Friday, November 30, 2012

Alan Catlin: Only the Dead Know Albany - Small Press Friday


Alan Catlin is one the finest practitioners of the the lyrical arts on the small press scene over the last 20 years. His work seems ubiquitous, though his style varies according to its subject. Some of his finest work may be seen in his ekphrastic poems, such as the volume entitled Effects of Sunlight in the Fog, which I reviewed here back in 2009.  I've also had the pleasure of publishing a handful of Block Island poem from the pen of Catlin, perfect little 'line drawings' of life at world's end.

Another phase of his poetry, for which he is more well-known, might be thought of as his anti-lyrical lyrical work, of which the volume Only the Dead Know Albany (Sunnyoutside Press, Buffalo, NY), is a premiere example. Like Dave Church's poems, which came from his everyday experiences as a cabbie, Alan's long-time stint as a bartender in the hardscrabble town of Albany, New York, frame the everyday working class lives of desperation so many people lead.

I've done time in many a town where there is a bar on every corner and two in between: Bayonne and Highlands, NJ, and Pittsburgh, PA to name just a few. Many an old school Irish or Slavic or Italian neighborhood, where constituents voted for a congressman currently doing time for corruption (because he took care of your kid when he got in hot water, or squared your parking ticket, or made your little neighborhood problem go away), could at one time be found in northern industrial cities (think Albany, Buffalo, Detroit, Pittsburgh etc.), some of which, having long gone to seed, resprouted in the last gentrified years of 20th century America. 

It's one thing to reel off a couple of Jimmy Breslin-style wiseguy sentences about towns like these, another altogether to capture them in a poem. Alan Catlin nails it time and time again. 

If you are having trouble conjuring up Dante's 7th circle, no problem: Alan Catlin's Albany will do very nicely, indeed.  Here's the title poem:


Only the Dead Know Albany

and the side alleys, cock-fought
streets, high-stakes crap games
decided by a blade and a motorcycle
chain, brass knuckles and steel-toed
boots; row-housed tenements blocks
long, Clinton Avenue to Arbor Hill,
where no trees bloomed, buildings in
full flame, cops and robbers gaming
the Man, the Black Maria and a banshee
wail long summer nights before
Urban Renewal razed the earth
and only the dead knew Albany. 


All these seem visions of a past, conjuring a present not much improved:


Queen's Gambit

The opening line
always was, "Got
a light?" The ones
that did leaned in 
close as she cupped
her hands around
the flame, as she
said how much
the full ride would
cost for a bareback
trip with frills and she
had lots of takers
even if she looked
to be a half-dead
teen angel whose 
eyes were as hard
as her grave marker;
one date already
carved, the other
three-quarters
of the way done. 


Catlin's poems don't glorify the hard old times, they shine a light full in the face of existence - this isn't about revering outlaws, this is about surviving.



Bus Stop Corner of Lark and Central Avenue, Albany, NY

He was holding onto support
of the bus shelter bench as
if his life depended upon it
and maybe, in a way it did.
The cops in his face telling 
him to let go, get a move on,
give everyone a break, hesitant
to use force, to touch this more-
than-aromatic bum, more pissed on
than dangerous, hesitant to use force
with so many onlookers making
mental notes, their voices just so
much more mental static in a world
gone seriously crazy, his drink-
addled brain emitting a kind of
drunkard's lingua franca only
like-minded derelicts could 
understand finally managing
one last coherent phrase before
the cops give him over to mental
health gendarmes in lab coats and
latex gloves, "You must understand,
I don't know who I am!"

Only the Dead Know Albany is a 32 page chapbook with one heavy dose of reality after another, captured by a talented eye and a sensitive demeanor, a sketchbook of circle after circle, adding up to exactly we know what. The book is available directly from the publisher, sunnyoutside press; if not, there is always that giant evil online warehouse, but, since this is Small Press Friday, I'll let you find your way there on your own.

--------------






city life--
even melting snow
costs money
 Issa
 translated by David G. Lanoue 





best,
Don 

Send a single haiku for the Wednesday Haiku feature. Here's how.


Go to the LitRock web site for a list of all 145 songs

Wednesday, November 28, 2012

Rehn Kovacic & Slomovits/Burd: Wednesday Haiku, #92

Woodblock by Utagawa Kunimasa



The moon
      not quite full—
    a lover’s anticipation.

Rehn Kovacic

 



Photo by Arthur Rothstein





autumn —
a leaf rides down
a children's slide

Laszlo Slomovits
Jennifer Burd



 Photo by Theodor Horydczak




blossoms scatter--
my years too
on a downhill slide
Issa 
translated by David G. Lanoue




best,
Don 

Send a single haiku for the Wednesday Haiku feature. Here's how.

