Ed Markowski's treeee: Small Press Friday

treeeee

Ed Markowski, one of our foremost poets in the brief form, has been experimenting with old school graphics and the short poem. He's sent along a number of wonderful little pieces and agreed to let me share this one with you.

I particularly like how his use of graphics is more lyrical than literal, a visual equivalent of the poems themselves as seen in the piece above, which is called treeeee. 

Nightingale & Roses by Hokusai

samurai--
even the nightingale
gives orders

Issa
translated by David G. Lanoue

best,

Don   

 

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Ed Markowski: Meditation Hall

MEDITATION HALL

NO ONE’S HOME

        AT

NO ONE’S HOME

Ed Markowski

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If you're a fan and you have ten minutes, check out the interview with legendary small press poet T. Kilgore Splake at Michigan Public Radio station WMUK. He touches all the Splake bases ...

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The Poetry Foundation has posted a new Gerald Stern poem from the October issue of Poetry God, how I love this man.




Leaves
He was cleaning leaves for one at a time
was what he needed and a minute before the two
brown poodles walked by he looked at the stripped-down trees
from one more point of view and thought they were
part of a system in which the dappled was foreign
for he had arrived at his own conclusion and that was
for him a relief even if he was separated,
even if his hands were frozen,
even if the wind knocked him down,
even if his cat went into her helpless mode
inside the green and sheltering Japanese yew tree.

Gerald Stern

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Finally, very sad news - Bert Jansch, one of the most important figures in British and world folk music has died. I was privileged to see him when he came to Pittsburgh in an intimate setting at a local Unitarian Church. What a show. He will be missed.




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

plum blossom scent--
a hazy memory
of my nanny's house

Issa
translated by David G. Lanoue

best,

Don

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Between the Chimes: Charles Trumbull

Wise, gentle, funny, and humble: that's some tall order in one poetry collection and #23 in the Hexagram Series from King's Road Press, Charles Trumbull's Between the Chimes, fits the bill..   Though a brief chapbook, at 14 pages with 32 poems, it displays all the qualities mentioned and is, indeed, very fine as a result.

Trumbull deals in everyday things, with an easy, often self-deprecating humor, reminiscent of Master Issa himself.  Like Issa, some of the poems are plainly what they are; others resonate far beyond their apparent subject.  Here's one with all those elements:

thinking deeply
about my principles—
a wave collapses

The poet's revelation is right on the page: the wave crashes, being as deeply philosophical as will ever be necessary in this life, snapping the poet to attention.   The spirit of haiku comes from a deep, meditative-like attention to things and, when that attention wanders, frequently, if we are lucky, nature calls us back.

There is a haiku about baseball, a subject I formally hated for poetry (until straightened out by Ed Markowski), two about graveyards, and another about elections.   Election Day, it seems to me is a "holiday" which often is captured wonderfully in haiku - somebody should think about a small collection of election poems someday, if it hasn't been already done.

line drive to center
all faces turn toward
the sunflower field

This poem is exactly why I was wrong about baseball and haiku.  What a beautiful little piece, drawing us into the nature element of the national past time and making sure that people know exactly what they are like.  For some reason, probably obvious, I thought about the delicious tennis scene in Alfred Hitchcock's Strangers on a Train.

nearly dusk . . .
the shadow of her tombstone
reaches his

One of two graveyard poems, "nearly dusk" is probably my favorite in the book.   It is at once literal, figurative, heart-wrenching, and lovely.  Also possibly dark, creepy, horrific and more.  It's your half glass of water: choose.

election posters
a neighborhood dog
marks his choice

Really, someone should do a small collection of election day poems.  This one is a beaut and would deserve a prominent place.

on my copy of
Robert's Rules of Order
a dried speck of blood

Somehow, this poem feels like it should have been placed (by me) before the graveyard poem.  One of the great virtues of these poems is their truth - they have a quality of the found poem about them, a satori-like state again in that true spirit of haiku of which this is a good example.   Also, in this case, it happens to be very funny, especially for anyone who has had to suffer through emotionally charged meetings governed by the thin veil of civilizing influence which Robert's Rules provides.

grocery line—
the dancer's feet
in fourth position

This fine ku catches the poet in the attentive mode - how often we miss the details in everyday mundane tasks such as standing in line, as suggested above in the wave poem.   A perfect little moment here.

pansies      we smile back

This is another personal favorite - plainly stated.  Four words, one moment, universal - live in it, dwell there, it's eternity.

between
the chimes of the clock
shooting star

Again, another moment ensnared, a suggestion of time stopped, if just for an instant. One might think of this as the unmeasured moment. This is the heart of haiku, the heart of life, the breath held, in, out, rest ... live.

