John Harter, Artist and Poet: In Memory

Cover art by John Harter

Over the past few days, I have been thinking of a wide variety of topics that I might consider today: the recent run of bad contemporary poetry books (or perhaps my own irascibility), the fact that today marks the one year anniversary of the combined Beneath Cherry Blossoms and Issa's Untidy Hut blogs, the war etc., along with a few others. Did I mention the paucity of good contemporary poetry books (or at least ones I've run into)?

Unfortunately, my topic found me.

When I opened yesterday's mail first thing this morning, I learned of the death of artist/poet John Harter. John was a longtime contributor to Lilliput, of both poetry and art. John's work first appeared in LR #98, back in July 1998, ten years ago this month. The cover above is for #163, one of the two current issues just getting ready to go out in the mail.

This cover is a perfect example of John's work. If you look very closely, you will see some parallel vertical lines running beside and through the word "Sing": this is not sloppy scanning on my part but the postmark to the envelope/artwork John sent his work in (and on). Here's another example from an earlier post and issue:



Once again you may see that the artwork is part of the envelope, this time the Warhol stamp being used for postage is also the head of the drawn skeleton.

With his poetry, John was no less unique. Almost all of his work was done in caps, with his own eccentric spellings. At the risk of cliché, I will say that his poetry was most zen-like. As I said in the online Guest Book in his memory at the Everett Washington Daily Herald:

His words arrested the reader. They made s/he stop and think about the context of things, all things, and how we do and don't fit into that context.

Rather than the usual Thursday post from a back issue of Lilliput, I thought I'd highlight a small selection of work, from the over 20 poems John shared with Lillie readers over the years, as a celebration of his life, work and memory.

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


WITH ALL THOS BLANK WALLS IN AMERICA
YOU WOULD THINK
YOU WOULD THINK


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

CITIES ARE BIG AND COMPLECATED
THE UNIVERS IS BIG TOO
BUT VERY SIMPLE

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

I RIP OFF YOU, YOU RIP OFF ME, WE RIP OFF THEM
THEY RIP OFF US, THEY RIP ME OFF, I RIP OFF THEM
YOU RIP OFF THEM, THAY RIP OFF YOU, HE RIPS OFF
ME, I RIP OFF HIM, HE RIPS OFF YOU, YOU RIP OFF
HIM, WE RIP OFF HIM, HE RIPS OFF US, I RIP OFF
HER, SHE RIPS OFF ME, SHE RIPS OFF YOU. YOU RIP
OFF HER, I RIP OFF ME, YOU RIP OFF YOU, THAY RIP
OFF THEMSELFS, I FOLLOW YOU, YOU FOLLOW ME AND
SO ON DOWN THE LINE, THAY HYPNOTIZE US, THAY
HYPNOTIZE US, I HYPNOTIZE YOU

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

WORDS CAN EXPUNGE HISTORY
IMAGES CAN EXPUNGE HISTORY

CAN I CONTROL MY DANCING

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

COPY COPY COPY
RIGHT RIGHT RIGHT

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

THE PAINTING I'M PAINTING IS JUST THE
RIGHT SIZE TO CARRY ON YOUR
HEAD NO HANDS

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

IT IS NOT
NOT SYMBOLIC
NOT ABSTRACT
NOT REAL-IS-TIC
IT IS NOT NOT
IT IS NOT IS
IT IS NOT IS NOT

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

THE LIBRARIAN ASKED
CAN YOU WAIT
FOR THAT BOOK
ON FIFTH CENTURY
BUDDHIST STATUARY

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

EVERYTHING THE MYSTERY THE
WOOD THE SMALL ANIMALS THE
BIRDS DEEP BEDS OF PINE NEEDLES
EVERYTHING

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

I TURN ON THE LIGHT AND LEAVE

Bear, you're in my thoughts.

John, rest in peace, brother.

Don

Haiku Canada Review: October 2010

A new issue of Haiku Canada Review came across my desk quite awhile back and I'm finally getting to it .  As I've mentioned before (and before that), it is one my favorite haiku mags. It comes out three times a year, is always jam packed with interesting, challenging work, including haiku, haibun, linked verse and reviews, all of which are at once thought provoking and inspirational.  Editor LeRoy Gorman deftly blends together the traditional and experimental; in the 10 years I've been reading I've never been disappointed.

