Back about two years ago, I had a little something to say about this Hardy novel while blogging at my other job. Hardy is one of my unabashed favorites. Shakespeare and Donovan, too, for that matter, though none seem to be in the haiku business.
Hmn.
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Here's an amateur video of Tom Waits performing Lawerence Ferlinghetti's poem "Firemen" from Pictures of the Gone Worldat the recent Litquake festival in San Francisco. This is the long version with a typically wonderful Waits intro.
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LilliputReview #109 featured a parcel of haiku and other short-short pieces. Here's one that was a little longer, calling an old friend to mind, reminding us of the true value of much literary criticism, and all the moon's light:
Ephemera
Po Chui, we are told, wrote
too many poems on subjects
of no special significance.
Across eleven centuries
we can still see the poet's brush
draw the least leaf to life.
The critic's words, as our breaths
on a winter's night, are
bright in the moon's light.
Robert Chute
Lute
my lute set aside
on the little table
lazily I meditate
on cherishing feelings
the reason I don't bother
to strum and pluck?
there's a breeze over the strings
and it plays itself
This week's segment of the ongoing Issa's Sunday Service features the LitRock song The Persecution and Resurrection of Dean Moriarty by the fine folk rock duo, Aztec Two-Step. Here's the poem from which they took their name:
See ----it was like this when ----------------------we waltz into this place
a couple of Papish cats -----------------------is doing an Aztec two-step
And I says -------------Dad let's cut it
but then this dame -----------------comes up behind me see ------------------------------and says -------------------You and me could really exist
Wow I says ---------------Only the next day -------------------she has bad teeth ---------------------------and really hates -----------------------------------------------poetry
This particular tune has a unique POV, the speaker being very suspicious and seemingly hateful of Jack Kerouac's god of the road, Dean Moriarty/Neal Cassady. One word of warning though: listen to this song 3 times and you won't be able to stop. The cut comes from their great debut album, which is available to purchase direct from the band.
This week's featured poem comes from Lilliput Review #5, from August 1989, which was the first broadside issue. The broadside consisted of 9 poems by small press poetry legend, Lyn Lifshin. Here's a little take on the ol' bait and switch:
Madonna Who Throws So Many Intimate Details Out Fast
to camouflage
or distract
like pick
pockets who
work in pairs
a shove to
get you off
balance as
she moves in
to lift your
heart
Today is the 90th birthday of Lawrence Ferlinghetti. He has been the touchstone of generations of poetry readers; if you had never read poetry, somehow, somewhere, if you had the inclination to, you'd run into the work of Lawrence Ferlinghetti. It seems as though serendipity and that is his magic.
Lawrence Ferlinghetti is first and foremost a word magician (tired, I keyed musician, and he, of course is that, too: a word musician). His Coney Island of the Mind seems to be on everybody's list of best poetry books and deservedly so. Even so, he is hardly a one-trick pony. Here's a poem from his first collection, Pictures of the Gone World, published in 1955:
25
---------The world is a beautiful place --------------------------------------------to be born into if you don't mind happiness ------------------------------- ---not always being --------------------------------------- --------- -- ---so very much fun ------if you don't mind a touch of hell -----------------------------------------now and then --------------just when everything is fine -------------------------------------------------because even in heaven --------------------------they don't sing -------------------------------------------------all the time
------------The world is a beautiful place -----------------------------------------to be born into --------if you don't mind some people dying ------------------------------------------------------all the time -----------------------or maybe only starving ---------------------------------------------------some of the time --------------------which isn't half so bad -------------------------------------------------if it isn't you
