The Hollow Tree: Bowie, Glück, & Bly

On any given day or in any given week, I am usually reading 4 or 5 books, to say nothing of the many I randomly consult. At the same time, music is the soundtrack of my life: I am listening whenever I can. 

So, the many connections that pop up between books and music find there way into these posts, most frequently on The Sunday Service, but often in other, less focused posts. 

Lately, I've been listening to David Bowie's fantastic new album, The Next Day, somewhat compulsively. Also, I've been preparing for some poetry meetings this fall related to my day job, one of which is a discussion of the work of Louise Glück. Here is a haunting poem by her I ran across during my preparations:


All Hallows by Louise Glück

Even now this landscape is assembling.
The hills darken. The oxen
Sleep in their blue yoke,
The fields having been
Picked clean, the sheaves
Bound evenly and piled at the roadside
Among cinquefoil, as the toothed moon rises:

This is the barrenness
Of harvest or pestilence
And the wife leaning out the window
With her hand extended, as in payment,
And the seeds
Distinct, gold, calling
Come here
Come here, little one

And the soul creeps out of the tree.

During my many listenings to the new Bowie, after discovering the Glück poem, suddenly the lines in the chorus of the title song jumped out at me.

  

The Next Day by David Bowie

"Look into my eyes", he tells her
"I’m gonna say goodbye", he says, yeah
"Do not cry", she begs of him goodbye, yeah
All that day she thinks of his love, yeah

They whip him through the streets and alleys there
The gormless and the baying crowd right there
They can’t get enough of that doomsday song
They can’t get enough of it all

Listen

"Listen to the whores", he tells her
He fashions paper sculptures of them
Then drags them to the river‘s bank in the cart
Their soggy paper bodies wash ashore in the dark
And the priest stiff in hate now demanding fun begin
Of his women dressed as men for the pleasure of that priest

Here I am, not quite dying
My body left to rot in a hollow tree
Its branches throwing shadows on the gallows for me
And the next day,
And the next,
And another day

Ignoring the pain of their particular diseases
They chase him through the alleys chase him down the steps
They haul him through the mud and they chant for his death
And drag him to the feet of the purple headed priest

First they give you everything that you want
Then they take back everything that you have
They live upon their feet and they die upon their knees
They can work with satan while they dress like the saints
They know god exists for the devil told them so
They scream my name aloud down into the well below

Here I am, not quite dying
My body left to rot in a hollow tree
Its' branches throwing shadows on the gallows for me
And the next day,
And the next,
And another day.


While musing on the idea of the related imagery (the hollow tree & the soul in the tree) of Glück and Bowie and thinking what I might make of it in passing here, I started to read Robert Bly's This Tree Will Be Here for a Thousand Years (which I'll have more to say about in a later post). 

And, of course, what did I run across but this, the first verse to his poem "Women We Love Whom We Never See Again:"

There are women we love whom we never see again.
They are chestnuts shining in the rain.
Moths hatched in winter disappear behind books.
Sometimes when you put your hand into a hollow tree
you touch the dark places between the stars.


So, I pulled up: there it is, three pieces that reference a hollow tree (two directly, one, perhaps, allusively), a shared image from something like the collective unconscious. I haven't quite got my mind around this, it may just be too large for that type of feat for me (though one can find citations for heroes hiding in hollow trees, children being found in hollow trees, king's escaping pursuit in hollow trees, all in Stith-Thompson's Motif-Index of Folk-Literature), but I do feel, in some ways, that the image is seeking me out. 

Either that or I certainly am paying better attention than usual. 

Or maybe, in my selection of materials, I am seeking out the hollow tree? It has something to say, doesn't it?

What might it be? 

What might it be?

Source: geograph.org.uk on Wikicommons

-------------- 

Photo by Onnola

 "Take a shortcut though me!"
the willow
suggests

Issa
translated by David G. Lanoue

best,

Don  

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I'd Rather Be High: Issa's Sunday Service, #169

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"Just remember, duckies, everybody gets got"

David Bowie's new album, The Next Day, defines one very courageous way to head off into the sunset: with guns blazing. This is his most vibrant writing in many a year and nothing he turns his lens on is spared the fixed glare of intense, informed scrutiny. 

