Diane di Prima's new book, The Poetry Deal, is, somewhat improbably, her very best. I'm a long time fan of her poetry - until this volumeRevolutionary Letters, was my favorite - and I am simply ecstatic at how truly great this collection is. Here are two of her briefer poems, ON THE TRAIN and TO A STUDENT, from The Poetry Deal:
ON THE TRAIN 1. green shack in Richmond "Merlin's" printed on the door
just that
2. "Halfway to Baghdad" says the headline. The graffiti reads "Whitey repent"
TO A STUDENT POEMS are angels come to bring you the letter you wdn't sign for earlier, when it was delivered by your life
Want to buy this and support one of the great small press publishers of all time? Buy it directly from City Lights, at a 30% discount - cheaper than that big virtual box store.
Or a favorite independent bookshop near you.
You'll love it.
in my ramshackle hut
she holds her head high...
the peony
Bob Arnold of Longhousehas passed along the information that Diane di Prima is in dire need of help with medical bills. Here is information from Michael McClure:
Diane is suffering with several painful and even life-threatening illnesses, including removal of all teeth, arthritis from her earlier back operation, extreme problems with glaucoma and a needed operation; but that’s just the top of the list. Despite all, she is in unexpectedly fine spirits. If you know of any way to help her, she would appreciate it and I would also.
This post from The Poetry Foundation gives more information. A webpage has been set up on Giving Forwardto make donations for Diane. I've dug deep to help out; Diane has been so incredibly generous with her work in tiny Lilliput Review. We all know how badly the healthcare system is broken and how well the profession of poetry pays. As of this writing, in a short amount of time, over $15,000 has been raised of the projected goal of $20,000. Even as a few bucks is a big help.
If you can help, please do. Thanks for taking the time.
got in & now it's not so easy to get out, huh, Bee? Same for you as for me.
Three noteworthy celluloid adventures for a rainy afternoon. The Jung hits a tad of a lull a little ways in and picks up steam. Allen is Allen, a joy to listen to and behold and I can't wait to see the film on Diane di Prima.
Enjoy.
Jung on Film, via Nancy Davenport
Via Ron Silliman, Allen Ginberg Interview
Diane di Prima: The Poetry Deal trailer, sent along by Susan Diridoni
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a long day--
the eel catcher writes pictures
on the water
I ran across this video around the blogosphere somewhere - on Ron Silliman's blog, perhaps, or the Allen Ginsberg Project - and was really taken with it. An all access cable show, buried deep in the Internet archive, this hasn't gotten much play and it deserves to. This is around the time - the 90s - when Allen was very taken with song and some of these work better than others. Some fine work here and, of course, it's Allen.
What really struck me in this show was his remarks regarding Shelley which just set off a sparkling of synapses (synapsi?), as he quoted the following lines from Ode to the West Wind:
Drive my dead thoughts over the universe
Like withered leaves to quicken a new birth!
I immediately, for some reason, thought of John Lennon's remarkable song "Across the Universe." Ginsberg's take here on shedding ambition and changing the world, on poetry's place in that world, threads these two apparently unrelated pieces together for me. Here's how he puts it:
"I keep thinking there must be some mighty rhythm with the right words that would penetrate through all consciousness and wake earth up to its terrific non-transcendent living possibility of having a continuing destiny."
"Doesn't everybody have that? ... I did, since I was a kid. ... Or penetrate through the world with some great song, cry, mantra, or poem like Shelley (in Ode to the West Wind)...
Here's the Shelley and Lennon, side by side.
ODE TO THE WEST WIND by: Percy Bysshe Shelley
I.
O Wild West Wind, thou breath of Autumn's being,
Thou, from whose unseen presence the leaves dead
Are driven, like ghosts from an enchanter fleeing,
Yellow, and black, and pale, and hectic red,
Pestilence-stricken multitudes: O thou,
Who chariotest to their dark wintry bed
The wingèd seeds, where they lie cold and low,
Each like a corpse within its grave, until
Thine azure sister of the spring shall blow
Her clarion o'er the dreaming earth, and fill
(Driving sweet buds like flocks to feed in air)
With living hues and odors plain and hill:
Wild Spirit, which art moving everywhere;
Destroyer and preserver; hear, oh, hear!
II.
Thou on whose stream, 'mid the steep sky's commotion,
Loose clouds like earth's decaying leaves are shed,
Shook from the tangled boughs of Heaven and Ocean,
Angels of rain and lightning: there are spread
On the blue surface of thine airy surge,
Like the bright hair uplifted from the head
Of some fierce Mænad, even from the dim verge
Of the horizon to the zenith's height,
The locks of the approaching storm. Thou dirge
Of the dying year, to which this closing night
Will be the dome of a vast sepulchre,
Vaulted with all thy congregated might
Of vapors, from whose solid atmosphere
Black rain, and fire, and hail, will burst: oh hear!
III.