The October 2010 issue is no exception. Here are a few highlights from that issue:

temple pond
the moon floats by
just out of reach

Pat Benedict

A classic haiku in form and execution, calling to mind Li Po's (Li Bai) famed adventure trying to embrace the moon.  While looking up this legendary incident, I ran across a website with 40 different translations of his own poem about drinking and the moon, (variously titled) "Drinking Alone by Moonlight." 

dust particles
suspended-
first day of school

Deborah Fox

Dust motes in the golden light of autumn seem a universal, almost a collective conscious memory.  It is the time of the year, the slant of the sun, the balance of low humidity, and atmospheric pressure - and it is magic.

the vagrant
reasoning with someone
who isn't there

Barry George

With the ubiquity of the cell phone and other connective devices, it's often hard to sort the disturbed from the disturbing.  "Reasoning" is the perfect word here because the vagrant, like the actor in a play, is completely convinced, and convincing, in his role.  The phonies, pun intended, you can smell a mile away.


This next poem begins:

another motel

and I thought, oh, the ennui, I'm not sure if I'm going to like where this is going, when it suddenly pivots on its axis:

another motel
this time nearby
frog songs

Jeanne Jorgensen

Perfect: the commonplace is transformed and, come to think of it, that's as good a definition of haiku as I've run across this week.  The frog pulls us back where we belong - the time, the place, the uniformity all fall away for a timeless event.

Here's another poem with a less than promising opening line, that takes a great turn:

two-for-one sale
crows gather
outside McDonald's

Nida

Funny and sad and ominous at once, all in 8 words, quite a slick feat.

not so sure
but the waxwings want them
ripe red berries

Bruce Ross

Here the poet, like an expert fisherman, lets the truth come to him, no easy task for the amateur. 

her tennis arm -
a swan dips its head
to the water

Richard Stevenson

On one level, this feels mundane, but there is something sublime here.  To see how close this poem comes to not working, simply place the 1st line last.  The shape and movement of the swan's neck raises the tennis arm, something usually ignored, to a thing of exquisite beauty.  Reversed, the effect would have been opposite.

cadence of bells
frail arms lift for a change
of clothes

Roberta Beary

This haiku from a haibun by Roberta Beary resonates, not only with sound, but motion.

The following is a verse from a renku:

the woman
selling dreamcatchers
sighs

Barry George

Well, it doesn't get much better than this - a haiku poet at exactly the right place at the right time, and paying attention, to boot.

hearing the train whistle
bound for the city...
here in the city

Barry George

This reminds me of the poem by Bashō about longing for Kyoto while in Kyoto.  There is more than nostalgia here, though I believe the two poems share a deep sense of longing, perhaps under very different circumstances.

Than again, perhaps the circumstances are nearly the same. Love, and the love of love, are universal.

into the future
as fast as all of us
this garden snail

George Swede

There is Issa's haiku about the snail climbing Mount Fuji (but slowly, slowly) but, dare I say it, this one rivals the Master.    Here, at once, we see why the snail may make it to the top of Mount Fuji, and why it may not, and why we may make it to the top of Mount Fuji, and why we may not.

from the bridge
between my hemispheres
grandfather still fishes

George Swede

This is another beauty by one of our modern masters; we are firmly in the present moment and at the same time, lodged in the past, all in the gray matter, deftly separated by the poet, into the two hemispheres of his own brain.  Brilliant.

The Salvation Army truck
packed from floor to ceiling
with my dead mother's things
I remove a wicker basket
I don't need

George Swede

This is touching in every sense of the word.  Each and everyone of us who have been there have done this and we may not have even made a conscious decision to do so or had the self-awareness to realize why.

birthday surprise -
no extra waves
on the ocean

Gary Hotham

This poem comes from a review of Gary Hotham's book Spilled Milk: Haiku Destinies.  The reviews in HCN are always very good and here is what the reviewer, Guy Simser, had to say about this one:

Read this literally and see a tranquil seashore picture.  Read this more deeply and you sense an ego deflating. Make of it what you will folks, He says, that's all there is.  In the time it takes a hummingbird to disappear and suddenly reappear in a different place....there's your haiku, back with a new meaning.