In far-out poetry ---------------- ---the heart bleeds upon the page ---------------------------------------------------------shamelessly --------as printer's ink bleeds onto ---------------------------------------the fine tooth of paper As blood in its rage -----------------------beats through the body --------------------------------------------------blind in its courses Leaving its indelible imprints --------------------those fine tattoos of living ----------------------------------------------------known as poems
Lawrence Ferlinghetti
Finally from the 2001 collection, How to Paint Sunlight (not available via City Lights - o.p., maybe?), his beautiful elegy for the most beautiful Allen Ginsberg:
Allen Ginsberg is Dying
Allen Ginsberg is dying It's in all the papers It's on the evening news A great poet is dying But his voice ----------------won't die His voice is on the land In Lower Manhattan in his own bed he is dying There is nothing to do about it He dying the death that everyone dies He is dying the death of the poet He has a telephone in his hand and he calls everyone from his bed in Lower Manhattan All around the world This is Allen ----------------the voice says Allen Ginsberg calling How many times have they heard it over the long great years He doesn't have to say Ginsberg All around the world in the world of poets there is only one Allen I want ed to you he says He tells them what's happening what's coming down on him Death the dark lover going down on him His voice goes by satellite over the land over the Sea of Japan where he once stood naked trident in hand like a young Neptune a young man with black beard standing on a stone beach It is high tide and the seabirds cry The waves break over him now and the seabirds cry on the San Francisco waterfront There is a high wind There are great whitecaps lashing the Embarcadero Allen is on the telephone His voice is on the waves I am reading Greek poetry The sea is in it Horses weep in it The horse of Achilles weep in it here by the sea in San Francisco where the waves weep They make a sibilant sound a sibylline sound Allen -------they whisper -----------------------Allen
Lawrence Ferlinghetti
Happy birthday, Mr. F. Send him a present; order a book or two of his work from City Lights Books, the finest independent shop in America. And, ah, what the hay, know how you like to give yourself a little something for your birthday, especially the older you get? Well, here's a little present from the younger Ferlinghetti (1955 again, this time "#2" from Pictures of a Gone World) to his older Lawrence-self, accompanied by the Pan-like, multi-faceted David Amram:
This week's back issue from the Lilliput Review Archive comes from April 1993, some nearly 16 odd years later. Odd might be the operative word, if the 16 years previous to those had not been a good deal odder. Here's four short flashes of times gone by:
Weak with Doubt
catching a butterfly who was ready to suffer
Vogn
The Right Moment
standing through the windshield that the car behind you didn't have
Stacey Sollfrey
Getting ready
my mind walks out of here
swoops down flights of stairs
and glides to a gutter pigeon its stiff body vibrating
about to fly
Sanford Fraser
Ice Out
--------raging torrents, black waters rushing by quiet nighttime hours, carrying whispers of ancient female ghosts along on gentle river winds, dusty voices, long gone pioneer wives and mothers, once again searching for hope amid new spring trilliums, wild cherry petals.
T. K. Splake
To finish, a greeting to spring from the master:
borrowing the umbrella-hat daffodil... sleeping sparrow
Issa translated by David Lanoue
Enjoy it all - as long as autumn seems to linger, spring flies by.
This is the 50th anniversary of the publication of one of the books on the Near Perfect Books of Poetry list: A Coney Island of the Mind by Lawrence Ferlinghetti. This is one of the very first books of poetry I remember just pulling me in and, somehow, I just knew this was for me. Here, in celebration of the man and his body of work, both as poet and publisher, is a reading in the "Lunch Poems" series at the Morrison Library of the University of California, Berkeley, from 2005:
If you can hang in until the end, there is a very powerful anti-war poem, "The History of the Airplane." At 85, he hasn't lost a step.
Least we forget, there is always the City Lights Bookstore, the premiere independent bookshop in the US. Since lots of folks are beginning to realize the repercussions of the amazon.com phenomenon and the fall out from some of its recent strong arm tactics with publishers and merchants, both here and abroad, it might be a fine thing if we all make a special effort to continue to support our local independents and national treasures like City Lights. Yeah, you lose the deep discount, but that's all you lose.
That's all you lose.
