Thursday, March 31, 2005
I'm also adding ecce mulier, an anonymous blog "posted by R.L." although up until a couple of days ago it was "posted by Nietzsche's Wife" which I kinda liked since it reminded me of the great Charlie Mingus' tune "All the things you could be by now if Sigmund Freud's wife was your mother". I mentally translate ecce mulier as "Behold the Donkey-Driver", but since the blog emanates from Mexico that might be construed as racist, so I'll let it pass.
I've also linked to Poetic Inhalation's eye peasant page, a comprehensive listing of "written creation links".
& I've drawn a line through all those links - although the link is still there - to blogs which have been silent for a number of months.
Let me be my own fool
of my own making, the sum of it
One says of the drunken farmer:
leave him lay off it. And this is
on the edges
of the lawn.
chaos theory asks
the newsagent when
An icecream van
melts as it
street. Birds cluster
beneath a carapace
Wednesday, March 30, 2005
Well worth the visit. Several visits in fact.
tell you anything
in the hope
a little closer
to you. It
Tuesday, March 29, 2005
I am not a camera adept. Would like to be - I like photographs, am enamoured of the way the camera can snatch an instance, an instant of reality & make it something more.
But not for me, as Ira Gershwin once wrote. I grew up in an age of box brownies. I didn't own a camera for many subsequent decades - it would have been just one more thing to hock & never redeem. & now that I do, all I seem to manage are bad photos - out of focus, or the subject too distant, or, or, or.....
So I don't carry one around. & regret it sometimes. Like a couple of days ago, staying in North Queensland, about 700 kilometres further north from what we currently call home, visiting friends down near the sea & driving back to where we were staying on a road formed from the right angles of sugarcane fields, the night so warm that the windscreen of the car fogged over on the outside because of the temperature differential from an inside that had had the airconditioner on all day. Lights on high beam. & caught in them as we rounded - squared - a corner a shape, rigid, that, as we got closer, turned out to be a tawny frogmouth, with its identifying funny bristles around the beak, guarding the corpse of a cane toad that had been squashed by an earlier car.
We stopped the car. I got out, tried to shoo it away. It didn't move, so after a minute or so I got back in & we drove around it very carefully. (& a couple of hundred metres up the road saw the shape of another night predator, this one a grey owl, diving after something at the edge of the cane.)
My bird book mentions this in passing. "Frogmouths often get killed on the roads as a result of their groundfeeding habits." Hopefully this one survived the night.
Monday, March 28, 2005
I am writing the record of a journey, 2000 kilometres by road but shorter by air, hours instead of days. I should have written it on the plane, during the trip, words reflecting the clouds placed below, at arbitrary intervals, like dots in a sand painting. I should have written it as I went; but notebooks for me, when I use them, are things that you scrawl in, fray, return to cross things out, doodle in, scrawl all over.
But I am scared of this one with its pure white pages. Maybe I should have left it in the sun before using it, to cure, to temper, so the pages become yellow & I would have no qualms about soiling them with words or scrawls or squiggly bits. This notebook has the unfortunate quality of having quality. & so you approach it as you would a tombstone, something to be worked on after the act, when you've got all your shit together. Put it down somewhere else, the plasma screen, click & drag, copy & paste, until it's ready to roll. Print it out, go over it again, revise. & then enter it in the journal, into this notebook.
Or maybe I am lying, have taken the plunge & am writing directly into the book, ten thousand metres above a point on a line between two inland beacons, the true journey, move in from the coast, move back out towards it. & instead of working in retrospect I am working towards some point in the not too distant future when I shall sit down at a laptop on the nth floor of a hotel in the Sydney CBD & work my way through these notes. Perhaps revise, perhaps just transcribe. Or maybe I won't sit down with it at all, but abandon it for a while, somewhere in the sun, to yellow, so I can face its pages at a later time, without fear.
11.35 a.m. E.S.S.T.
Thursday, March 24, 2005
Okay. When I was younger, so much younger than today, I found humour in a couple of much-quoted & -reproduced pieces of what I would describe as repartee graffiti, that is graffiti where a line is answered by another line in someone else's hand.
My favourite was always My mother made me a homosexual to which somebody had written underneath That's nice. If I gave her the wool would she make me one too. But close behind it was
I hate grils
You mean girls you fool
What about us grils?
I was reminded of the second sequence – which, of course, reminded me of the first – by the subject line of a junk email I received today. Fsreh e-book on how to make wemon really happy.
But I'd almost been brought there yesterday by a google search for doges fucking women that ended up at the pelican. How could I not resist tracking that back one step? About sixty results, one of which appears to be an essay on Ezra Pound by Jennifer Scappettone, another from the Muse Apprentice Guild – why am I not surprised? - but most of the rest mis-spellings - the car brand; he doges the blows of his opponent; a few looking for bestial sex sites. Or should that be bastial sox?