I like Simser's take here, most especially because he notes that Hotham's poem is so good it allows more interpretations than his own.  My kind of critic ...


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


Lately, I've been talking to John Bennett a bit about our mutual acquaintance - a friend of John's and an acquaintance mine from my editorial work - the late artist and poet, John Harter.  John had something many poets would, and have in fact, died for: a unique voice.  I often think of him when I think of Albert Huffstickler, not because their work was similar, but because they both had genuine, unique voices that cut to the quick of things.
 
As many of you who have been reading this blog for any length of time know, every week, usually a number of times, I feature work from past issue of Lilliput Review.  Currently, the Friday and Sunday posts have poems from the mag.  I've been doing this so long that I've gone up and down the full run of Lillie issues, up to #178 now (I'm currently laying out 179 & 180), a number of times.

In looking at #142 this morning, from back in January 2005, I noted that I've featured poems from this issue twice before and that there are still a bunch of poems worth reprinting.  What I didn't think I would stumble on is poems by John Harter I had yet to feature on the blog.  And what a wonderful surprise it was.

Here are two poems by John.  Everything he did was written in caps, with his delightfully eccentric spelling (and, in one case here alignment - that's right, this isn't just another Wentworth f-up).  I hope you enjoy these two; they are beautiful in, perhaps, a little mellower way than usual for John.

It was one of the great honors and delights of my 23 years (and counting) editing this little rag to have made John's acquaintance via poetry.

FOR STEVE

OUT OF  BED       PAJAMAS      FACE
START COFFEE GET WOOD     CUT
KINDLING NEEWWWS   P
START BLAZE
OPEN TO BLUE SKY WHIITE
CLOUDS
MAPLE OVER EVERGREEN
COFFEE
NOTE YELLOW BUDS
WRITE POEMS

FOR HANS

   RIDDING INTO THE FOREST ON
   THE BACK OF AN ANT
   I FOUND A BEAUTEFULL STONE
                      AND
   PUT IT INTO MY POCKET
   I LOST IT OF COURSE
     SO HERE IS A POEM
SORRY IT'S NOT AS
               BEAUTEFULL AS
               THAT STONE

John Harter

in mosquito territory
the double blossom
yellow roses

Issa
translated by David G. Lanoue

best,
Don

PS  Get 2 free issues     Get 2 more free issues     Lillie poem archive

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

Go to the LitRock web site for a list of all 93 songs
Hear 'em all at once on the the LitRock Jukebox

Subscribe to Lilliput Review

Literary Kings by Late July: Issa's Sunday Service, #65

It's time for a first here at the Sunday Service: the featured song, "Literary Kings," is by an indie singer/songwriter.  Late July is the artist and she has new her EP, her first, entitled Side Swept.  If you've followed things around here lately, you probably recognize the name.  I've mentioned the website "Miss Late July" a couple of times regarding some excellent music (and musing) postings in recent weeks.  We connected over blues (MLJ thinks it might have been Sister Rosetta Tharpe) or Eastern poetry or philosophy (I was thinking Basho or Issa, but whadda I know).  Just yesterday she posted this powerful video of one of my all-time favorite bluesmen, Lightnin' Hopkins.

Obviously, I'm very glad we connected.  Her 5 song Side Swept EP is solid, indeed.  You can pre-listen to and download  the whole of Side Swept at the same place that you can make a donation if you do decide to download it.  It may also be purchased here.  I slapped dough on the virtual table and downloaded it and have been listening incessantly at home and on the mp3 player all week long. There's a real kinship between the small press and indie music.  Why not support a new artist like you'd support a new lit mag?  Still on the fence? Here's the video for "Literary Kings:"









Love the Kabuki-reminiscent death mask in the vid.  And the song with a literary title has a hook that just won't quit.

Thanks, MLJ, for representing when it comes to indies and for all the great music.  It'd be great for this song to start an indie trend here at The Hut.


