Antonio Machado: I Never Wanted Fame

The short poems of Antonio Machado have found there way to Issa's Untidy Hut a few times. I Never Wanted Fame, a little chapbook published by Ally Press in 1979, is a delightful window into the work of this fine Spanish poet. The translations of Robert Bly are crystal clear, which brings the mystery of the poems themselves into high relief.

I.

---I never wanted fame,
nor wanted to leave my poems
behind in the memory of men.
I love the subtle worlds,
delicate, almost without weight,
like soap bubbles.
I enjoy seeing them take the color
of sunlight and scarlet, float
in the blue sky, then
suddenly quiver and break.

I enjoy seeing them take the color
of sunlight and scarlet, float
in the blue sky, then
suddenly quiver and break.

The beauty of the image here almost overwhelms the meaning; the reader must confront what are the subtle worlds, transported as she/he is into lyrical realms upon contemplation. Of what subtle worlds speaks the poet?

Perhaps there is a clue here:

II.

---Why should we call
these accidental furrows roads,...?
Everyone who moves on walks
like Jesus, on the sea.

If everyone who moves "walks / like Jesus, on the sea" perhaps these subtle realms aren't so distant after all.

VI.

---I love Jesus, who said to us:
Heaven and earth will pass away.
When heaven and earth have passed away,
my word will remain.
What was your word, Jesus?
Love? Forgiveness? Affection?
All your words were
one word: Wakeup.

Ah, that world, the world of spirit, the spiritual world. Gautama's favorite word: Wakeup! And when we are not awake, when we are lost, what then:

VII.

---It is good knowing that glasses
are to drink from;
the bad thing is not to know
what thirst is for.

There is a realm, too, a place, a world not so subtle. We find ourselves, we lose ourselves, we find ourselves again. When lost, how, how do we find our way back?

VIII.

---All things die and all things live forever;
but our task is to die,
to die making roads,
roads over the sea.

Here is our way out, here is our way home, back home to the subtle worlds where we so long to be. Might we need instruction as to the how, the where?

X.

---Mankind owns four things
that are no good at sea:
rudder, anchor, oars
and the fear of going down.

There are copies of this poignant little volume of ten verses, though long out of print, floating around for a very reasonable price on amazon (of course, some idiot is selling one for $90) and, if you cherish transcendent verse, this is right up your street. Since its been my policy for a couple of years now not to link to amazon, you may also find it here and here. I thought it might be available in Robert Bly's selected translations, The Winged Energy of Delight, but I checked at the library and, though there are some other Machado poems in that book, these little ones are not there.

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In the ongoing, or on and off-going, feature of Lilliput broadsides, we've arrived at #84, Winter Prayers by Christien Gholson, a six-part poem. Here is part IV:

IV. None: heading to the bank

An old man stepped carefully down the ice sidewalk.
His skinny, brittle legs knew
that everything in his briefcase
----------------------- ------didn't matter

I knew he would not make it through the winter
and my knowing brought me closer
to that face,
------ -- - ---- beyond desperation,
---- --that saw the shadow of a sparrow
---- --as it slipped beneath the river
---- --and carried the bird shadow down
---- --to live in the form of curious fish
---- --moving through the cave of a skull.

And, to thread it all together, the master:

through the great red gate
no fear...
cuckoo

Issa
translated by Daniel G. Lanoue

best,
Don

Poetry Motel: Open for Business

The legendary Poetry Motel is up on the web and taking "reservations." To apply for a room, here are the house rules:

Poetry Motel (publishing since 1984) is currently seeking submissions of poetry, prose, and performance art for upcoming issues. Submit typed text, audio or video (include a title list w/audio and video submissions) to jwl@poetrymotel.org.

We also accept submissions sent via regular mail (include a Self-Addressed Stamped Envelope for our reply) to: poetry motel, p.o. box 103, duluth mn 55801-0103.

We continue to publish work by both new and established writers.

Check in at the Front Desk and you will see the available rooms along the top and the guest list along the right hand sidebar. For instance, Room 103 is currently occupied by that old hand, Albert Huffstickler. Other veterans of the road include Ron Androla, Belinda Subraman, Tony Moffeit, Sheila Murphy, Steve Richmond, Lyn Lifshin, and many more.



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Almost ready to get back up on the horse and ride; on Tuesday, I will be leading an introduction to poetry session for lifelong learners and on Wednesday a reading at Modern Formations for the New Yinzer crew. Once these activities are in the rear view, I'll be putting some serious time in on the long overdue, one might almost say lost issues, of Lilliput Review. 4 issues, instead of the customary 2, will be shipping in the beginning of June, in order to get back on track. My sincere apologies to everyone for the long delay. The good news is that Lilliput is "bigger" than it has ever been in its 21 year history. More on all this soon.

The following poem is taken from Richard Houff's broadside issue, Lilliput Review #88, entitled Trimmed Lamps & Kerosene Barrels, April 1997 (& still available for a measly dollar or a SASE).

The Tallmadge Hotel
---(ca. 1968, Mpls, MN)

When you reach the top landing
turn left and step lightly.
Listen to the murmur of little
voices behind closed doors
presenting a thousand rumors,
as tongues scurry back and forth.
At midway, lower your eyes
to the bloodstained carpet
outside door number #6.
This is truth, a most distasteful metaphor.
The voices tell us that a poet
lived and died here.
But why dally with clocks
that continue to wind-down-into forward?
In front of door number #12,
the taste of thin air and stale nicotine
sends greetings one step further----
that's it, you're almost home.