It is noted in the prefatory material that the cover image for the chapbook is Hexagram 10, from the I Ching, entitled "Treading Carefully."  Here is the explication:

When treading upon the tail of a tiger, if it does not bite you have success.  For the weak to take a stand against the strong is not dangerous if it happens in good humour.

Looking back over the book and the poems highlighted in this post in light of the hexagram is potentially instructive.  The hexagram gives fair warning, and also a potential approach to a hostile environment.  Humor is a key; backing down not a particular option.

As another bard so aptly put it, "it's life and life only."


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This week's poem comes from Lilliput Review, #177, December 2010.  Enjoy.

end
  I pull up a weed
  to find at bottom
  a heart rough
  and split
  earth dangling
  green
  shooting out

Christina Manweller

traveling geese--
the human heart, too
soars

Issa
translated by David G. Lanoue

best,

Don

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Ed Markowski: Monday Twitter Poem

Photo by McKay Savage

temple path
tree branches point
in every direction

Ed Markowski

                                                              from LR, #178







mountain temple--
all the buildings strewn
with red leaves

Issa
translated by David G. Lanoue

best,
Don

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Wednesday Haiku, #20: Ed Markowski's "E-8"

Wednesday Haiku, Week #20

                            E-8

on the outfield's emerald surface

                    one dandelion

                      Ed Markowski

                 

the dandelion gives
a nod...
my new summer robe

Issa
translated by David G. Lanoue

 Photo by Fastily

best,

Don

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Guest Post: Ed Markowski - Blue Collar Baseball

Forbes Field, circa 1900-1910, courtesy the Library of Congress

Back about a month or so ago, Ed Markowski sent me the following email that I asked his permission to reprint as a blog post.  He kindly granted the same, and so it was decided that this lovely piece of baseball-iana should appear on opening day, 2011.  Here it is in all its glory.

Hope you enjoy it.


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


Don

Loved the Pirates of the late 50 ' s to the late 70 ' s
from Harvey Haddix & Smokey Burgess to Roberto
Willie & Manny Sanguillen to Doc Ellis Dave Cash
& Kent Tekulve hands down my favorite National
League team & had they played Detroit in the WS
would have had a hard time rooting for the Tigers.
______________________________________

When I think of it can ' t help but wonder about the
blue collar connection between Detroit Pittsburgh Chicago ,
my grandfather & father ' s union activities & my loyalty
to the Tigers , Pirates , White Sox & Cubs . Oh , i liked
the Giants of Marichal , Mc Covey , & Mays well e nuff ,
but never as much as the lunch bucket teams .
______________________________________

& Don , go figure , on June 12th , 1970 , the only game ,
complete game , shut out , and no hitter ever thrown by
a pitcher tripping on acid while thrown in California ,
was thrown by Pittsburgh ' Dock Ellis . At that time ,
my heroes had already changed from Kaline , Clemente ,
Matty Alou , Ernie Banks , Ron Santo , and Bob Gibson ,
to Rennie Davis , Grace Slick , E Cleaver , Tom Hayden ,
The Dead , and The Doors .
_____________________________________

So you know Don , when Dock tossed all them zeros
in some crazy way the lesson I learned was that it 's
entirely possible & wise to keep one foot in both worlds ,
I realized that it was perfectly ok to have Bob Gibson
& Bob Dylan as heroes ..... Our minds are vast and endless ,
& there ' s room enough at the inn for everybody .
_____________________________________

Well ok , when Cor , Pizzarelli , & I were doing the
radio interview with Jimmy Roselli at Chautauqua I
recited .............


FACTORY WINDOWS
THROUGH A FILM OF GREASE & SOOT
OUTFIELD GRASS


and told Jimmy , " alot of the auto plants had baseball
diamonds on the plant property & they sponsored teams.
Well , I was working on the assembly line and I knew
my childhood dream was over when I looked out that
window on my lunch break & realized that the side of
the window I was on was the side of the window I
would stay on for the rest of my life .

After we did the readings , we went to this bar down
the road & off Chautauqua ' s property .