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Issue #99 from October 1998 provides today's feature poem, by the artist and poet John Harter.  John, who used eccentric spelling and typed everything in caps, died a few years back, highlighting another level of meaning in the following:

I TURN ON THE LIGHT AND LEAVE

John Harter

Here's an extra poem from #99 for those of you who've been following for awhile, since John's poem already appeared here 3 years back.   This poem has the narrative quality and slightly surreal feel of many a fine poem by the excellent David Chorlton.  Enjoy.

Between The Lines

The minute hand waves from the clock
to say I am only time, do not take me so seriously,
and the waiting passengers distract themselves
by reading.  Late again, how quickly
life goes past, they say to themselves
while they skim the news, page after terrible page.
Only when the first of them stands on his briefcase
to deliver a speech does the fine print fly
from the paper as a flock of doves, each
with an olive branch in its beak.

David Chorlton

And, finally, because I seem to be thinking of dead friends quite a bit lately, here is Ringo, performing a song that now is forever linked with George, due to his lovely dedication at the concert for George.  Because of copyright restrictions on the concert, here is a different equally wonderful performance of "Photograph" from Ringo (check out the band).  Since I don't wish to forget what Ringo said and why I'm posting it, here's a photograph to look at:

at the sound of the sunset
bell...
wildflowers

Issa
translated by David G. Lanoue 

best,
Don

PS Following up on a recent Sunday Service that featured "A Whiter Shade of Pale," here's a Bill Griffith comic take on that song from his strip this week (click to enlarge)

"The groom was strumming harder
As th' earwig flew away ...
When we called out for a hyperlink
Th' ghost lost his toupee"

Brautigan Goes Fishing and Gary Hotham Lands One

Cover by Harland Ristau

I have a favorite poem from one of the books suggested for the Near Perfect Books of Poetry list: it's from Silence in the Snowy Fields, which I read this week:

"Taking My Hands"

Taking the hands of someone you love,
You see they are delicate cages ...
Tiny birds are singing
In the secluded prairies
And in the deep valleys of the hand.

Robert Bly

Gary Hotham's "Modest Proposal" chapbook, Missed Appointment, has been featured in a posting from David Giacalone's f/k/a, my favorite blog of haiku and legal issues (you read that right). A nice selection of five poems from the chap that's worth a look see. As mentioned in a previous post here, Gary's book has been awarded an honorable mention in the Haiku Society of America's annual Kanterman Memorial Book Awards. Copies are available for the always low price of $3.00.


In what's got to be the odd news of the week comes a report that a fishing video, circa 1974, going by the name Tarpon, has just been released. Perhaps it's not so odd that a fishing video from 1974 should come out on DVD, considering the monumental environmental shifts that have occurred in the last 35 years. What is odd is that the video features Thomas McGuane, Richard Brautigan, and Jim Harrison.


Huh?


Well, yeah, it's true. Here's a review of the DVD release posted at the blog of thefin.com, featuring a great Brautigan quote. The other review at MidCurrent posits that this is some of the only film footage of Mr. B., which I can't confirm but sounds about right to me (a quick check of the Internet Archive came up a zero; at youtube, lots of folks have put Brautigan audio to their own films but no actual B footage). Collectors, dust off those credit cards!

In a biggish British brouhaha over poetry, I believe I'll come down on the side of AB FAB actress Joanna Lumley. Seems to me that as far as "The Poets" are concerned, it's all just hard cheese.

John Harter is still on my mind. Here's his obit from the Everett Washington Herald:

"December 1940 to May 2008

We have lost a great N.W. artist, John Harter, and we will miss him. He is survived by two sisters; and one brother; plus many other family members and friends.

A Celebration of his Life and Art will be held starting at 3 p.m., on July 19, 2008, in his sister's garden."

We should all be remembered so well.

Some back issue news. In a moment of clerical inspiration, I decided to hypertext the back issues featured in the (mostly) Thursday weekly postings here at IUH, plus the postings from the old Beneath Cherry Blossoms blog and index them on the Lillput Review Archive page at the Lillie website, to come up with a one stop MegaArchive. Ok, the name's a tad hyperbolic but at the link you can find sample poems from 55 back issues of Lilliput Review, somewhere between 150 and 200 poems.

The plan now is to continue to index these weekly samplings on that page and provide a portal to some fine short poetry. Right now, I'm going to start filling in some issues I've missed in the transition between blogs and then resume the countdown, which is pausing at #81, when that's finished.

