Who Wrote Holden Caulfield: Issa's Sunday Service, #68

Artwork by Carmela Alvarado

I received a number of suggestions for the Sunday Service this week and so free issues of Lilliput Review are winging their way out to folks (what's up with that?) .  I thought I'd feature one of those suggestions to encourage people to keep 'em coming.

Here's is Green Day's homage to J. D. Salinger's legendary anti-hero, Holden Caulfield.  Does it capture the breadth and depth of the decrying of all things phony?  Nope, not even close.  Is it a rock song, does it capture a certain something about one of literature's greatest j.d.'s?  Yup, hence slack duly given.

Actually, good ol' Jerome has been on our collective minds of late with this intimate bit of memorabilia going up for auction recently.

Not up your street, you say?  Well, along with the above song, here is a nicely energized live version to take away all the nasty thoughts.  Sort of .

Enjoy.






                           

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Today's feature poem comes from Lilliput Review, #101, January 1999. Touched as it is by memory, it's an appropriate end of summer poem. Enjoy.

at seventeen

I remember how dark the sky was
over my little home town
how warm the hood of Dad's '68 Fairlane
against my narrow back as I lay there
gazing up at the Milky Way all those
bright crowded stars strewn up there
so carelessly so abundantly for me
like a million easy choices
every one so easy to see

Michael R. Battram

Oh, here's another from 101 for luck, capturing the feel of the cool breeze that has broken the heat wave here and hints at things to come:





still life with poet

to touch a leaf, its
veins, to catch
a cloud, an edge of land
to pin it down
forever, a web, a wing
a rush of cold

Lonnie Hull Dupont

How lovely it is
To look through the broken window
And discover the Milky Way

Issa

best,
Don

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

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.


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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

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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

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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

Forthcoming Issues and Joanne Kyger

Click image to enlarge

I'm currently working on, among other things, the new issues of Lilliput Review, #'s 169 and 170. Above is a sneak preview of the covers, by regulars Guy Beining, on the left, and Wayne Hogan, on the right. In a one person operation, the process can be quite drawn out. I hope to begin to get the contributor copies out first, in about two weeks or so, followed by the regular subscriber issues, coming out in waves beginning around the first of July. These days it takes me about 6 or so weeks to get the full run in the mail.

Why, you may ask? I often ask myself the same question.

The reason is I generally am replying to correspondence, poems and letters and all, and I always try to communicate in some normal, human way, as opposed to speaking editorese. I'm not always successful, in these as in many things in life, but I keep on trying. Simultaneously, I'm replying to the poetry batches I received, otherwise my 90 day turnaround would balloon to unconscionable lengths. And then there is that pesky full-time job.

Just so ya know.

My proofer remarked how this time round there was lots that grabbed her attention, going beyond her normal dispassionate demeanor (and the usual by-the-way-there's-about-a-thousand-typos-this-time, bonehead ... I added the bonehead, she's too discrete for that, but it is how I feel). So, hopefully, there's lots of good stuff to look forward to.

Ed Baker, always on the prowl for new, interesting items, passed along a link to new, free online poetry publications from ungovernable press: specifically, to Joanne Kyger's new poem, Permission by the Horns (this is a .pdf file). For those of you unfamiliar with Kyger, her work has been associated with the Beats and the general San Francisco poetry revival, strongly reflecting her Buddhist predelictions. Here is a photo of Kyger with Gary Snyder and Peter Orlovsky from a pilgrimage to India in the early 60's (photograph by Allen Ginsberg).


In addition to Permission by the Horns, which shows her unique balance, both literally and stylistically, of the personal, the political, and the natural, you may also read 10 (More) Lovely New Poems by Kyger at Michael Mcclure and Ray Manzarek's website (yes, that, Michael McClure and that Ray Manzarek).

This week's featured back issue of Lilliput Review is #26, from November 1991. It was a themed issue in that it had no theme; titled Poems Without Segues 1, it was a larger than usual issue (8.5 x 4", 8 pages total, jam packed with 45 poems), in a somewhat desperate attempt to deal with a back log. The "without segues" part was me throwing my hands in the air and just fitting everything in I could with a crowbar. Here's some samples, beginning with what may be may favorite Lilliput poem of the 1st 20 years, followed by one of Steve Richmond's demon haunted "gagaku" poems:

in a fold
of Balzac's coat
spider eggs

William Hart

-----------------------gagaku

-------accused of
---------------self indulgent narcissism
--------------------I
------------------admit it

demons clap
they like me honest

Steve Richmond

fall from grace

long way
to the bottom
I'll hold
your hand

Michael R. Battram

after the demons
have all gone...
bright moon

Issa
translated by David Lanoue

best,
Don