Thou who didst waken from his summer dreams
The blue Mediterranean, where he lay,
Lulled by the coil of his crystalline streams,
Beside a pumice isle in Baiæ's bay,
And saw in sleep old palaces and towers
Quivering within the wave's intenser day,
All overgrown with azure moss and flowers
So sweet, the sense faints picturing them! Thou
For whose path the Atlantic's level powers
Cleave themselves into chasms, while far below
The sea-blooms and the oozy woods which wear
The sapless foliage of the ocean, know
Thy voice, and suddenly grow gray with fear,
And tremble and despoil themselves: oh, hear!
IV.
If I were a dead leaf thou mightest bear;
If I were a swift cloud to fly with thee;
A wave to pant beneath thy power, and share
The impulse of thy strength, only less free
Than thou, O uncontrollable! if even
I were as in my boyhood, and could be
The comrade of thy wanderings over heaven,
As then, when to outstrip thy skyey speed
Scarce seemed a vision; I would ne'er have striven
As thus with thee in prayer in my sore need.
Oh! lift me as a wave, a leaf, a cloud!
I fall upon the thorns of life! I bleed!
A heavy weight of hours has chained and bowed
One too like thee: tameless, and swift, and proud.
V.
Make me thy lyre, even as the forest is;
What if my leaves are falling like its own!
The tumult of thy mighty harmonies
Will take from both a deep, autumnal tone,
Sweet though in sadness. Be thou, Spirit fierce,
My spirit! Be thou me, impetuous one!
Drive my dead thoughts over the universe
Like withered leaves to quicken a new birth!
And, by the incantation of this verse,
Scatter, as from an extinguished hearth
Ashes and sparks, my words among mankind!
Be through my lips to unwakened earth
The trumpet of a prophecy! O Wind,
If Winter comes, can Spring be far behind?
Across the Universe by John Lennon
Words are flowing out like endless rain into a paper cup,
They slither while they pass, they slip away across the universe
Pools of sorrow, waves of joy are drifting through my open mind,
Possessing and caressing me.
Jai guru deva om
Nothing's gonna change my world,
Nothing's gonna change my world.
Images of broken light which dance before me like a million eyes,
That call me on and on across the universe,
Thoughts meander like a restless wind inside a letter box they
Tumble blindly as they make their way
Across the universe
Jai guru deva om
Nothing's gonna change my world,
Nothing's gonna change my world.
Sounds of laughter shades of earth are ringing
Through my open views inviting and inciting me
Limitless undying love which shines around me like a
Million suns, it calls me on and on
Across the universe
Jai guru deva om
Nothing's gonna change my world,
Nothing's gonna change my world.
Thanks, Allen, as always, for that incredible mind.
Occasionally, I come across a poem that I'd like to pass along, with an attendant song, in no particular context beyond the fact that it is a very good short poem (and a good song). Last month, it was a Tom Waits song and a Jack Gilbert poem.Recently, I ran across this beautiful little poem by Constantine Cavafy about love, sex, and age, and thought I'd highlight it here. When I started thinking about songs, Morrison's "Brown-Eyed Girl" immediately came to mind. Morrison spends a lot of time "going back," and has referenced this song, and, I believe, the particular love it chronicles, more times than I can count over the years. Ironically, this piece of universally loved nostalgia was written by Van at a very young age, which is a good argument for reincarnation or simply indicative of the fact that Van just never got out enough.
Body, Remember
Body, remember not only how much you were loved, not only the beds on which you lay, but also those desires for you that glowed plainly in the eyes, and trembled in the voice- and some chance obstacle made futile. Now that all of them belong to the past, it almost seems as if you had yielded to those desires- how they glowed, remember in the eyes gazing at you; how they trembled in the voice, for you, remember, body.
plum blossom scent-- a hazy memory of my nanny's house
Issa translated by David G. Lanoue
best, Don
PS. A note for those who are on Facebook: there is a move afoot to rename a San Francisco street after current city Poet Laureate and all around great poet, memorist, and person, Diane DiPrima. For those of you so inclined, check it out here.
Speaking of Facebook, Lilliput Review now has a presence there and it has been a pleasant, informative, exhilarating experience. There is a lot to be learned, exchanged, and enjoyed for any poet or magazine/press. For anyone already there, stop by and give me a shout. For those who don't have an account, take a look. It's worth it.
Also, on the shiny, glittery Internet front, I'm starting a new project, since I don't have enough to do. Inspired by David Lanoue's use of his Kobayashi Issa archive on Twitter, the 140 character limit social networking cite, I'm going to start a Poem-a-Day Project, one from each Lilliput issue, backwards from #166 through at least #2. Today's "tweet" features the poem "she mentions ..." by M. Kei from issue #166.
Finally, something of an anomaly that I stumbled upon the other day: a two-line poem by Robert Frost. Enjoy.
The Secret Sits
We dance round in a ring and suppose, But the Secret sits in the middle and knows.
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