Russell Libby 2: Small Press Friday

Still thinking about the passing of Russell Libby, I noticed that the Poetry Foundation recognized his work, which is wonderful.  Here is the poem they have of his on their site, which was featured in the American Life in Poetry project, #194. 


Applied Geometry
 
Applied geometry,  
measuring the height  
of a pine from  
like triangles,  
Rosa’s shadow stretches  
seven paces in  
low-slanting light of  
late Christmas afternoon.  
One hundred thirty nine steps  
up the hill until the sun is  
finally caught at the top of the tree,  
let’s see,  
twenty to one,  
one hundred feet plus a few to adjust  
for climbing uphill,  
and her hands barely reach mine  
as we encircle the trunk,  
almost eleven feet around.  
Back to the lumber tables.  
That one tree might make  
three thousand feet of boards  
if our hearts could stand  
the sound of its fall.


For those of you who have expressed interest in his work, here's a few more poems from around the web:


@ terrain.org 

@ Off the Coast - page down for a review, with poems, of Balance: a Late Pastoral

@ The Maine Organic Farmers and Gardeners Association

@ Poems from Gulf of Maine - another review of Balance, with poems 

@ Issa's Untidy Hut - a review of Russell's chapbook, Each Day
 


Russell was at the forefront of the Maine organic farming movement. Here on this TED video, he puts it all in perspective, capping it with an excerpt of a poem from Lew Welch:

 
   

Finally, an obituary for Russell from the Bangor Daily News, as well as an editorial from the same paper. Truly, Russell was a man whose work and life, both literal and writerly, not only reflected who he was but also who we should be. 

Which is probably as close a definition of Bodhisattva as we get here in the good old US of A. 

To balance out the geometry that opens this post, here is another poem dealing with 'math' by Russell Libby:

Early Morning

Sun just over the trees.
My shadow, forty-three paces long,
   precedes me down the hill.
Plenty of space to think
   between here and there.

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

Photo by Russell Lee

With a turnip,
the turnip farmer points
the way 

Issa

best,
Don 

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Russell Libby: Rest in Peace

Portrait of Russell Libby by Robert Shetterly, from his Americans Who Tell The Truth collection.

This morning, it comes: a dull, heavy blow that Russell Libby has died. I'm having a hard time expressing the admiration I had for this man and poet, so I'll let his words stand in stead.

Just as the Inuit have many words for snow,
in some forgotten language
there is a word for the sound of the south wind
as it pushes across the tops of the ashes
and catches in the pine trees just beyond.

The poem comes from his wonderful chapbook, Moments. More from the book and on Russell may be found here.


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

mountain temple--
deep under snow
a bell

 Issa

 translated by David G. Lanoue 

best,
Don 

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Russell Libby: Each Day

It's no secret that I'm a big fan of the work of Russell Libby, so it is always interesting to get one of his chapbooks in the mail. The most recent to come my way is Each Day (and I have to confess, I've had it awhile, but that just built up the suspense) and I thought I'd share a handful of poems from the collection with you today.  Here's a little ku I just love ...

School of herring
rippling
the ripples

When your poem has six words and one of them is repeated, you are probably committing an act of bravery, foolishness, or poetical magic - it seems to me obvious which one this is.

Russell is a man of the moment and there are many fine moments in this collection.  These moments are even more poignant and precise in light of the fact that the poet has confronted serious illness and held his ground.  The next poem, which concludes the collection, touches on this:

In the Night
  Oh, that not-quite-crack
  as a rib flexes,
  and maybe breaks,
  in the night.
  Do I get another X-ray
  that tells me
  what my body
  already knows,
  or just use each breath
  as a reminder of the beauty
  of the day?

This seems something of a rhetorical question coming at the conclusion of a volume which is a string of a beautiful moments beheld and passed on but it most certainly is not.   It is the poet confronting the world, and so the question must be asked again and again, revealing a deliberate, measured approach, the only sane way to proceed in a world of doubt and wonder.

These poems are contemplative, at times so quiet as seeming to lack insistence.  This, however, is a matter of tone and not message; what seems not insistent is, in fact, persistent. Reading the collection through a second time, a whole vista which I missed initially was manifest.  Though made up of so many individual parts, the collection is held together by the poet's persona, steady, observant, and in love, really, with all that he encounters.

Although I know it isn't true, I feel as if there are birds on every page and that gives me great joy.  The feeling might best be described as if birds were flying throughout Each Day, skipping from here, alighting there, moving about as it were within the book, of their own accord, a continual presence in a singularly beautiful world (and book).

I'll finish this post with the introductory poem, which perfectly describes the little volume itself, the experience of it for the poet and, as such, for the reader, too:

Early Morning
  Sun just over trees.
  My shadow, forty-three paces long,
     precedes me down the hill.
  Plenty of space to think
     between here and there.

So, I lied; here's one more, another excellent little haiku, for a little balance to this post:

Three dragonflies
resting
other end of hammock 

Each Day is available for $4 postpaid from: Russell Libby, Three Sisters Farm, 53 Weston Rd, Mount Vernon, ME 04352.  Treat yourself, straight from the author, the way it should be.