I sat next to Cor and asked ......

" Why didn ' t you send factory windows for the baseball
anthology ?

I said ......
" Because I wrote the piece two nights back in room 16
the Super Eight in Mentor , Ohio while I was eating a
ballpark frank & sipping a coke that my wife and I got
at a seven - eleven "


Cor said ......
" Factory Windows would ' ve been the best in the book . "

I said ........
" Cor , I wrote baseball for ten years , you know , it ' s
an old rabbit I can still yank out of the hat every now ,
then , and there in room 16 . "


Ed

zero zero after nine the blonde in seat 7 ignoring us both

Dog days     a white butterfly       knuckleballs  its  way  to  nowhere

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




playing their games
on the sly...
pale blue butterflies

Issa
translated by David G. Lanoue

best,
Don

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Wednesday Haiku - Week #3: Ed Markowski

Wednesday Haiku, Week #3
 

Earth day
our grandsons plant a package
of grape gob stoppers

Ed Markowski

 Send a single poem for Wednesday Haiku @ Issa's Untidy Hut to:

wednesday haiku AT gmail DOT com

candy lined up
on leaves of bamboo...
thick summer grasses

Issa
translated by David G. Lanoue

best,
Don

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

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Hear 'em all at once on the the LitRock Jukebox

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Chinese Love Lyrics: Moon, Bird, & River

Continuing the exploration of my poetry shelves, the next book I come to is Chinese Love Lyrics, one of those slim verse volumes produced by Peter Pauper Press back in the day. Books from this press were inexpensive ("prices even a pauper could afford") yet at once decorative and, most importantly, often full of classic and unique translations of Asian literature, frequently from Japan and Asia.

Chinese Love Lyrics is subtitled "From Most Ancient To Modern Times," concentrating mostly on the older poems from the time of the Tang Dynasty. The very first in the book is probably the very best:

Spring

If I were a tree or a plant
I would feel the soft influence of spring.
Since I'm a man ...
Do not be astonished at my joy.

Anonymous (1005 A.D.)
translated by Gertrude L. Joerissen

In this surprising little four-line lyric, how far we have become removed from nature is simply and powerful captured. The first three lines imply that people are not affected by "the soft influence of spring," but line 4 quickly pirouettes, revealing undifferentiated joy as just such an affect. Here is another four-line lyric, a poem that in one essential image captures love in all its beauty and transformative power:

Watching the Moon

My beloved knows
that I watch thee, O moon,
And when thy beams caress her,
Our separation is less cruel.

Chiang Che-Kin
translated by Gertrude L. Joerissen

In Chinese poetry, as well as Japanese that was so heavily influenced by it, the moon was a ubiquitous presence, often shining down on lovers separated by great distances, as in this poem. That ubiquitousness is an important spiritual element, grounding humans in the very transitoriness of life and directly connecting us to nature. That it is used in love poetry as a lyrical, romantic facet adds a depth that is is at once essential and resonant.

In fact, this connectedness can be further illustrated by two more of my favorite poems from this particular collection, one using bird song and the other a river as the moon is used in Chiang Che-Kin's poem.

Birds Singing at Dusk

The cool wind of evening
Blows bird-song to the window
Where a maiden sits.
She is embrodiering bright flowers
On a piece of silk.

Her head is raised;
Her work falls through her fingers;
Her thoughts have flown to him
Who is away.

"A bird can easily find its mate
Among the leaves,
But all a maiden's tears,
Falling like rain from Heaven,
Will not bring back
Her distant lover."

She bends again to her embroidery:
"I will weave a little verse
Among these flowers of his robe ...
Perhaps he will read it
And come back again."

Li Po
translated by Peter Rudolph

A River of Love

I live at the upper end of the River,
And at the lower end live you;
Every day I long to see you but cannot ...
Though from the same River we drink.

When will the River go dry?
When can my sorrow come to an end?
Only may your heart be like mine ...
My love for you will not be in vain.

Li Chih-Yi translated by Ch'u Ta Kao

Li Po's poem has the young woman hearing bird song and, with it, her thoughts take flight to her distant lover. Embroidering a little verse, perhaps this very one into her lover's robe is a nice touch by the poet (and his persona), giving one pause over our parochial use of the term post-modern in recent times, as if "modern" culture was the first and only culture to reflect upon itself and its own creations with artistic distance, be it ironic or no.