Richard Houff

And the master, thinking about his fellow travelers:

imperial inn--
acting like he owns it
a snail

Issa
translated by Daniel G. Lanoue

best,
Don

Dennis Maloney: Just Enough

I've just finished reading Dennis Maloney's Just Enough, a collection of 64 tanka, for the 2nd time in its entirety. The first time was a couple of months ago and, as I often do, I marked favorites with post-its on which I scribble a thought or two if I'm lucky enough to have one. What struck me this time is how many of the poems I hadn't highlighted during this reading.

Who said procrastination is a bad thing?

According to the cover copy, the poems are a linked collection "written in the voice of a contemporary hermit-poet living in the Higashiyama region of Kyoto." As Dennis notes in the Afterword, he has visited Kyoto many times since 1973 and that many "of the poems are drawn from experiences in Kyoto or inspired by it."

The tanka themselves are a loose collection of poems exploring the self and its relation to the outside world, the stuff of classic Eastern verse. This beautifully designed little volume, published by Palisade Press, with Bashô's hut pictured on the cover, fits neatly into the hand (4 x 7") or back pocket.

As with the best Eastern verse, there is a subtle, understated quality that may be deceptive in its simplicity. Here there is less erudite allusion or a sophisticated style than a simple, pure philosophic outlook. There are no simple answers, however; what there is is the constant everyday working toward the light, if you will, the light as in enlightenment.

Don't give me the whole truth,
but sea for thirst, sky for light.
Give me a glint,
as birds bear water drops
from bathing.

There are no sure answers; we are human, after all. There is contradiction, in the best Whitmanesque sense. First, the poem from which the title is derived, also the first poem in the collection:

How hard it is
to take
what is given
and say yes,
just enough.

And then 28 poems later:

You didn't ask to be born,
but here you are living
in the everyday world.
There is so much,
one life is not enough.

Both of these poems are, in their individual ways, glorious celebrations of life. Whatever the goal or the Buddhist principle, the truth will out, as it does in both poems that on the surface seem contradictory but in reality work together as the wings of young sparrow.

One of my favorite poems here is about poetry, a weakness of mine that is obvious to anyone who knows my finer editorial peccadilloes, yet still it manages to be about, and evoke so very much more, than that in a mere 21 words:

A good poem
should smell of tea,
earth or newly split wood.
A few words woven together
to make a home.

Notice the economy and precision here: the poem should "smell of tea," not "like tea." And three simple elements here - tea, earth, and wood - make up not just the poem but what any good home may be comprised of.

Art and life, perfectly dovetailed as one.

The quest, of course, is never ending, the journey is the destination, otherwise we all could have stopped writing (and drawing and singing) a long time ago.

On the mountain trails
of the self
-hot summer sweat
step after step uphill,
no destination in sight.

And life is conjured in all its glory and ambivalence and wonder, internal and external:

Some days the pond
has utter clarity
-a distant mirror.
Other days
it is clouded by rain.

The mirror appears again, this time in its symbolic guise, resonating back and forth:

Years spent in
meditation halls
wandering from teacher to teacher
polishing, polishing the mirror
-now break it!

Maloney has adopted certain principles, certain archetypes, be they Zen, lyric, or otherwise, and made them his own. His vocabulary is basic; he puts the words he chooses, and ones he doesn't, to great use. Here is another about a teacher and the lesson, which I glossed over in my first reading:

In the old days
the teacher said
find a need and fill it.
What is that need?
Only the road will till you.

However you view that road, be it literal or symbolic, the point I originally missed is that it is external. It is "a need" not, "your need," (italics mine) and it is outside yourself you will find it. As another contemporary nature poet asked, "What will you do with this one wild and precious life?" Again, "this one wild and precious life", not "your wild and precious life" (again, italics are mine).

This is a beautiful little book for appreciators and practitioners of tanka, those with an interest in Eastern philosophy, and anyone generally enamored of the short poem. Here's one final reason this volume deserves to find an attentive audience:

If you're kin to the pine
you'll live long,
glisten in the rain,
be lively in autumn,
beautiful in snow.

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The featured broadside this week is Lilliput Review #125, entitled Only: a patch of Cid Corman. Cid was a giant in 20th century poetry. His work, as illustrated below, is focused in the now; in the shortest verse each and every word bears its own weight. He slows you down, makes you look now at the realities of life. In addition, I can personally say he was a poet of unflinching generosity to even the smallest of presses, Lilliput certainly falling, both literally and figuratively, into that category. The notes he wrote, the poems he sent, the spirit he shared, all were an immense lift to me and, as a result, the magazine. He showed me hope, he showed me heart, and he made me see things, literally and lyrically, in a different way. I was lucky enough to publish 2 broadsides and 2 chapbooks of his work. I believe Now/Now, "Modest Proposal Chapbook #12, was the last collection of his to appear in his lifetime; it arrived just before he entered hospital in December 2003. The broadsides and chapbooks are all still in print and still available.




DYINGLIVING

To feel what it is
was to be or have been this
only this moment.

Nobody survives
except as a form of no
thing - is what this is.

SAGE
BRUSH

We like to think we
think and that we mean something
by thinking we do.

There are reasons for
reasons excuses excuse
and there you are - here.

Cid also loved the classic haiku poets, Issa included. Here are two poems by a master poet I believe he would have loved:




butterfly dances
'round the arrow
in a dying deer

dying to the beat
of the prayer to Buddha...
one leaf falls

Issa
translated by Daniel G. Lanoue

best,
Don

2nd Annual Bashô Haiku Challenge: Reminder, with Poems

Seven full days to the deadline for the 2nd Annual Bashô Haiku Challenge. 11:59 pm, Saturday, October 31st will be the final postmark.

Much good luck to all!

Don't imitate me;
it's as boring
as the two halves of a melon.

Matsuo Bashô
translated by Robert Hass

a farting contest
under the moonflower trellis...
cool air

Issa
translated by David G. Lanoue

best,
Don