Here's a poem with Ferlinghetti's signature gentle, insightful touch:
Allen Ginsberg Dying
Allen Ginsburg is dying It's all in the papers It's on the evening news A great poet is dying But his voice won't die His voice is on the land In Lower Manhattan in his own bed he is dying There is nothing to do about it He is dying the death that everyone dies He is dying the death of a poet He has a telephone in his hand and he calls everyone from his bed in Lower Manhattan All around the world late at night the telephone is ringing "This is Allen" The voice says "Allen Ginsburg calling" How many times have they heard it over the long great years He doesn't have to say Ginsburg All around the world in the world of poets There is only one Allen "I wanted to tell you" he says He tells them what's happening what's coming down on him Death the dark lover going down on him His voice goes by satellite over the land over the Sea of Japan where he once stood naked trident in hand like a young Neptune a young man with black beard standing on a stone beach It is high tide and the seabirds cry The waves break over him now and the seabirds cry on the San Francisco waterfront There is a high wind There are great white caps lashing the Embarcadero Allen is on the telephone His voice is on the waves I am reading Greek poetry The sea is in it Horses weep in it The horses of Achilles weep in it here by the sea in San Francisco where the waves weep they make a sibilant sound a sibylline sound Allen they whisper Allen Lawrence Ferlinghetti, April 4, 1997
If you can't make it up to Alaska this weekend, here's a little notice of something of interest that we might think about in passing during the day Sunday:
SUNDAY, AUGUST 3RD
1pm: 18TH ANNUAL RICHARD BRAUTIGAN & DICK WHITAKER MEMORIAL TROUT FISHING IN AMERICA POETRY SLAM & "SALMON SONNET" CONTEST at The New York Cafe, 207 Stedman St. Sponsored by Soho Coho Gallery, Parnassus Books, and The New York Cafe.
But why just think, let's feel too:
The Sidney Greenstreet Blues
I think something beautiful and amusing is gained by remembering Sydney Greentstreet, but it is a fragile thing.
The hand picks up a glass. The eye looks at the glass and then hand, glass and eye ---fall away.
Sometimes, the idea of the Net really pulls things together, other times it just seems like the big mystery that life is. For instance, what's up with blog alerts pinging items posted years ago? I certainly don't know but one thing I can say is that the random chaos of life, and so too the net, is sometimes very lyrical, indeed. I got beeped with this this past week and thought, ah, Huff's last poem. The tone, the feel, is of the old zen masters, composing their deathbed poems. Huff's manages summarizing the main concern of all his work: home, or the lack thereof:
Tired of being loved, Tired of being left alone. Tired of being loved, Tired of being left alone. Gonna find myself a place Where all I feel is at home.
Continuing the project of providing sample poems from back issues and filling in the Back Issue Archive over at the Lilliput homepage, here's some work from issue #101, originally published back in January, 1999:
the circle so large the curve imperceptible we think we're moving straight ahead
Julius Karl Schauer
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knowledge will protect us from the darkness but what will shield us from the light?
Karl Koweski
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The Letter M The letter M in green spray paint on the gnarled bark of a tall pine tree its stately boughs whispering quietly in the afternoon breeze is way too long for a haiku but still pretty fucking succinct.
Mark Terrill
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another midnight bare bulb illuminating the back door of a slaughterhouse
M. Kettner
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Later this week, I may have news about a contemporary poetry book I actually enjoyed.
Till next time, Don
Note: If you would like to receive the two current issues of Lilliput Reviewfree (or have your current subscription extended two issues), just make a suggestion of a title or titles for the Near Perfect Books of Poetry page, either in a comment to this post, in email to lilliput review at gmail dot com, or in snail mail to the address on the homepage.