As the moon's light and the bird in flight connect the lovers in the two previous poems, so the river connects a separated pair. I love the fact that they take life from the same source, as life has always centered around the sources of water. The juxtaposition of the questions of when the River will dry and when will the lover's sorrow end is particularly poignant, equating as it does death with the end of love. Simple a lyric as it is, it returns us to the source of all things, a touching reminder of our implicit involvement with nature which today we push so far from whom we are and what we do.

Finally, one last poem from this lovely collection that may remind you of something a bit more modern than classic Chinese poetry, if a tad short of a ramble in the field of post-modernism.

The Separation

Daylight! And I must leave.
Beloved friend, do not rise!
Give me the little lamp
That I may look at thee again,
That I may pull all of thee into my heart
And into my soul ...

Now, thy lips! I hear the gong
Of the night watchman sounding.
Work leads to evening, and
Each evening brings me to
Thy arms, which are my recompense.

Look! The leaves are covered with pearls.
Of dew....A blackbird is whistling.
Until this evening, adiew

Ma Huang-Chung
translated by Gertrude L. Joerissen

Here we have the lovers, a morning bird, a coming separation, one of the lovers holding back the other ... of course, I'm thinking of one of Shakespeare's greatest scenes:

Act 3, Scene 5

JULIET
Wilt thou be gone? it is not yet near day:
It was the nightingale, and not the lark,
That pierced the fearful hollow of thine ear;
Nightly she sings on yon pomegranate-tree:
Believe me, love, it was the nightingale.

ROMEO
It was the lark, the herald of the morn,
No nightingale. Look, love, what envious streaks
Do lace the severing clouds in yonder east.
Night's candles are burnt out, and jocund day
Stands tiptoe on the misty mountain tops.
I must be gone and live, or stay and die.

JULIET
Yon light is not daylight, I know it, I:
It is some meteor that the sun exhal'd,
To be to thee this night a torch-bearer,
And light thee on thy way to Mantua.
Therefore stay yet; thou need'st not to be gone.

ROMEO
Let me be ta'en, let me be put to death;
I am content, so thou wilt have it so.
I'll say yon grey is not the morning's eye,
'Tis but the pale reflex of Cynthia's brow;
Nor that is not the lark, whose notes do beat
The vaulty heaven so high above our heads.
I have more care to stay than will to go:
Come, death, and welcome! Juliet wills it so.
How is't, my soul? let's talk; it is not day.

JULIET
It is, it is: hie hence, be gone, away!
It is the lark that sings so out of tune,
Straining harsh discords and unpleasing sharps.
Some say the lark makes sweet division;
This doth not so, for she divideth us.
Some say the lark and loathed toad change eyes,
O, now I would they had changed voices too!
Since arm from arm that voice doth us affray,
Hunting thee hence with hunt's-up to the day.
O, now be gone; more light and light it grows.

ROMEO
More light and light; more dark and dark our woes!

This delightful little volume can be found on Amazon, which I don't link to, and there are some slightly more reasonable (and descriptively more reliable) copies at abebooks. Chances are that if you head off to a local used bookstore, if you are lucky enough to have one, and are patient and persistent, a reasonably priced copy will come your way.

And you'll have gone outside! There's a bunch of nature out there, for sure, and more than a few potential poems, both literal and figurative, awaiting your particular attention.



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A couple of quick items: the November/December Small Press Review has selected issue #170 as a featured "Mag Pick" for that issue - as always, back issues are available for a measly $1 or, if it's a tight month, send a self-addressed, stamped envelope and I'll send a copy so you can see what they are on about. For those with a subscription to SPR, you can see their Nov/Dec issue here in pdf form.

In addition, Longhouse Publishers and Booksellers has selected Ed Markowski's broadside "15 Poems" as one of their "Prime Picks" of the last few months. You may see their fine list of choices at their blog, A Longhouse Birdhouse.

Finally, Norbert Blei has highlighted the Ed Markowski broadside on his excellent blog, Bashō's Road: for a taste of the broadside, click here. The broadside is issue #172 (which is still in the process of shipping to subscribers) - if you'd like a copy, the terms are the same as in the previous paragraph.