Go to the LitRock web site for a list of all 145 songs

Sunday, November 25, 2012

Tea in the Sahara: Issa's Sunday Service, #145


Tea in the Sahara by The Police on Grooveshark

In case of wonky widget, break glass by clicking here
 

This song, dating back to Sting's days with the Police, recounts a story told in the chapter "Tea in the Sahara" from Paul Bowles famed novel, The Sheltering Sky. It is the story of 3 prostitutes, a prince, and a wish for tea in the Sahara. More sordid details of this lovely fable may be found here.  

The Sheltering Sky has attracted attention over the years, including a fine movie adaptation by Bernardo Bertulucci. Early on, however, one writer nailed it precisely in review: that writer, Tennessee Williams, in the New York Times, on December 4th, 1949. Largely the review is a fine piece of writing, something rarely seen in those nary august pages today - and, oh, what a killer last sentence. 
 
"Tea In The Sahara"

My sisters and I
Have this wish before we die
And it may sound strange
As if our minds are deranged
Please don't ask us why
Beneath the sheltering sky
We have this strange obsession
You have the means in your possession

We want our tea in the Sahara with you
We want our tea in the Sahara with you

The young man agreed
He would satisfy their need
So they danced for his pleasure
With a joy you could not measure
They would wait for him here
The same place every year
Beneath the sheltering sky
Across the desert he would fly

Tea in the Sahara with you
Tea in the Sahara with you

The sky turned to black
Would he ever come back?
They would climb a high dune
They would pray to the moon
But he'd never return
So the sisters would burn
As their eyes searched the land
With their cups full of sand

Tea in the Sahara with you
Tea in the Sahara with you
Tea in the Sahara with you
Tea in the Sahara with you


Here is the elegant opening of the critically acclaimed film, showing first what they are fleeing from and then where they arrive:


 
 
 
 
 --------------------


Photo by Jessie Eastland



rising into
the year's first sky...
tea smoke 
 Issa
 translated by David G. Lanoue 






best,
Don 

Send a single haiku for the Wednesday Haiku feature. Here's how.


Go to the LitRock web site for a list of all 145 songs

Friday, November 23, 2012

So It Goes: Literary Journal of the Kurt Vonnegut Memorial Library

So It Goes: The Literary Journal of the Kurt Vonnegut Memorial Library
Sometimes, life is just good. This was one of those times. 

If someone told me I'd be reading at the Kurt Vonnegut Memorial Library a selection of my own poems, published in the journal So It Goes ... well, you get the idea. 

The library is an amazing combination library (literally, it has a collection of Kurt Vonnegut's own books) and museum space/art gallery.  KVML is a non-profit venture, superably curated by Excecutive Director and Library Founder, Julia Whitehead. 

There are some marvelous photos of the Vonnegut digs here

Over Armistice Weekend, which dovetailed with Kurt Vonnegut's 90th birthday, a number of events took place. Saturday night saw the book release reading and party for Kurt Vonnegut: Letters, edited by Dan Wakefield, who gave a moving reading, told stories, and patiently signed copies for all and sundry. 

This reading was preceded by a release reading of the first number of And So It Goes: The Literary Journal of the Kurt Vonnegut Library. The reading was marvelous and the audience as attentive and appreciative as any I've ever read for.

This first number, ably edited by J. T. Whitehead, gathered voices old and new, small press and famous, the living and the dead, around the theme of Veteran's Reclaiming Armistice Day. The subtle difference in the name change from Armistice Day to Veteran's Day is not lost upon poets and veterans alike. 

Among the contributors are Gerald Locklin, Marge Piercy, Orhan Veli, Robert Bly, Blaise Cendrars, Julie Kane, Tim O'Brien, James Alexander Thom, A. D. Winans, Dan Sicoli, Brian Turner, Alison Baker, Hayden Carruth, B. Z. Niditch, Nelson Algren, Dan Wakefield, and Sidney Offit, and many others.

If you'd like your own copy of this first number of the annual And So It Goes, you can buy it here

There was a series of workshops on Sunday to address the ideas of peace and healing for veterans, themes close to the heart of Kurt Vonnegut. Roam around the Vonnegut Library site - there is lots to see, about this and many other things.  

Some pics, via Laurie Anderson, of the library and reading:






Mark Vonnegut, Author of Eden Express & KV's son










*********


Ume crest




even on the water bucket
the war lord's crest...
plum blossoms
Issa
translated by David G. Lanoue




best,
Don 

Send a single haiku for the Wednesday Haiku feature. Here's how.