So, this week's feature issue is #102, from January 1999, and it starts with a mix of metaphor (as opposed to a mixed metaphor) and philosophy:


Thirst Logic

All poems
should have blood.

If not blood,
water. If not

water, a mouth,
some teeth, a voice,

a predilection
for love.

Ken Waldman

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

Dangerous kisses
pull us closer to heaven
Nowhere left to go

Kate Isaacson

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



Fact of Life

Nails
driven into green wood
will loosen
and back out.

Graham Duncan

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


best,
Don

You're Gonna Make Me Lonesome: Issa's Sunday Service, #99

Verlaine & Rimbaud

The count up to #100 is now just one week away and I've been thinking a bit about what that selection might be.  But, of course, as usual, I get ahead of myself.

This week's selection comes from the master, who has appeared here a time or three: Bob Dylan.  And though one might not think about this particular song when thinking litrock, you just have to love these lyrics:

Situations have ended sad
Relationships have all been bad
Mine’ve been like Verlaine’s and Rimbaud
But there’s no way I can compare
All those scenes to this affair
Yer gonna make me lonesome when you go

So the bard drags two other bards into "the scene," only to say there is no way he's going to compare their situation to his.

Harrumph.

That may be the verse that got the song on this list, but you know you truly are in the presence of a master when the pen flashes across the page, rhyming:

I’ll look for you in old Honolulu
San Francisco, Ashtabula
Yer gonna have to leave me now, I know
But I’ll see you in the sky above
In the tall grass, in the ones I love
Yer gonna make me lonesome when you go

Honolulu and Ashtabula!  I'm sure you don't need me to tell you it doesn't get better than that in a pop song.

Taking a decidedly left turn at Ashtabula, here's Weird Al to set "the record" straight about genius or genius on genius:





Yes, it is easy, so easy to throw around the word genius, but writing a parody pop song composed of rhyming palindromes - and making it sound good - well, I'll just leave it there.

For the nostalgic, rock's first "music video":




Finally, back to my opening ruminations: who to choose for #100 on the Litrock list? Well, it took a bit of a thunk, but I've got my choice, to be revealed next week. Wonder if anyone can guess, not the song, but the particular artist/band?

For those who made it this far through another rambly post, here's a challenge: name the artist that will be featured on #100 of Issa's Sunday Service, and you get a free 15 issue subscription to Lilliput Review (or a 15 issue extension for the terminally faithful).  First one who rings in with the right name is the winner.



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


Today's selection from the archive is of two very different poems that somehow managed to share a page (with another poem between). The first is a John Harter poem I somehow overlooked when I previously collected some of his Lilliput work in a post.  The 2nd is a telling piece by Mark Forrester.  They come from Lilliput Review #98, July 1998.

NOR THE WRITER TALKING

OF SELF NOR THE PAINTER

PAINTING OF PAINT

John Harter

White Ash
What is it in the scent of wood
that reminds me of my father?
He was no handyman.
When my brother-in-law's
thick fingers ease
thin sheets of blond wood
over his table saw, the dark
supple blade sheds narrow splinters
of hard bone, pale and odorless.

Mark Forrester

a wood fire--
her shadow in the window
pulling thread

Issa
translated by David G. Lanoue

best,
Don

PS  Get 2 free issues    Get 2 more free issues     Lillie poem archive

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

Go to the LitRock web site for a list of all 99 songs
Hear 'em all at once on the the LitRock Jukebox

Subscribe to Lilliput Review

About Last Saturday's Reading

Last Saturday's reading at Modern Formations Gallery went well and any trepidation I had about reading for the first time in over 20 years rapidly evaporated as the poems took over. Because there were so many readers (14), we were limited to 8 minutes apiece, which made things even easier. I had decided early on that I would do a combination of poems from Lilliput, in recognition of this 20th anniversary year, with a few of my own to finish up. This is another instance that working in the short form really paid off.

I thought I'd share the Lilliput poems I read with you in today's post. Selecting the poems for reading really highlighted some differences between the long and short forms. Most poems of 10 lines or less really don't have public presentation as a primary goal; it's no stretch to say the short poem is generally not designed for public readings. There really isn't enough time to pick up a rhythm, get up some steam, and deliver the goods. The poem is over before you know it.