And congrats, Ed, for all the much deserved attention


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For those not tuned in last week, the new feature I'll be highlighting in these weekly posts will be the Lilliput broadside issues, which have been published throughout the full 20 year run. Broadsides feature the work of one particular poet; the idea is to let the poet stretch out a bit, so there is no ten-line restriction as in regular issues. They are available for $1 or 3 for $2: here's a full list of those published to date. This week's poem is from Mark Hartenbach's excellent broadside, "Butterfly, Corkboard," which was issue #158, published in August 2007. Hope you like it.

exploitation poem

why do we insist on testing one another
without so much as a single warning shot
an episodic glance, an indifferent shrug

we demand a dent in memory
build or rebuild our ego
with scraps of others

we feign the blues
& forgetting
depend on an element of surprise

we fine tune our desires
knowing when to surrender to surface
& when to sink teeth deep

when to conjure up names
that promise dead flowers
& stale perfume

when to take another
to the edge of the water
& when to pull back at the last moment

when to translate
the firmament
into inevitable embrace

& when
to casually mention
that every star is dying

Mark Hartenbach

And Issa, an old time stargazer with many poems on the topic:






in cold water
sipping the stars...
Milky Way

Issa
translated by David G. Lanoue

best,
Don

Ed Markowski's "Union Men"

Besides being an excellent haiku poet, Ed Markowski has a penchant for proving me wrong. First, it was baseball haiku, which I'd previously spent quite a bit of time deriding. Today, it is haibun, which I have long felt I could take or leave, mostly the latter. Usually to me haibun seemed just a sorry excuse for not being able to fit everything in 12 to 18 or so syllables. By my arbitrary rule of measure, anytime it takes many more words to explain a poem than the poem itself contains, something's amiss.

Wrong again.

I had hold of the wrong end of the haibun. What I discovered, in a number of ed's excellent sequences, is that my problem was I was reading the wrong haibun; further, that those practicing the craft might sometimes be decent haikuists but shabby prose writers or vice versa. Good haibun don't necessarily contain an explanation for anything; they may be a revelation or a sort of record of an organic process.

Be that as may be, I'm ready to sit at the feet of the master, anytime.

Which brings us to Ed's sequence, Union Men, which follows below. With this sequence, Ed's managed to coax me into new territory in more ways than one. What follows is the initial publication of this sequence, which marks the first time that Issa's Untidy Hut is actually publishing something entirely new online. Also, Ed's sort of stirred up some political sentiments hereabouts, not something that I often indulge. Frankly, as my life mate can tell you, I've been stirred up quite a bit on my own lately, specifically about what's been going on out there in the "real world" - record unemployment and, yet, lots and lots of corporate profits. Slimming down the work force, rightsizing, baby, letting the rich cover their mistakes by riding it out on the backs of those less fortunate ... again. The squeeze is on folks and you just know who sure as hell isn't gonna get squeezed.

I touched on some of this in a previous post, No War But Class War. What's at the bottom of the endless Mideast war and the collapsing economy and our self-indulgent ignorance of anyone or anything else on the planet and the disaster that passes for a health care system in our 50 glorious states I can't tell. It feels too late, way, way too late. Nobody is smart enough, nobody cares enough, nobody has the wherewithal to do a damn thing, except the haves in this have-and-have-not world.

We need a bit of that hope about now, Mr. President.

Which is a long vituperous, possibly inappropriate, and decidedly unnecessary way to introduce Ed's sequence, so I'll start it out with an apology: mine, not his. As you can see from the following, Ed's got nothing to apologize for. He stands straight and tall, as do his words, his family, his friends.


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

Union Men

Being raised in Detroit during the 1950's & 60's
for me meant being raised in the union.


factory entrance
moths spin 'round & 'round
a caged lightbulb


My maternal grandfather helped organize
the Ford Rouge Plant in the early 30's. His
friendship with Walter Ruether was forged
during the street battles with Henry Ford's
Pinkerton goons.


first light
--the strikers
---clenched fists



He was fired & rehired three times from
Rouge. Old man Ford nicknamed gramps
"The Catholic Communist," a nickname
he carried with pride. My grandfather told
me many times, "The only place Marx
& Engels went wrong was in their inability
to see that Communism was a philosophical
& political descendent of Christ's Sermon
On The Mount. Marx & Engels didn't create
Communism, Jesus did."