Go to the LitRock web site for a list of all 144 songs

Wednesday, November 21, 2012

Michael L. Newell & Geoffrey Landis: Wednesday Haiku, Week #91

Photo by Jesse Taylor




Above La Paz a hawk
glides upon same wind
with which I wrestle.
Michael L. Newell




Photo by Forest Wander




On the maple tree
a single crimson leaf:
last day of summer.

Geoffrey Landis




Photo by F. Lo Valvo



cicadas chirring
the red leaf flutters
down
Issa 
translated by David G. Lanoue




best,
Don 

Send a single haiku for the Wednesday Haiku feature. Here's how.

Go to the LitRock web site for a list of all 144 songs

Sunday, November 18, 2012

Alexandra Leaving: Issa's Sunday Service, #144

C. P. Cavafy
Alexandra Leaving by Leonard Cohen on Grooveshark 
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This is, indeed, an interesting twist for this week's Sunday Service: one poet (Leonard Cohen) reworking the work of another poet (C. P. Cavay) into song.  First the song, then the poem.


"Alexandra Leaving"

Suddenly the night has grown colder.
The god of love preparing to depart.
Alexandra hoisted on his shoulder,
They slip between the sentries of the heart.

Upheld by the simplicities of pleasure,
They gain the light, they formlessly entwine;
And radiant beyond your widest measure
They fall among the voices and the wine.

It’s not a trick, your senses all deceiving,
A fitful dream, the morning will exhaust –
Say goodbye to Alexandra leaving.
Then say goodbye to Alexandra lost.

Even though she sleeps upon your satin;
Even though she wakes you with a kiss.
Do not say the moment was imagined;
Do not stoop to strategies like this.

As someone long prepared for this to happen,
Go firmly to the window. Drink it in.
Exquisite music. Alexandra laughing.
Your firm commitments tangible again.

And you who had the honor of her evening,
And by the honor had your own restored –
Say goodbye to Alexandra leaving;
Alexandra leaving with her lord.

Even though she sleeps upon your satin;
Even though she wakes you with a kiss.
Do not say the moment was imagined;
Do not stoop to strategies like this.

As someone long prepared for the occasion;
In full command of every plan you wrecked –
Do not choose a coward’s explanation
that hides behind the cause and the effect.

And you who were bewildered by a meaning;
Whose code was broken, crucifix uncrossed –
Say goodbye to Alexandra leaving.
Then say goodbye to Alexandra lost.

Say goodbye to Alexandra leaving.
Then say goodbye to Alexandra lost.



The god forsakes Antony

When suddenly, at midnight, you hear
an invisible procession going by
with exquisite music, voices,
don’t mourn your luck that’s failing now,
work gone wrong, your plans
all proving deceptive—don’t mourn them uselessly.
As one long prepared, and graced with courage,
say goodbye to her, the Alexandria that is leaving.
Above all, don’t fool yourself, don’t say
it was a dream, your ears deceived you:
don’t degrade yourself with empty hopes like these.
As one long prepared, and graced with courage,
as is right for you who were given this kind of city,
go firmly to the window
and listen with deep emotion, but not
with the whining, the pleas of a coward;
listen—your final delectation—to the voices,
to the exquisite music of that strange procession,
and say goodbye to her, to the Alexandria you are losing.

- Constantine P. Cavafy (1911)
Translated by Edmund Keeley and Philip Sherrard 

According to Leonard Cohen's website, here is what the poem is about:

Anthony, in Cavafy's poem is, of course, Marcus Antonius, Cleopatra's lover. The poem refers to Plutarch's story (Read it) that, when Anthony was besieged in Alexandria by Octavian, the night before the city fell into enemy hands, he heard an invisible troupe leaving the city. He heard the sounds of instruments and voices making their way through the city. Then, he passed out; the god Bacchus (Dionysus), Antony's protector, was deserting him. It is obviously a poem with many layers of meaning; but, I see it as a poem / lesson on how someone must face a great loss (Alexandria being a symbol for a beloved city, woman, past glory, but, above all else, life itself). It is a beautiful lesson on how to face death.
Now Mr.Cohen has changed Alexandria (a beloved city) to Alexandra (a beloved woman), thus giving a lesson on how to face a lost love.

Here is the video:

 
 
Cohen has appeared on the Sunday Service previously and, no doubt, will again in the future. He, and his work, are simply stunning.
------------


Woodblock by Utagawa Hiroshige



lazy--
leaving blossoms and moon
for tomorrow
Issa
translated by David G. Lanoue




One quick note before closing - the coffers at Wednesday Haiku are getting a little low. I'm thinking of going back to one poem per week if things get any thinner. So, now would be a great time to send in work. Here's the details on how:




best,
Don 

Send a single haiku for the Wednesday Haiku feature. Here's how.