That doesn't mean that poets don't bring considerable talents in matters such as rhythm, meter, word sound, rhyme and more to the short poem to make them amenable to reading aloud. In fact, if a short poem doesn't bring some poetic device(s), it is in real danger of appearing to be an aphorism or even just a wise (or wise ass) remark. So, in going through the Lillie archives I went in search of certain types of short poems and, happily, found them in reasonable abundance. As a result, the poems I selected actually are not representative of the magazine as a whole, just a certain aspect of that magazine.

It didn't make much sense to get up and read work that wasn't designed in a way for reading and wouldn't connect in that type of setting. As a result, what follows was specifically chosen for the reading and, from the response, seemed to go over fairly well. It was a real challenge to present the work of other poets and to do the work justice.





springtime in a city park

look at them all
carrying weight and shoes
and pants,
briefcases and glasses.
a cigarette slowly lifted
to the lips.
sunlight on a youthful book
open.
hope.
look at them all
they're so fucking beautiful.

Charlie Mehrhoff, LR #48

business as usual

money says have a nice day

money says bark like a dog

money says bark like a dog
and roll over

money says blame each other

money says have another biscuit

Don Wleklinski, LR #153

The Arrival

We have arrived without luggage
in a country we don't recognize
among people who distrust us
where the walls have no windows
and the doors open only
for the chosen. Welcome home.

David Chorlton, LR #145

Apple

Sometimes when eating an apple
I bite too far
and open the little room
the lovers have prepared,
and the seeds fall
onto the kitchen floor
and I see
they are tear-shaped.

Jay Leeming, LR #72

I RIP OFF YOU, YOU RIP OFF ME, WE RIP OFF THEM
THAY RIP OFF US, THAY RIP ME OFF, I RIP OFF THEM
YOU RIP OFF THEM, THAY RIP OFF YOU, HE RIPS OFF
ME, I RIP OFF HIM, HE RIPS OFF YOU, YOU RIP OFF
HIM, WE RIP OFF HIM, HE RIPS OFF US, I RIP OFF
HER, SHE RIPS OFF ME, SHE RIPS OFF YOU, YOU RIP
OFF HER, I RIP OFF ME, YOU RIP OFF YOU, THAY RIP
OFF THEMSELVES, I FOLLOW YOU, YOU FOLLOW ME AND
SO ON DOWN THE LINE, THAY HYPNOTIZE US, THAY
HYPNOTIZE US, I HYPNOTIZE YOU

John Harter, LR #106

THE LIBRARIAN ASKED
CAN YOU WAIT
FOR THAT BOOK
ON
FIFTH CENTURY
BUDDHIST STATUARY

John Harter, LR #110

Lost in the Translation

I'm impotent today she
said, closed the book
capped her pen. You can't
be impotent or potent, they
laughed. You have no penis.
She listened, and for a long
time, she believed them

Celeste Bowman, LR #89

He crept in
like mildew.

Suzanne Bowers, #59

We forget
we're mostly water
till the rain falls
and every atom
in our body
starts to go home

Albert Huffstickler, LR #116

Yawn Series of Younger Poets

annual politician of
a first book of
plums by ailing
writer under 40.
Marmosets may be
sulimated only
during February
and must be
accompanied by
a stamped, self
addressed moose

Lyn Lifshin, LR #6

your body

each piece a shining eye
examining
the rest of the explosion

scarecrow, LR #71

2003

Just before spring
--the war begins
-but - ignorant -
the pink blossoms
--keep opening
--their tiny fists

Judith Toler, LR #135

Disaster

Last night the past broke
and there was history
all over the cellar.
You should have seen it -
Rome was here, Greece was there,
Egypt floated near the ceiling -
finally I had to
call an historian:
and you know what they charge
for emergencies.

Gail White, LR #22

One Small Poem

can take you
a long way

think how far
you've come

to find
this one.