Detroit
--the rainbow ends
----at a union hall


My father was a steward in the United Steel
Workers Union. I can't count the number
of times our mother took my sisters & I to
deliver pea soup, ham sandwiches & potato
salad to dad & his friends when they
went out on strike.


wind blown snow the picket line holds


During the holidays we went to union Christmas
parties & our Christmas gifts were purchased
at the union toy store.


on strike
--the department store Santa
makes a promise I can't keep


At the steel warehouse, dad operated an
overhead crane. His hook-up man, Frenchie,
had fought for the resistance during the war.
Frenchie had seven fingers, one eye, a frown
shaped scar on his throat & he was an
unapologetic communist.


half moon
--which side are you on
boys?


Frenchie was a down right ferocious man.
Looking back on it, had he told people that
he had survived The Paris Commune, they
probably would've believed him. Frenchie
had an aura of indestructibility about him.
He was a working class super hero & he
was Santa at the union toy store on
Jefferson Avenue.


nativity scene
---Santa quotes
--Marx


My grandfather, father & Frenchie were men
of great strength, courage, compassion,
& love. The men who raised me were Union
Men, & I'll be forever grateful.


home from
the steel warehouse
dad's lunchbox
filled with flowers


Ed Markowski

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

Ed's sequence stands on its own. As always, his imagery is impeccable, the haiku as good as it gets. In particular, "factory entrance," "wind blown snow," "half moon," and "home from" just grab me and won't let go. "first light" appears, initially, almost a cliche; yet, as with the tallest trees, the upraised hands are where the light will "strike" first, the purest illumination. The feel of "wind blown snow" is near perfect; how hard it is to hold the line on a full-force, Detroit winter morning, how it almost might give, the ambivalence of the blustery snow passing in and out of the line, yet still the line holds. Visually, it is stunning, set to the pounding pulse of all of nature. The resonance of "half moon" is a short story in itself. The intermittent prose gives a seamless,cohesive quality to the sequence, adding depth yet not gilding the lily, as it were. There is humor here and love, friendship and determination, futility and courage, above all family and, yes, it bears saying again: love. Ed, you've snapped me out of my funk, simply pointing the way:

dad's lunchbox
filled with flowers

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


This week's featured back issue is #12, from April 1990. Here are two poems touching on the fragility of life and tenderness.

Day's Work

Not really knowing
how it got to this,
or when it turned into
something else:
the giving over,
the giving out,
the giving up.

The shovel handle, the rain.

Michael R. Battram

Gullied Lives

Raw ravines
corrugated
by wind and rain
and time.

Hearts don't break.
They weather.

Albert Huffstickler

after the rain
the ground hardens...
glorious blossoms

Issa
translated by David G. Lanoue

best,
Don

ed markowski: The Essence of Haiku

Pictured above is pop up by ed markowski, a lovely little accordion-style publication, #6 of vincent tripi's "Pinch Book Series from tribe press, published in 2004. ed sent this along with a parcel of other things and I enjoyed it very much. One poem, from which the collection takes its title, in particular grabbed me:

summer loneliness. . .
dropping the pop up
I toss to myself

ed markowski

This little 10 word piece got me thinking about a variety of things. First, I might have to retract my avowal of hating baseball poetry; I find that I've talked about this at heated length in three different past posts and, on reading ed's poem, it occurred to me that there is going to come a point when saying "Baseball poems are awful but you've got to read this one ..." is just not going to cut it anymore. It seems, perhaps, I protest too much.

Could it be that I just hate bad baseball poetry?

In thinking it through, one of the problems I have with baseball poems is the fact that the game is generally taken for a metaphor for life itself. It seems to me that when folks start futzing with metaphors of a metaphor, it isn't post-modernism: it's just plain ugly.

And yet and yet ...

I'm stuck with these baseball poems I really like. ed's poem resonates so well it positively hurts. Baseball is a team sport and here we all are, social animals. We have to cooperate to get by, to say nothing of excel. Catching pop-ups is one of the big thrills of baseball for the young and ed's protagonist here is alone and is forced to play by her/himself. S/he's throwing the ball in the air, perhaps pretending to be catching a long fly, and drops the ball. And this cuts in so many ways. Is it the catcher's lack of skill? Lack of playmates? Boredom, causing lack of attention? Of course, it is all these things, which is the beauty of the haiku form. The reader participates in the writing, the poet creating a telling resonance with enough space for all to bring their memories and observations and feelings.

Summer loneliness: there is none deeper when you are young, summer being the time you just longed and longed for and when it came and it inevitably disappointed, that disappointment was deep, indeed.