Git along little doge...
a couple of
post. Might pass.
Wednesday, March 23, 2005
The presentation conveys a depth, a darkness, an infinite night with the words as stars. &, in what is probably a totally subjective judgement because I've liked her work, I feel an additional power, a strength, a hard-edged beauty in the new poems that are posted there.
Tuesday, March 22, 2005
It is undercut with an emotion, a grief, that you cannot help but share.
by the prospect of
a bonus stock issue
& an extra dividend
the paint company
in which he
Monday, March 21, 2005
Have added Jill Chan's Navel Orange to the sidebar.
Some recent work of hers appeared in the latest issue of foam:e. Earlier poems can be found at the New Zealand electronic poetry centre.
Sunday, March 20, 2005
it is a music
that keeps you
Dave Brubeck Quartet re-
dux, combined age
around 300 years,
more white hair
than a polar bears'
belie their age. It is
a form of floating.
But. The music. Is.
Old. & without
the transcendent magic
of Paul Desmond
they are only
what it should be
with fifty years
to change it
in. They want to
this recycled air
is not for
pirouetting. But. They.
Go through some
until the elderly Brubeck
as an encore
for the elderly audience
& everyone &
the elderly band
Saturday, March 19, 2005
e              m                  e
Friday, March 18, 2005
sackcloth & ashes.
has gone dark.
organs to survive.
donate my heart.
Later he would walk down to the lagoon
to look for the pelicans. They were
his touchstone, the way their
solid bodies gave substance to the
landscape, a centre to it. Only when
they found him would he return.
Thursday, March 17, 2005
admire the view
the top of
then continued climbing.
by rabid mosquitoes.
Again the pelican becomes a repository for the images of Magritte. Slaved over a hot scanner to get this. & now yet another Magritte is out in the ether & the poems at Series Magritte are link-less no longer.
Wednesday, March 16, 2005
"The thing that's really become important with me now is my involvement in ear research. I know you would think I'd be involved in eye research, but it is not so. It's ear research because I have so much respect for hearing. I don't know what would have happened to me if I hadn't been able to hear."
Tuesday, March 15, 2005
Moloch & marquee.
Apart from the wave caps, the sea was the colour of wet sand.
& have just finished reading Unnecessary Roughness, her wonderful & witty collection of sports poems. It takes the piss out of everything athletic, but with an incisive insight that would probably get her a major coaching job.
Monday, March 14, 2005
you make of
one else decides.
Sunday, March 13, 2005
& as I write this, a kingfisher swoops across the yard to pause in a tree. I am a firm believer in omens.
Saturday, March 12, 2005
Man is a room
where the malefic hand turns a knob
on the unseen unknown double's door
happen, in a
Friday, March 11, 2005
unconscious. Eventually came
way of thinking.
Thursday, March 10, 2005
angry ants &
Yesterday I found another dead snake in the yard. Entire, but with what could possibly be teeth marks in its patterned skin. Just over a foot long. Now residing in an empty coffee jar, waiting to go to the university for identification. The shaman knows about snakes as symbol, he doesn't know their species.
But he tells me small snakes are the avatars of the giant serpent, that I am being tested. If I see a live snake between now & the approaching winter – we are just over one week into autumn – then I shall be the one that hibernates. If it is large then I may wake in spring inside a snake. If it is small, I may wake with the snake inside me. I may wake as myself. I may not wake.
Wednesday, March 09, 2005
different harmonies. Night
chord to day.
FROM: Sgt. Mark EdAh well, it makes a change from Nigerian scams. But you think they'd get the spelling of Saddam's name right. Or is the misspelling meant to be proof of the email's authenticity?
To President / Managing Director..
My name is Mark Ed, I am an American soldier, I am serving in the military of the 1st Armoured Division in Iraq, As you know we are being attacked by insurgents everyday and car bombs.We managed to move funds belonging to Saddam Hussien's family.
We want to move this money to you, so that you may invest it for us and keep our share for banking.We will take 50%, my partner and I. You take the other 50%. no strings attached, just help us move it out of Iraq, Iraq is a warzone. We plan on using diplomatic courier and shipping the money out in one large silver box, using diplomatic immunity.
If you are interested I will send you the full details, my job is to find a good partner that we can trust and that will assist us. Can I ! trust you? When you receive this letter,kindly send me an e-mail signifying your interest including your most confidential telephone/fax numbers for quick communication also your contact details. This business is risk free. The box can be shipped out in 48hrs.
Sgt. Mark Ed
Tuesday, March 08, 2005
The bodies of Arctic people, particularly Greenland's Inuit, contain the highest human concentrations of industrial chemicals and pesticides found anywhere on Earth -- levels so extreme that the breast milk and tissues of some Greenlanders could be classified as hazardous waste.