Bart Solarcyzk, LR #123

I chose not to use any haiku per se for this particular reading simply because the ones I was considering didn't make the final cut, though I did feature a number among my own poems (since it is the form I most exclusively write in these days). There were a number of great readers that evening, particularly Renée Alberts, Nikki Allen, and Jerome Crooks. I felt very fortunate to be sharing the stage with so many talented artists.

I guess I'm good for another 20 years.

the preacher's
hand gestures too...
summer trees

Issa
translated by David G. Lanoue

best,
Don

Wendell Berry, Madam Marie, and the Summarize Monsieur Proust in Two Words (Or Less) Contest

Cover art by Oberc

A couple of interesting tidbits, if not poetic than certainly lyrical. First a very powerful interview with Wendell Berry in The Sun should be required reading for everyone. It's long and it's worth it. Second, sad news in the cultural icon department, as reported by the Asbury Park Press: Madam Marie has passed away at the age of 93. Here's a note by Bruce from his homepage:

Back in the day when I was a fixture on the Asbury Park boardwalk, I'd often stop and talk to Madam Marie as she sat on her folding chair outside the Temple of Knowledge.

I'd sit across from her on the metal guard rail bordering the beach, and watched as she led the day trippers into the small back room where she would unlock a few of the mysteries of their future. She always told me mine looked pretty good - she was right. The world has lost enough mystery as it is - we need our fortunetellers. We send our condolences out to her family who've carried on her tradition. Over here on E Street, we will miss her.

--Bruce Springsteen

As someone who did plenty of time in Asbury Park and saw many a so-called renaissance of the town come and go, the death of Madam Marie, her passing, resonants in many ways.

Today is the birthday of someone who, after many years, has become my favorite writer: Marcel Proust. In homage to Monty Python's The All-England Summarize Proust Competition, the website TEMPSPERDU.COM has a webpage of two, three, four, five etc. word summaries of Proust (all 3,000 plus pages) submitted by visitors to their site. Cliff's Notes could learn a thing or two about summarizing from these folks. I particularly love the two word summaries and can't decide which is my favorite: "Goodnight Mama", "Mmmm ... cookies", "Society sucks", or "Time flies."

Contributor copies of the new issues of Lilliput Review, #'s 163 and 164, went out this week. I will begin working on the subscription run this weekend. Typically, with poetry to read and letters to write, it takes me 6 or so weeks to get the full run out. Such is the life of a small press editor. #163 features poems by:

Yosano Akiko (Dennis Maloney translations), John Martone, Marcia Arrieta, Ed Baker, Hosho McCreesh, Bart Solarczyk, Paul Hostovsky, Kevin Richard Jones, Constance Campbell, Greg Watson, George Gott, Jeffrey Skeate, Alan Holder, Kelley Jean White, Mary Rooney, Lâle Müldür (translated by Donny Smith), Mike Dillon, Joseph Farley, Shey Galib (translated by Donny Smith), and Diane di Prima. Artwork is by John Harter, Edward O'Durr Supranowicz, and Guy Beining.

If anyone has contact info on Edward O'Durr Supranowicz, I could use it to get him his contributor copies. I don't have an address for him.

In #164, poems are by: Diane di Prima, John Martone, Greg Watson, Charlie Mehrhoff, Janet Baker, Paul Hostovsky, LeRoy Gorman, Hosho McCreesh, David Gross, Charles Nevsimal, Hugh Hennedy, Kelley Jean White, Ruben T. Abeyta, Wayne Hogan (also responsible for the artwork), M. Kei, David Lindley, Judy Swann, Mark J. Mitchell, Jacquelyn Bowen Aly, M. Kettner, Marcelle H. Kasprowicz, David Chorlton, Jessica Harman, Bart Galle, and Michael Wurster.

This week's back issue feature from the Lillie archive is #81 from August 1996 (who remembers that a former NFL quarterback was nominated by the Republicans for vice-president?). Here are a couple of samples:

Love in the Warm Sweet Air of Springtime

Sheets loosen
fall to the floor
the lamps tip
magazines slip
everything is touched
everything is moved.

