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

Wislawa Szymborska: "One hole in the net"

Thursday, July 2nd, is the birthday of the fine Polish poet, Wislawa Szymborska. Wikipedia characterizes her work as follows:

Szymborska frequently employs literary devices such as
irony, paradox, contradiction, and understatement, to
illuminate philosophical themes and obsessions.
Szymborska's compact poems often conjure large
existential puzzles, touching on issues of ethical import,
and reflecting on the condition of people both as individuals
and as members of human society. Szymborska's style is
succinct and marked by introspection and wit.

This is absolutely true and so cold as to convey nothing of the feel of her work. What is missing is the deep running emotion; time and again, I find myself deeply moved by her words. The imprint of 20th century European history is the touchstone of much of what she does, as with nearly all Eastern European poets.

Here's a poem to that point:



Children of Our Era

We are children of our era;
our era is political.

All affairs, day and night,
yours, ours, theirs,
are political affairs.

Like it or not,
your genes have a political past,
your skin a political cast,
your eyes a political aspect.

What you say has a resonance;
what you are silent about is telling.
Either way, it's political.

Even when you head for the hills
you're taking political steps
on political ground.

Even apolitical poems are political,
and above us shines the moon,
by now no longer lunar.
To be or not to be, that is the question.
Question? What question? Dear, here's a suggestion:
a political question.

You don't even have to be a human being
to gain political significance.
Crude oil will do,
or concentrated feed, or any raw material.

Or even a conference table whose shape
was disputed for months:
should we negotiate life and death
at a round table or a square one?

Meanwhile people were dying,
animals perishing,
houses burning,
and fields growing wild,
just as in times most remote
and less political.

Wislawa Szymborska
translated by Joanna Trzeciak

And here is the personalizing of the political which reveals the emotion beneath:




Could Have

It could have happened.
It had to happen.
It happened earlier. Later.
Nearer. Farther off.
It happened, but not to you.

You were saved because you were the first.
You were saved because you were the last.
Alone. With others.
On the right. The left.
Because it was raining. Because of the shade.
Because the day was sunny.

You were in luck -- there was a forest.
You were in luck -- there were no trees.
You were in luck -- a rake, a hook, a beam, a brake,
A jamb, a turn, a quarter-inch, an instant . . .

So you're here? Still dizzy from
another dodge, close shave, reprieve?
One hole in the net and you slipped through?
I couldn't be more shocked or
speechless.
Listen,
how your heart pounds inside me.

Wislawa Szymborska
trans. by Stanislaw Baranczak and Clare Cavanagh

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


Some quick notes of interest:

outlaw poetry and free jazz network has reprinted
a review I wrote for The Small Press Review of the
book/dvd d.a.levy & the mimeograph revolution
book, edited by Larry Smith and Ingrid Swanberg.
The review is at the bottom of the post.

A new companion journal to daily haiku entitled
daily haiga is set to launch today. Check it out.

The Smoking Poet has put out a call for poems.
Frankly,most work they use is much longer than
the Lillie focus but, then again, whose isn't. They
also use fiction, reviews, flashfiction, and book and
cigar (!) reviews. Why not air out some of your
longer work here? Submission guidelines.

There is a new website with the complete list,
plus links, to the songs featured on the weekly
postings from Best LitRock Songs from Issa's
Sunday Service. The site will be updated weekly.

As mentioned in Ron Silliman's blog, there is an
interview up at Capital City Weekly with Alaska
poet Ken Waldman, whose work has appeared a
number times in Lilliput, as well as being featured
in a few posts here at Issa's Untidy Hut. Cheers,
to Alaska's fiddling poet!

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

Cover by Bobo

This week's featured issue is #22, from May 1991. I've mentioned in a few previous posts, the further back we go, the more removed I feel. However, I've found this little issue packed with poems that still resonate for me today. Here are a handful:

budding leaves

how much
life loves
life!
a wreath
of over-
ripe history
decays
and drains
downward.
feeding tap
roots with
bombings,
war.

Deborah Meadows

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 a historian:
and you know what they charge
for emergencies.

Gail White

the dead walk the earth

walking thru minefields of my desire
my boots slosh & leak blood

I've become my own ghost

no shadows where I run the nights thru
the taste of the blade in my throat
& the silence of the dead

I slip my fingers thru a mirror
& pull out the beating heart
of a man I once knew so well

that I killed him

Bill Shields

Influences Carried By The Wind

Not the least demonic would have you think
your face doesn't look like a face,
or you have none: it never bloomed.

Beatrice George

in the thicket no one
knows about
trees budding bright

Issa
translated by David Lanoue

best,
Don