Of course, suggestions for literature influenced rock cuts are always welcomed.
Paying forward, we arrive at Lilliput Review #8, from December 1989. Here's a surreal bit of goodness rarely found in more recent issues:
Spiroman
she wondered how large the man
standing beside the person
clipping hairs from walls
would ever have to be
to cover the shortest curve
of the last strand
while still being able to see himself
fit any crevice
without knocking her cold
Stacey Sollfrey
And, finally, word:
persimmon leaves--
once they turn crimson
game over
There have been two postings in recent days about Lilliput Reviewfavorite, Albert Huffstickler, at theFeel Free to Read blog. The first is a general overview of Huff's life and career and the second is, entitled "The Bard of Hyde Park," a reprint of an article from The Austin American Statesman by Chuck Lindell on his passing and his influence on the local community and area poets.
I've spoken often of Huff here. He had a profound affect on me and Lilliput Review. It continues to be a point of delight and amazement that a small press poet, who never hit it big, continues to be revered, remembered, and discussed 7 years after his passing. For many years he was regular as rain in LR (and those of you who know his work well know, too, that the metaphor was not selected randomly); he continues to grab people via this blog and, whenever his work is posted, to be commented on. He has a popularity with regular folk that is analogous in affect, if not immensity, akin to Bukowski and Collins, without the commensurate baggage of either.
Something random in the morning air. Something not to be named. Something that starts where the music ends.
Though a bit lengthy, especially for this blog/mag's focus, I found the following poem to be of interest and, old school though it is, to be as modern, in both its subject and point of view, as can be. The title is a variation of the Latin phrase "poeta nascitur, non fit," meaning "a poet is born, not made." Carroll's reversal in his title says it all. From that title on, the playfulness for which the author of the Alice books was well-known is admirably displayed.
Poeta Fit, Non Nascitur by Lewis Carroll
"How shall I be a poet? How shall I write in rhyme? You told me once 'the very wish Partook of the sublime.' Then tell me how! Don't put me off With your 'another time'!"
The old man smiled to see him, To hear his sudden sally; He liked the lad to speak his mind Enthusiastically; And thought "There's no hum-drum in him, Nor any shilly-shally."
"And would you be a poet Before you've been to school? Ah, well! I hardly thought you So absolute a fool. First learn to be spasmodic -- A very simple rule.
"For first you write a sentence, And then you chop it small; Then mix the bits, and sort them out Just as they chance to fall: The order of the phrases makes No difference at all.
'Then, if you'd be impressive, Remember what I say, That abstract qualities begin With capitals alway: The True, the Good, the Beautiful -- Those are the things that pay!
"Next, when you are describing A shape, or sound, or tint; Don't state the matter plainly, But put it in a hint; And learn to look at all things With a sort of mental squint."
"For instance, if I wished, Sir, Of mutton-pies to tell, Should I say 'dreams of fleecy flocks Pent in a wheaten cell'?" "Why, yes," the old man said: "that phrase Would answer very well.
"Then fourthly, there are epithets That suit with any word -- As well as Harvey's Reading Sauce With fish, or flesh, or bird -- Of these, 'wild,' 'lonely,' 'weary,' 'strange,' Are much to be preferred. "
"And will it do, O will it do To take them in a lump -- As 'the wild man went his weary way To a strange and lonely pump'?" "Nay, nay! You must not hastily To such conclusions jump.
"Such epithets, like pepper, Give zest to what you write; And, if you strew them sparely, They whet the appetite: But if you lay them on too thick, You spoil the matter quite!
"Last, as to the arrangement: Your reader, you should show him, Must take what information he Can get, and look for no im- mature disclosure of the drift And purpose of your poem.
"Therefore, to test his patience -- How much he can endure -- Mention no places, names, or dates, And evermore be sure Throughout the poem to be found Consistently obscure.
"First fix upon the limit To which it shall extend: Then fill it up with 'Padding' (Beg some of any friend): Your great SENSATION-STANZA You place towards the end."
"And what is a Sensation, Grandfather, tell me, pray? I think I never heard the word So used before to-day: Be kind enough to mention one 'EXEMPLI GRATIA.'"
And the old man, looking sadly Across the garden-lawn, Where here and there a dew-drop Yet glittered in the dawn, Said "Go to the Adelphi, And see the 'Colleen Bawn.'
'The word is due to Boucicault -- The theory is his, Where Life becomes a Spasm, And History a Whiz: If that is not Sensation, I don't know what it is.
"Now try your hand, ere Fancy Have lost its present glow -- " "And then," his grandson added, "We'll publish it, you know: Green cloth-gold-lettered at the back -- In duodecimo!"
Then proudly smiled that old man To see the eager lad Rush madly for his pen and ink And for his blotting-pad -- But, when he thought of PUBLISHING, His face grew stern and sad.
Today is the anniversary of the passing of Jeff Buckley. Here he takes Leonard Cohen's "Hallelujah" to a place only he could.
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