Lots of very interesting poetry related news this week, beginning with Mary Oliver. As something of an early preview to my posting of a review of her new book of poems, Red Bird, on Eleventh Stack (a blog from my day job), here's that post, which will be appearing next week, possibly in a slightly different form:
"Even at her most agnostic, her most atheistic, Mary Oliver was always a spiritual, even a religious, writer. Her embracing of nature is all-encompassing, recalling the preoccupation of no less a poetic figure than William Wordsworth. In recent years, as seen in her last few books, she has evinced a new found faith beyond the more general pantheism that always seemed to be just below the surface of many of her finest poems.
I have to admit, I approached this newer work with the kind of trepidation one has when hearing of a life-altering event involving a close friend; confronting a new found faith in others that one does not necessarily share can be a daunting thing, most especially when it concerns an old friend. I'm happy to report that, as may be seen in her new collection of poems, Red Bird, this faith is not only a logical extension of her previous beliefs, it in fact firmly accentuates what has come before.
Mary Oliver's wide appeal beyond the usual poetry reading community is easy to understand; her poems are rendered in simple basic vocabulary, are no less beautiful for that simplicity, and concern the every day world around us. Her perception of things is acute; she points out in nature what we all might see if we took the time and had the patience to truly look. Beyond capturing the moment, she also supplies the resonance from which meaning may flow. When she is good, she is transcendent. When she is average, she is at least always interesting. Red Bird is a volume that may be read straight through and then bears, in fact induces, repeated readings. It is cohesive in that its overarching theme is present throughout. There are more than a handful of excellent poems here. Listen to this excerpt from Straight Talk from Fox:
Don't think I haven't
peeked into windows. I see you in all your seasons
Highlights include this poem, along with Invitation, Night and the River, There is a Place Beyond Ambition, We Should Be Prepared, This Day and Probably Tomorrow Also, the fabulous Of Love, I am the one; well I could go on. There is even a powerful political poem, Of the Empire, that telescopes the general to the particular in a most damning fashion. If you listen closely, you may find there is a message just for you, as in the beginning of Invitation:
Oddly enough, while reading this book through a second time, I got to thinking once again about the idea of a near perfect volume of poems. Red Bird contains many, well, not very good poems. Yet, still and all, it is a very good collection, precisely because the inferior work in this case informs the overall collection. The overarching theme is consistent throughout and, in one sense, though obviously supplying its subject, it also strengthens its voice. Here is a little 4 line poem that perfectly captures what I try to get at in the review:
So every day
So every day I was surrounded by the beautiful crying forth of the ideas of God,
one of which was you.
Now, if the G word puts you off, so be it; for me, the spiritual element is almost Buddhist, especially in light of Oliver's preoccupation with nature and its resonance in our lives. If you do nothing, pick this book up in your local independent shop or Borders or B & N (or, better still, your library) and read one poem: Of Love. It alone is worth the cover price (and more).
Some interesting tidbits around the web include the Village Voicereprint of an article from April 1958 written by Kenneth Rexroth on the Beats. Ted Kooser, the subject of a recent post here, is participating in a project sponsored by the Poetry Foundation and the Library of Congress entitled American Life in Poetry, which supplies "a free weekly column for newspapers and online publications featuring a poem by a contemporary American poet and a brief introduction to the poem ..." Poetry bloggers take note: at 161 columns and counting, that's a lot of presupplied content. For poetry lovers there are a lot of new poems to be exposed to, by both well and relatively unknown modern American poets.
In addition, there is a great 20 minute documentary on one of my favorite contemporary poets, Gerald Stern, entitled Gerald Stern: Still Burning, at the website Poetry Matters Now, which features a parcel of video readings and is worth a bookmark.
And, finally, in the news department, can it be true that the poetry volume that moved an entire generation, A Coney Island of the Mind by Lawrence Ferlinghetti, is really be 50 years old? And, of course, anyone that would ask that question ... If by some chance you haven't read this one, don't hesitate; it most certainly would be on my list of the most important books of poems of the last century.
Well, believe it or not there is more, but the day job beckons. So, in closing, here are some sample poems from Lilliput Review #94 (December 1997), the cover of which appears above.
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