Go to the LitRock web site for a list of all 143 songs

Friday, November 16, 2012

ayaz daryl nielsen: tumbleweeds still tumbling: Small Press Friday



Ayaz Daryl Nielsen is a poet and long time editor of bear creek haiku (20 plus years, 100 issues and counting). He has but recently entered the electronic publication game with a very promising bear creek haiku blog.

In addition, he has also published his first book of haiku, pictured above: haiku: tumbleweeds still tumbling. With over 80 poems packed into this modest little volume, the reader has a nice cross-section of Daryl's approach and sensibility. I've selected a handful to give you a feel for what he's about - a couple of these originally appeared in Lilliput Review, if my memory is to be trusted. 


alone dusk
  enters my living room
      forgets to leave




Like a guest who overstays his welcome, dusk drops in with its own sensibility, one which feels rather foreboding. Of course, others might disagree. And then there is Emily What's-Her-Name.



garter snake
   on my front porch -
       what news, friend




In the haiku tradition, this poem splits into two parts. Many a poet might have written the first two lines, but how many would have come up with the last? The compassion of Master Issa seems to be smiling through. Of course, there is also her nibs again.


their red door
of correct feng shui
always closed



Though this at first seems less than generous, one must consider the poet might have written "of incorrect feng shui"; as is, it feels to me more a poem of observation than judgment, as it should be.

 

shifting wind
the coyote's raised foreleg
motionless




In my world, the world of a poet, everyday I seem to run into the perfect poem, only it's always written by someone else. Nature, intelligence, sensation, life, death ... and a chilling still life of a different sort. A lot to pack into 3 lines.



my old dog sprawls
across the open doorway
neither in nor out




Revealed here is the core mystery of all existence - can you see it? Can anyone see it? It's there, to be sure, as it is all around us. But do we see it?


Not so much, not as such.


haiku tumbleweeds still tumbling is available in a number of ways - from amazon, for the low price of $5.38, or directly from the author, who I'm sure will be happy to sign it for you. You can contact him at darylayaz AT me DOT com (reading AT for @ and DOT for .).


------------------------



in this world you're a snake--
enter the hole
toward Buddha's West!
Issa
translated by David G. Lanoue

best,
Don 

Send a single haiku for the Wednesday Haiku feature. Here's how.

Go to the LitRock web site for a list of all 143 songs

Wednesday, November 14, 2012

Liam Wrigley & Margaret Dornaus: Wednesday Haiku, #90

Photo by Sten Porse



Your face
Amber in the sun
A leaf
Liam Wrigley





Photo by Galia




end of summer
the young girl’s pockets
brimming with acorns
Margaret Dornaus



Friedrich Nietzsche (detail) by Edvard Munch





not giving a damn
that cherry blossoms fall...
his stern face
Issa
translated by David G. Lanoue




 
best,
Don 

Send a single haiku for the Wednesday Haiku feature. Here's how.

Go to the LitRock web site for a list of all 143 songs

Tuesday, November 13, 2012

Jack Gilbert: R.I.P.




Searching For Pittsburgh - Jack Gilbert

The fox pushes softly, blindly through me at night,
between the liver and the stomach. Comes to the heart
and hesitates. Considers and then goes around it.
Trying to escape the mildness of our violent world.
Goes deeper, searching for what remains of Pittsburgh
in me. The rusting mills sprawled gigantically
along three rivers. The authority of them.
The gritty alleys where we played every evening were
stained pink by the inferno always surging in the sky,
as though Christ and the Father were still fashioning the Earth.
Locomotives driving through the cold rain,
lordly and bestial in their strength. Massive water
flowing morning and night throughout a city
girded with ninety bridges. Sumptuous-shouldered,
sleek-thighed, obstinate and majestic, unquenchable.
All grip and flood, mighty sucking and deep-rooted grace.
A city of brick and tired wood. Ox and sovereign spirit.
Primitive Pittsburgh. Winter month after month telling
of death. The beauty forcing us as much as harshness.
Our spirits forged in that wilderness, our minds forged
by the heart. Making together a consequence of America.
The fox watched me build my Pittsburgh again and again.
In Paris afternoons on Buttes-Chaumont. On Greek islands
with their fields of stone. In beds with women, sometimes,
amid their gentleness. Now the fox will live in our ruined
house. My tomatoes grow ripe among weeds and the sound
of water. In this happy place my serious heart has made.




-----------------



the master being dead
just ordinary...
cherry blossoms
Issa
translated by David G. Lanoue

 
 
best,
Don 

Send a single haiku for the Wednesday Haiku feature. Here's how.

Go to the LitRock web site for a list of all 143 songs