Today's song, "I'd Rather Be High," touches a lot of bases and, if it doesn't make it all around, it most certainly comports itself well.  The lit allusion comes in the first line with the introduction of Vladimir Nabokov (not his first appearance on the Sunday Service) - a number of his novels reference Gruenwald (The Gift and King, Queen, Knave, to name two). Here is an interesting paragraph from an article entitled "Nabokov's Berlin:"

It so happened that four bestselling German novels set in Berlin were written in the late 1920s, at the same time as Nabokov’s King, Queen, Knave the German translation of which was not a bestseller. They were Menschen im Hotel by Vicky Baum, Berlin Alexanderplatz by Alfred Döblin, Fabian by Erich Kästner and Bruder und Schwester by Leonhard Frank. There is much more of Berlin to be seen in King, Queen, Knave than in any of them. Döblin’s extraordinary novel has more of the city only insofar as it has its idiom and its way of thinking; in this sense it is a close-up while Nabokov’s fiction stays at a neutral distance. But Döblin’s city itself is reduced to a few blocks between Alexanderplatz and Rosenthaler Platz. Döblin lived not far away, and I believe Nabokov never ventured into those proletarian quarters. Nabokov's Berlin by contrast is the "Russian Berlin" of Wilmersdorf, Charlottenburg and Schöneberg, the city center and the city's parks and forests, notably the Grunewald.

Of course, I'm more intrigued by the sun-licked Nabokov himself - what, oh what, can you mean, Mr. Bowie? 

Oh, you mean that.

Beyond the lit allusion, there is a lot more to chew on here, as in many of the songs on this solid new album. The persona, and Bowie always has so many, is of interest, and what he is after, via that persona, is interesting, indeed. The lyrics are worth contemplation.  


I'd Rather Be High

Nabokov is sun-licked now
Upon the beach at Gruenwald
Brilliant and naked just
The way that authors looks

Clare and Lady Manners drink
Until the other cows go home
Gossip till their lips are bleeding
Politics and all

I'd rather be high
I'd rather be flying
I'd rather be dead
Or out of my head
Than training these guns 
on those men in the sand
I'd rather be high

The Thames was black, the tower dark
I flew to Cairo, find my regiment
City's full of generals
And generals full of shit

I stumble to the graveyard and I
Lay down by my parents, whisper
Just remember duckies
Everybody gets got

I'd rather be high
I'd rather be flying
I'd rather be dead
Or out of my head
Than training these guns 
on those men in the sand
I'd rather be high

I'm seventeen and my looks can prove it
I'm so afraid that I will lose it
I'd rather smoke and phone my ex
Be pleading for some teenage sex
Yeah

I'd rather be high
I'd rather be flying
I'd rather be dead
Or out of my head
Than training these guns 
on the men in the sand
I'd rather be high


Finally, Mr. Nabokov himself should have his say and here he is, in all his opinionated, loathing glory. This is the BBC documentary Life and 'Lolita." Enjoy. 

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

Ominaeshi by Koizumi

graveyard--
all alone a maiden flower
twisting

Issa
translated by David G. Lanoue

best,

Don   

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Buddha of Suburbia: Issa's Sunday Service #127

 

The Buddha from Suburbia, the eponymous song from one of David Bowie's most overlooked albums, is named after the 1990 novel by Hanif Kureishi, hence it's literary lineage.  This song is the only one from the soundtrack for the four-part BBC series that Bowie was commissioned to produce and, though classified as a soundtrack, really isn't at all.  There are two very interesting, Eno-like instrumentals on the album, plus a second take of the title track with Lenny Kravitz wailing away on guitar.


Kureishi's first big project (aside from his early stint as a pornography writer) was the screenplay for the great 1985 film, My Beautiful Launderette, a long-time personal favorite of mine.  If you haven't seen it (or perhaps even if you have) here's a 10 minute clip that gives a good feel for the film:







If its one you missed, check it out - among other things, it has a great early performance by Daniel Day-Lewis.