Nearly all Inuit tested in Greenland and more than half in Canada have levels of PCBs and mercury exceeding international health guidelines.
letter while the
delivered the post.
Monday, March 07, 2005
I am not on Dubya's hit list.
I am not on his crush list.
My weapons of mass destruction were used up years ago.
I have no troops in a foreign country.
I do not understand how it is right to have U.S. troops in Iraq & wrong to have Syrian troops in Lebanon.
I believe fences should not be used to keep people apart.
I have no nuclear power program that could be construed as a front for the enriching of uranium.
My axis is not evil.
I am not a hostage who can be released & then be shot at by her supposed allies.
I am not a university professor invited to Harvard who is declined a visa because of her links with the Sandanistas.
I do not know what the word terrorist means any more, nor do I understand how it continues to expand its meaning. Actually I do. A terrorist is all the people you don't like, plus a significant percentage of the people who you say you do.
I do not know what the word democracy means any more, nor do I understand how it continues to contract its meaning.
I do not have a famine that can be ignored because
I am not oil-rich.
I do not have a G7 spot.
NATO is not courting me.
I do not have bases that can be used as a staging-post for spy planes or bombers or troop-carrying helicopters.
I am not a born-again Christian who believes they have a God-given right to dictate policies to the world.
I have never advocated torture & have never not advocated & then used it anyway.
I would not believe anything confessed to under torture.
I have never taken part in a naked human pyramid. Not under duress anyway.
I have never licked Dubya's arse.
I do know his shit does not smell like roses though many others seem to think this is true.
I use words, but since these are never used on a teleprompter it is as if I am mute.
There is no bounty of $25 million out for me.
I don't even have a Camp Alpha.
Or like apple pie.
I believe that the United States of Dubya is spelt with a k. Three ks actually. AmeriKKKa.
of Aretha Franklin
to go out.
Sunday, March 06, 2005
spec   intro   tion
Saturday, March 05, 2005
of a temple bell
Jukka's marquee pieces, more beautiful than ever, now come with or without accompaniment. See / hear / be amazed via Nonlinear Poetry.
& it would be remiss of me not to mention the marquee pieces by Jack Kimball at Pantaloons. The latest one is quite splendid.
But it is a poem I feel I have most grown into, unshaped by genetic inheritance. One I came across more than forty-five years ago, that moved me then, that spoke to the inner me in a way I had never experienced. I do not know if it was some sort of premonition or whether it became some sort of self-fulfilling prophecy but it is the poem that I have most inhabited, that has most inhabited me, over all the intervening years. & even though I have read much that I have liked / loved since then, even though I have written much in which I expose or privately see parts of me I would have preferred remained hidden, it still remains for me the poem.
I am a man with no ambitions
And few friends, wholly incapable
Of making a living, growing no
Younger, fugitive from some just doom.
Lonely, ill-clothed, what does it matter?
At midnight I make myself a jug
Of hot white wine and cardamon seeds.
In a torn grey robe and old beret,
I sit in the cold writing poems,
Drawing nudes on the crooked margins,
Copulating with sixteen year old
Nymphomaniacs of my imagination.
Friday, March 04, 2005
But what's there prompted me to answer "yes" to his question "..would you want to read a book like this?"
Thursday, March 03, 2005
Wednesday, March 02, 2005
"I'm not sure I should be here again in the world of personal (poisonal--to give it a 3 Stooges inflection) blogging, but I am weak. Poor impulse control, don't you know. So, a soft opening. No e-mails to announce the rebirth. I'm not reborn."Ah, Tom,
are alWays Worse
My life in Vaudeville
for Nick Piombino because he didn't / ask the question
& for Tom Beckett because he gave me / the title
The players in the orchestra pit
are aging, some are
already dead or too infirm
to hold their instruments. Only
the drummer manages to keep
a beat; & that occasionally
runs ragged since his
bass drum had a triple bypass
four months ago. Nobody
wants to play this type of music
anymore. No fame or
fortune in it. The singers have all
left, the jugglers drop more
than they catch & local bylaws
have taken the fire-eater
out of the program. Two years ago
my partner died. No one to replace him
so I've been using a dummy
whose response to "Why is there
a gryphon in the garden?"
is a very wooden
"Because Thurber took the unicorn".
We've had the North Korean
Totalitarian Drill & Marching Band
in for a couple of weeks but now
they've overstayed their visas
& are due to be deported
in the morning. There's nothing
left except to clear the last
tableau & close. Next week it's
strippers, sound machine & a single
spotlight. The theatre's being re-
named, either "Vanishing Acts" or
"Pussies Galore". They'll probably
go for the latter. Boom tish.
Tuesday, March 01, 2005
as it disappears off-screen to the right.
On the surface
different meaning underneath.