Still, it's all just a damn baseball poem, right? But somehow this poem was digging deeper, it was getting under my skin in some very personal, inexplicable way. The poem stuck with me. It just wasn't assimilated, analyzed, admired and filed away pleasantly: it seemed to be bubbling just on the surface of my consciousness, sometimes in thought and, perhaps, sometimes just below.

Then, a few nights ago, I woke up around 3 am, thinking these thoughts about this poem and it hit me: it was a particular summer, 1959 or 60, I think:

My best friend, who lived across the street from me, and I lived and breathed baseball. We played night and day and when we weren't playing we were talking or watching or listening to baseball. We used to go down to the local field, just the two of us, and hit pop-flys to one another, about all you could do when there was only two to play. Being 8 or 9 years old, we couldn't hit fly balls like adults and the result was we chased a lot of grounders or hit a lot of balls that fell short or went over the fielder's head and a lot of downtime was spent chasing the ball, waiting around for the next fly and chasing the ball.

So, it was always a thrill when an adult deigned to take us to the park and hit out to us.

One Saturday, his dad, whom I remember as having played some minor league ball, said he'd take us to the park, about a half mile away, and hit out to us. We were ecstatic. He did some little league coaching and even had a fungo bat, a special kind of light weight bat designed for repeated hitting and perfect for fly balls. We were set.

We walked down to the park and had a glorious hour and half to two hours and could not have been happier. His dad positively wore us out, not an easy task when it comes to a couple of 8 year olds. We started walking home.

We were about 6 or 7 houses away when I saw it: a sign in a wire holder, orange letters on a black background, FOR SALE. And it was up in front of my house.

What this did to an 8 year old boy, walking up the street with his best friend, after a dream-come-true kind of baseball afternoon, hardly needs to be said. In affect, our friendship ended right there, at that moment, in the hot rush of shame and fear and an awful crushing sadness. It was the beginning of an all-encompassing summer loneliness that I can feel fifty years later like it happened yesterday.

It was dropping the pop-up I tossed to myself.

Poetry is like that. If we let it in it can change our lives, it can make them richer in ways we can't even imagine. It doesn't matter if you're into haiku or epics or language poems or romantic poetry or whatever. I tell the lifelong learners in the classes on introductory poetry I occasionally teach that, for me, poetry is a way that I establish a dialogue with myself. The poet shares feelings, insights, adventures, ideas, images and we read them and compare what we have felt and thought and seen. We think about these things in different ways, from different angles, little dispatches from the poets themselves to us, little koans to help out in our everyday lives, ways to unravel knots maybe we didn't know we had, songs about how truly lucky we are or how we need to make ourselves and our worlds better places to be, ways to lift up and support our loved ones and friends.

I'm going to try and never say I hate baseball poetry again.

Thanks, ed, this one means a lot; ten succinct, insightful words, touching in ways you might never have imagined.

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

I had a number of things I was going to share this week but since I went on so long above, I'll leave them for another post. I did, however, promise I would mention one thing and it is well worth it. For those of you into outlaw, beat-style poetry, Klaus over at Outlaw Poetry and Free Jazz Network sent word along that there are some audios of the great Todd Moore, whose Dillinger Series is getting a bit of boost from the new Johnny Depp biopic, up on their sight here and here.

This week's sampling from the archive comes from issue #22, in May 1990, which was a broadside by Philadelphia area poet Louis McKee entitled Angelus. McKee writes beautiful, emotional verse, couched in everyday events and everyday language. He is a true small press wonder whom I admire a great deal. Here's a few short ones from the broadside, which is still available for a measly buck (9 poems) or a SASE if you're broke.

House Of Cards

Each room is a trick, held up
by the promise of another,
being too careful might be just
what it takes to bring the house down.

The Magic Of Eyes

You turned back
for a lasting look;
I am salt.
Something is wrong.

The Angelus

Stones are silent
but the stars are not;
it is easier to walk
with my head down.

And the master:

awaiting the stars--
does the grown man
feel young again?