And, finally, here is the official video for the BBC series:








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In case you missed it this week, here is a fine poem by angie werren from tinywords, an exemplary online/print mag which has accepted a new poem of my own for publication in a forthcoming collection:

he thinks again of turning leaves her hands

-angie werren

from tinywords
http://tinyurl.com/7l2c886

Let's finish up with two songs that popped up on the ipod on my walk to work on Friday.  First George cutting through all the bullshit, Beatle and otherwise:








Next, the rock song with the hottest guitar riff ever (got a hotter one?  I'm listening ...):










And rounding it all off with two poems from the magnificent collection of the work of Buddhist Nun Rengetsu, Lotus Moon, to be added to the one I posted previously (you can buy it at an independent seller here:

When a Thief Came

If the mountain bandit
Came to my place
To steal away
Golden oak leaves
He struck it rich!

The Thief

Nor a trace
Of a thief
But he left behind
The peaceful stillness
of the Okazaki Hills.

Rengetsu

the mountain moon
gives the blossom thief
light

Issa
translated by David G. Lanoue

In case you noticed, yes this is lengthier than it should be for someone on partial hiatus, but I did warn you that staying away from music was never going to completely happen.

And yes, it also means that progress continues on the anthology.  Solid progress.

best,

Don

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Dirty Blvd.: Issa's Sunday Service, #124

Perhaps it is appropriate, with the Occupy the World movement (including Sesame Street) in full swing, that this week's selection is Lou Reed's powerful "Dirty Blvd."  It is one of Lou's heavy narrative lyrics and he manages to turn Emma Lazarus "The New Colossus" on its head with a swift backhand:




The New Colossus

   Not like the brazen giant of Greek fame
   With conquering limbs astride from land to land;
   Here at our sea-washed, sunset gates shall stand
   A mighty woman with a torch, whose flame
   Is the imprisoned lightning, and her name
   Mother of Exiles.  From her beacon-hand
   Glows world-wide welcome; her mild eyes command
   The air-bridged harbor that twin cities frame,
   "Keep, ancient lands, your storied pomp!" cries she
   With silent lips.  "Give me your tired, your poor,
   Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free,
   The wretched refuse of your teeming shore,
   Send these, the homeless, tempest-tossed to me,
   I lift my lamp beside the golden door!"

                     Emma Lazarus

In addition to paraphrasing lines to deadly effect, Lou renames the famous Statue itself:

Give me your hungry, your tired,
your poor I'll piss on 'em
That's what the Statue of Bigotry says
Your poor huddled masses
Let's club 'em to death
And get it over with
and just dump 'em on the boulevard

Never one to take prisoners, Lou's perspective is every bit as relevant today in light of the recent nationwide protests as it was in 1989 when it first appeared on his dynamite New York album.  We think of this as an urban problem, but obviously its universality is becoming more and more apparent.

Here is a version of "Dirty Blvd.," along with "White Light, White Heat," done as a duet with David Bowie on the occasion of the later's 50th birthday.








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This week's featured poem from the archive comes from Lilliput Review, #64, December 1964, which has been featured before here and here.   This is the 12th poem featured from that issue and it's a good one.

When Asked To Name The Seven
        Most Beautiful Words. . .

              carnelian
              quince
              cloud
              fire
              gillyflower
              cane
              dusk

             Jeanne Shannon

red clouds--
above the butterfly too
autumn dusk

Issa
translated by David G. Lanoue

best,

Don

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I Bet You Look Good on the Dancefloor: Issa's Sunday Service, #106

This is a day for rocking out, if delayed by a week.  Here's the 2nd appearance of the pop/rock band with as many hooks per album as your average fly fisherwoman has in her tackle box: the Arctic Monkeys.  At first listening, it would seem there is an allusion to Orwell's "1984" but, upon closer inspection, this seems spurious - I'm not remembering too many robots in that lit classic, especially dancing to electro-pop.  However, as I was about to abandon all hope, up popped the line "Oh, there ain't no love, no Montagues or Capulets" ... and, though this may seem a bit like "Newsflash: Generalissimo Francisco Franco, Still Dead," it'll do.

So, what about these robots and electro-pop and dance floors?  Well, maybe it's not a  lit allusion in the Arctic Monkey's song,  but perhaps pop citing pop:




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This week's poems come from Lilliput Review, #87, April 1997.  They came back to back on pages 5 and 6 of this issue and have an interesting kinship.  Enjoy.