Janell Moon

oh touch me you fool

and for all he's worth
his fingers fall like
pale leaves into the
wet autumn of spring

Angel D. Zapata

typical male

here I am
getting that
hackneyed
dog shit
creeping out
from under the snow
poem
out of my system

Matt Welter

And, you know, sometimes there is the beauty of serendipity or, as Jung would have it, synchronicity. I literally came across the following two poems in this issue after I'd written the above. The first is a nod to the Madam, RIP, the second needs no explanation beyond the fact that it was a "Brobdingnag Feature Poem," an occasional feature wherein the poet is permitted to go beyond the usual 10 line limit. Enjoy.

Columbus Avenue

Sidewalk slick with rain,
the fortune teller's daughter
sits barefoot in a doorway,
her painted toes curl in moist air.
The florist flirts, sells me white flowers,
casablanca lilies, he likes saying.
A street singer cries through this thick air,
he beats good rhythm on his thighs
and I give him money, of course I do.

Lonnie Hull Dupont

Proust

He wrote and
rewrote the
last of Remembrance
in bed, taped
changes on
to changes, some
paper accordion
folded out
across the
room with penned
corrections.
He died days later,
the manuscripts
still near the
bed like a
ticking watch on
the wrist of
a dead soldier.

Lyn Lifshin

Oh, I can't end that way, that's too many lines:

the fate of the tang dynasty

ink died
sparrow lives

W. B. Keckler

That's better.

best,
Don

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Beckett on Dante, Freud Meets Aquinas, and the Fine Art of the One Word Poem

Cover collage by John Harter

Last week's posting opened with an elegant quote by James Wright concerning Dante. Perhaps Dante would be appreciative of a maniacal mood swing to another aspect of his persona, as well as ours. In my job, I read literally dozens of reviews every week, concentrating on the areas of literature. In the Times Literary Supplement 11/30/07 under the heading "Cultural Studies", there is a review of Valerie Allen's On Farting: Language and Laughter in the Middle Ages. From that review, the following:

"Samuel Beckett, the creator of more than one flatulent character, when asked about his ambitions once replied: 'All I want to do is sit on my arse and fart and think about Dante.'"

One might suppose that reading dozens of literary reviews weekly might be conducive to all sorts of reactions, but that line of thought is surely a cul-de-sac. Rather, better to take the high road and press on to Joyce Carol Oates's review of Bernard Malamud: A Writer's Life by Philip Davis in the Dec. 21-28 TLS, for the following interesting tidbit on the pitfalls of the biographer:

"In the preface ... Davis quotes the notorious remarks of Sigmund Freud on the futility of the biographical enterprise: 'Anyone turning biographer has committed himself to lies, concealment, to hypocrisy, to flattery, and even to hiding his own lack of understanding, for biographical truth is not to be had, and even if it were it couldn't be useful.' Such an irrational outburst leads one to wonder what Freud was desperate to conceal from biographers, and whether he succeeded ..."

Freud and his talking cure have long been discredited, despite or, perhaps, because of its many successes; Oates's little diatribe, of course, prompts the reader to wonder how such "an irrational outburst leads one to wonder what" Oates was desperate to conceal about the futility of the reviewing enterprise. Extending this logical progression of thought with a mighty Aquinian (as opposed to Kierkegaardian) leap, one might actually come to posit that Freud was, in his notably prescient way, commenting on the blogging enterprise of the early 21st century and its futility.

Under every rock, a post-modern observation lurks, it would seem.

So, enough of what I do when not reading poetry, posting letters, laying out new issues, and thinking about Dante. More selections of poetry have been added to the Back Issue Archive; there are now 14 back issue samplings up online, with over 80 poems. More samples, of course, are posted every week in this blog, so there are now well over 100 poems from the past 18 years of Lilliput Review online, with more to come. This week's selections come from #135, pictured above. As a lover of the short poem, I've an unhealthy fascination for the one line poem and, even more narrowly, perhaps, and even more life threateningly, the one word poem. Among the selections below is one of my favorites ...

2003

Just before spring

the war begins

but - ignorant -

the pink blossoms

keep opening

their tiny fists

Julie Toler

The year comes to an

end, another begins. Still

it is not finished.



David Lindley










TAOUBT



Ray Skjelbred









Each that we lose takes part of us;

A crescent still abides,

Which like the moon,

some turbid night,

Is summoned by the tides.



Emily Dickinson




Here's to peace in 2008.

Best till then,
Don.