of the word "nuclear." Bolding is mine.
Webster’s standard response to readers inquiring about "nucular":
We do not list the pronunciation of "nuclear" as \’nü-ky&-l&r\ as an "acceptable" alternative. We merely list it as an alternative. It is clearly preceded by the obelus mark \÷\. This mark indicates "a pronunciation variant that occurs in educated speech but that is considered by some to be questionable or unacceptable." A full description of this can be found in the Guide to Pronunciation on our website at http://www.m-w.com/pronguid.htm. We are definitely not advocating that anyone should use the pronunciation \’nü-ky&-l&r\ or that they should abandon the pronunciation \’nü-klE-&r\.
To say "the word is spelled (x), and therefore should be pronounced (y)" doesn’t make any sense. Spelling is not a legitimate basis for determining pronunciation, for the following reasons:
1) English spelling is highly irregular. For example, "move", "dove", and "cove" are spelled similarly but pronounced differently. Likewise, "to", "too", and "two" are spelled differently and pronounced the same.
2) English spelling is frequently based on factors besides pronunciation. For example, the "c" represents three different sounds in "electrical", "electricity" and "electrician", but is spelled the same in all to show that the words are related.
3) Most importantly, spoken language is primary, not written language. Speaking is not the act of translating letters into speech. Rather, the opposite is true. Writing is a collection of symbols meant to represent spoken language. It is not language in and of itself. Many written languages (Spanish, Dutch, etc.), will regularly undergo orthographic reforms to reflect changes in the spoken language. This has never been done for English (the spelling of which has never been regularized in the first place), so what we use for written language is actually largely based on the spoken language of several centuries ago.
All of the entries in our dictionary (pronunciation, meanings, etc.) are based on usage. We have an extensive collection of files which date back to the 19th century. Language is changing all of the time in all respects, and any dictionary which purports to be an accurate description of the language in question must be constantly updated to reflect these changes. All words were pronounced differently at some time in the past. There is simply no scholarly basis for preferring one pronunciation over another. To not list all pronunciation variants would be irresponsible and a failure of our mission to provide a serious, scholarly, record of the current American English language.
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In other words:
I may be in line with the sentiments over Palin as a candidate, but I really think those who make this an issue, or use it as something to make fun of, are full of shit.
I love reading in Newark, Delaware.
Feature tonight (after a long and crazy day of training in Philly at Urban Outfitters, which officially wins the title of Coolest Looking Offices I’ve Been To) went well, even if I burnt my throat to a crisp by the end of the night.
Set list:
Breathe (new)
Getting Ahead
Sociology (new)
Punk (hence the shredded throat, but considering how I might have been shot if I had decided not to do it, there you go…)
Total Recall (which went over well, and I had to give a copy of it to a kid in the audience who wanted it badly because, as he said, "it’s about me…")
Americanized
Revelation(new)
Where Do You Live?
Radioactive Artist (another one I couldn’t have gotten away without doing, I think…)
No cover tonight: I did have the third section of Rilke’s "Spanish Trilogy" cued up, but decided it didn’t fit the mood after all. I haven’t been including covers much lately, I’ve noticed. A break from tradition…got to get back into that.
I was pretty well wrung out both emotionally and physically by the end, for some reason.
Small crowd, but a great response…gotta love this scene. I think this makes the sixth or seventh time I’ve been there, and it’s always a trip and a good one.
And now…total collapse. See y’all tomorrow…
I’m sleeping
in the Philadelphia Navy Yard
tonight.
There’s a rusting aircraft carrier
hulking in the dark outside the window.
It reminds me of childhood,
of Vietnam on TV,
of spacecraft splashdowns.
When I was eight
I went on a field trip
to an aircraft carrier
whose name was "USS Essex,"
big enough to fill my head for years,
and I wanted to be a sailor,
a soldier, a warrior of any kind.
Tonight
I’m that kid again, no longer the pacifist
even when faced with how stark and ruined
my dream has become,
and still I love it, yes,
I want to scale the fence and climb this one,
whispering its name: "USS Ranger,
USS Ranger, Ranger, Ranger…"
Somewhere in the Persian Gulf
or Arabian Sea, my niece is afloat
on a ship like these, helping planes
rise from the flight deck.
If I can stay up till midnight,
find a mirror,
stare into it
and say her name
three times,
will she come home?
If she does,
who will she be,
that woman who has gone
to war?
Dark Matter 