On Padre Island
   Alone on the beach
   watching the waves dissolve your name
   remembering

   Single gull dives
   impressing on the sand grains
   a fleeting shadow

   Barbara Tieken

Dad
   He's the one told me
   "Never write your name
   in the sand; the sea
   will come and take it away
   and what would we call you
   after that

   B. Kim Meyer

my dead mother--
every time I see the ocean
every time..

Issa
translated by David G. Lanoue

best,

Don

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1984: Issa's Sunday Service, #37 (Plus Best 2 Out of 3: Vidal vs. Mailer)

January 8th was the birthday of LitRock prince, David Bowie, and what better way to celebrate than with the retro-future tune 1984, this week's selection for Issa's Sunday Service?

And here is a stylized, very mannered live performance of the same, on the Dick Cavett Show; what it loses in studio perfection it more than compensates for by seriously rocking out.





Of course, when I think of Dick Cavett I think of one of the most amazing pieces of live television I've ever seen in my life, an excerpt from which follows:





What didn't come out until the very end of the show, was that in a review by Vidal in the New York Review of Books of Mailer's book, Prisoner of Sex, Vidal had lumped Mailer in with Henry Miller and Charles Manson (whom he referred to as the 3M's throughout the balance of the article); Mailer took the Manson mention to be a reference to Mailer's stabbing of his wife and this was what he took umbrage to and was unable to articulate until the end, when he got up in a threatening manner, from which Vidal recoiled. It seemed they both behaved rather despicably, Vidal all refinement and venom and Mailer all, well, repugnant, crass, and loaded; of everyone, Janet Flanner came off best, closely followed by Cavett, with his gallant attempt to defend his guests and himself.

That, folks, is reality TV.

Here's Cavett's 2007 remembrance of that show.



***********************


This week's feature poem comes from Lilliput Review #57, June 1994, several poems of which were highlighted in a previous post. This one seems to dovetail perfectly with the early 70's bit of footage, noted above:

Child of the 70's

I was
a bad

news
bear

Keith Higginbotham

Our friend, Issa, seems to see through us all:

boars and bears
are my neighbors...
winter seclusion

Issa
translated by David G. Lanoue

best,
Don


PS For all 37 Litrock selections, check out the webpage Litrock at Issa's Sunday Service. Please note if you subscribe by email or a reader you may not see the grooveshark player or occasional youtube video, so just click through to hear and see what's up.

Dining with Bill Burroughs at the Circle Nine Cafe

The Boys in the Band

Well, today we might as well party like it's 2099: it's the anniversary of Beat prophet, poet, huckster and general gad-about-town, big Bill Burroughs. For those looking for the gory details, The Biography Project is happy to oblige.


For the real, nitty-gritty goods, check out this fantastic full length documentary (129 minutes), entitled simply Burroughs, directed by Howard Brookner in 1983. Worth your time, you ask? The NY Times review would be a big fat yessir. Simply put, it's great.





Burroughs (1983)

In line with all this magnanimous goodness (well, ok, badness, for the Crowley inclined), there is more to explore in the nest of sites around the Burroughs-themed Interzone.

And, finally, though it might be a chilling, Tibetan Book of the Dead full-bore fear method of dying, you could do worse than listen to the dulcet hypnogogic droning of William Burroughs audio at the Internet Archive on your stroll down that white light tunnel to a rebirth of decidedly questionable resonance.

Or not. But, really, ya gotta love a huckster, especially when the stakes of that shell game are a might steeper than a cup-a-joe at Dante's Circle Nine Cafe and Entomologic Parlor of Elusive Delight.


best,
Don

Poetry Follies for a Rainy Friday Afternoon

Lunch hour and it's another rainy Friday afternoon in Pittsburgh. As an antidote to all this damp, below is a neat little bit with Hugh Laurie and Stephen Fry, the later doing his very best John Cleese homage. Thanks once again go to Jessa Crispin at Blog of Bookslut for pointing in this direction. Be forewarned: the language envelop is pushed here, so it may not be for the shy or easily flustered linguistically. Enjoy.








best,
Don