Issa
translated by David Lanoue

best,
Don

1st Annual Bashô Haiku Challenge Chapbook

Yesterday, I mentioned that the Bashô Haiku Challenge chapbook is out and available for purchase. It is pictured above. It contains 25 poems by 19 poets in 13 comfortably laid out pages. I thought perhaps I'd gave you a taste with a couple of poems to see if I could pique your interest enough to shell out 3 of your hard earned dollars for a pocket full of poetry. That's right, just $3.00 postpaid.

in and out
of the lovers' quarrel
fireflies

-------Roberta Beary

wordless sparrows mend our speech

-------ed markowski

Already sad
crows divide
my sorrow

-------Bart Solarczyk

Yesterday was also the anniversary of the birth of James Merrill, a formal poet I have always had a weak spot for. Merrill's The Changing Light of Sandover, a book length poem composed with the help of his partner, David Jackson, utilizing a Ouija board as lyrical medium, will be the volume scholars puzzle over for decades to come. It is an epic and it is magnificent. Here is one of his uncharacteristically short poems:

Between Us

A . . . face? There
It lies on the pillow by
Your turned head's tangled graying hair:
Another–like a shrunken head, too small!
My eyes in dread
Shut. Open. It is there,

Waxen, inhuman. Small
The taut crease of the mouth shifts. It
Seems to smile,
Chin up in the wan light. Elsewhere
I have known what it was, this thing, known
The blind eye-slit

And knuckle-sharp cheekbone–
Ah. And again do.
Not a face. A hand, seen queerly. Mine.
Deliver me, I breathe
Watching it unclench with a soft moan
And reach for you.

-------James Merrill

Finally, yesterday (yesterday was such a busy day, it spilled over quite a bit) was the anniversary of the death of Richard Manuel, composer, piano player, and extraordinary vocalist, whose anguished singing truly evoked his own haunted soul. Though I'm not much for the static photo montage style of video presentation, this is something of an exception, particularly since the lyrics are captioned and the sheer beauty of the song takes your breath away. How truly great this song is, lost amidst the staggering oeuvre of an American band whose uniqueness was unprecedented and never replicated: The Band.

In joy.

best,
Don

Three Poems for the New Year

From ed markowski:

new
year's
day

it
is
as
it
was

winter
wind

Traditionally in Japan, New Year's day is the first day of spring. It is the time of new beginnings and, as such, it a day on which everybody's birthday is celebrated. Issa manages to capture all this and more in a mere 11 words:

New Year's day,
everything is in blossom
I feel about average

Issa
translated by Robert Hass

For Nanao

New Year's Day
searching the obituaries
to see if I am here

Ed Baker

best,
Don


PS. After the fact, Ed learned of the recent passing of Nanao Sakaki, to whom the poem is dedicated. Here's a link to a long interview with him.

Ichigyoshi and Falling Off The Mountain

Been dragging a bit on this end of things with the cold that everyone seems to have. Actually lost the entire weekend's work to bed rest, soup, Thomas Hardy, and Conan the Barbarian.

I've had worse weekends; unfortunately, contributor copies of the new issues, #165 and 166, were slated to go out and, so will be delayed a week.

A. Scott Britton of Ichigyoshi has asked me to post his call for submissions, which I'm happy to do. Here it is:



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

CALL FOR SUBMISSIONS

Ichigyoshi is a web-based journal designed to foster a

discourse that is both academic and colloquial in nature.

In addition to essays, manifestos, and the general writer's

statement, Ichigyoshi will pursue this goal through the

publication of three types of literature: 1. experimental

literature, 2. translation, and 3. [very] short poetry.

To see what we're all about and to find out how to submit

your work, please make your way to the Ichigyoshi website:

http://ichigyoshi.blogspot.com

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



Speaking of the very short poem, one of the best kept secrets around (ed markowski knows!) is Grant Hackett and his simply marvelous Falling Off the Mountain blog. Grant is a purveyor of what he calls the monostitch, the one-line poem. He is, to put it simply, tapped directly into the source; his work is magical nearly beyond measure, which is saying something considering it never goes beyond one-line (define infinity now). Grant's work will be appearing in future issues of Lilliput (in fact, he'll be in one of the two new issues), but I felt it was time to let the cat out of the bag and share his work with those who find brevity a guiding principle.

Read a dozen. See if you don't get hooked.

Finally, head on over to f/k/a where David recounts the growing tragedy of SBS (Shaken Baby Syndrome). His informative post is accompanied by some heartrending verse by Issa, George Swede and Michael Dylan Welch.

Michael's recent comments on Issa's Untidy Hut re: the e. e. cummings vs. E. E. Cummings controversy will be covered in Thursday's regular post.

best,
Don