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


With a little tip of the hat in two directions, the following Issa haiku reminds me of one of my favorite poetry blogs of all, Red Dragonfly, from that blog takes its name:

have you come
to save us haiku poets?
red dragonfly

     Issa
     translated by David G. Lanoue

best,
Don

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Russell Libby: Moments

You can find Russell Libby's work around; there is this little gem, published online by the Poetry Foundation (who kindly supply a brief bio of the poet), and which puts me, neither mathematician, scientist, or farmer, in mind of one of my favorite Sherlock Holmes stories, The Adventure of the Musgrave Ritual.  Though I love my Sherlock Holmes, I must say that I like the resolution of Libby's "Applied Geometry" much better than Conan Doyle's.  Think heart over head, if you will.

It seems Ted Kooser would agree; he chose to feature the same poem on "American Life in Poetry."

I know Russell primarily through the magazine I edit, Lilliput Review, and his work that I've published there. In addition, he was the winner of an impromptu New Year's Haiku/Tanka challenge here at the Hut.   Everything comes from Three Sisters Farm, his address, and his descriptions of nature and the world about him have always had great appeal for me.

Awhile back, probably longer than I care to think (so as to avoid embarrassing myself in public intentionally),  Russell sent me off a modest little chapbook of his work with the simple title Moments.  I kept it nearby my desk, in a chaotic work area where things tend to alternately sink and surface, and sink and surface again.  I'd dipped into his book a few times and nothing grabbed me strongly enough to continue at any given off moment.  This is hardly surprising, however, given my USA Today/haiku attention span.  One day, though, I got some purchase, cleared some room, made myself comfortable, and took in the whole work. And I enjoyed it very much.

I figured out pretty quickly why it hadn't connected with me initially.  Most of the work literally captures a  moment and, as in classical haiku, those moments are strictly portrayed, with very little, if any, judgment, resolution, or speculation.

Seems I lean a little toward if not resolution or satori at least the suggestion of same.

Sometimes I think I'm in the wrong business ... not attentive enough, not informed enough, not calm enough etc.  This, I'm thinking, is one of those times because there is some fine, fine work here, indeed.

If ever there was a moment, here it is, from "Last day in June":

Heron tracks visible
Two feet below
The clear-flowing stream water

This is one of 4 such moments in the day listed in the collective title "Last of day" June.  Here is a separate, untitled poem:

Just as the Inuit have many words for snow,
in some forgotten language
there is a word for the sound of the south wind
as it pushes across the tops of the ashes
and catches in the pine trees just beyond.

If there isn't, this definition will do very nicely until someone, somewhere conjures one up.  A definition without a word; now that's right up my alley.

Here is the final section of a five part poem entitled "Western Bay":

Sound carries so easily
over still water;
important fact to remember.

Another stand alone piece, one I am mighty jealous of follows, concerning a kestrel and a mouse.  I'll tell you why after you read it:

Kestrel flies towards the woods,
long-tailed mouse in its talons,
the tail straight out
under the rapidly-beating wings.

I've been trying to capture a similar moment I witnessed, with a crow and a mouse, over a year ago and have never quite gotten it.  The moment has one distinctly different feature, which is what I've been after all these months, but I'm jealous that Libby got his ("the tail straight out" is it).

Here is section 2 from a poem of  9 sections entitled "On McGaffey":

Face pushing through
spider web.
How many times
each life
the unexpected.

This really has the feel of a modern dilemma; I know I've thought it or something very close to it.  How many times the unexpected, how many times the unexplained?

Section 4 from the same poem:

Half
a tiny white
bird's egg-
shell dissolves
as I
lift.

Another moment, without judgment or even speculation.  Just a moment, this moment, now.

Finally, one brief poem:

Raking leaves into piles
Hawkweed and heal-all
Blooming beneath

Notice the present tense, notice the lack of ending punctuation, something Libby does more frequently with brief poems than longer ones, but something that may have some significance.  For me, this moment, which is now, is continuous - will the hawkweed and the heal-all bloom through the leaves? 

Will the wind have its say?

What the poet has done here, particularly with the shorter pieces, is what the classic haiku poet did (& does): presents the reader with the moment and says, here, this is it, do what you will with it.

The egg-shell, the spider web, the mouse's tail, heron tracks, sound in the trees and over water, buried plants blooming, blooming.

Will you ignore the moment, or not see it at all?

This is fine collection of moments.  The many poems I've excerpted contain other, related moments from the same time, or contiguous with them.  There is a calmness at their center, bound together as it is via the consciousness of the perceiver, the poet. 

Lucky we are to have a poet who pays particular attention.    Mail him $4 and you can get 36 pages of wonder, many of which have more than one poem.  Payment to Russell Libby, 53 Weston Road, Mount Vernon, ME  04352.



--------------------------------- 


This week's feature poem comes from Lilliput Review #156, March 2007, and seems to be appropriate today, considering the proliferation of natural disasters over the last few months. 

From a wryer perspective, this one also goes out to all the end-gamers who were disappointed in the lack of revelation this past weekend.

Laura Gulli explains it a lot better than me.  So here she is.

    prayer for uncertainty

glory be to the incessant
to the obsessive
and to the irreverent
as it may have been in the beginning
is now
           sometimes
and ever shall be
or not
compassion without end
amen

Laura Gulli

taking turns
with the prayer gong...
mountain cuckoo

Issa
translated by David G. Lanoue

best,
Don

PS Really happy I got through the whole post and didn't mention the other thing. 

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New Year's Haiku/Tanka Challenge Winners

Thanks very much to all for sending along poems with barely 12 hours of open reading time, on New Year's Eve to boot. The winning poem (haiku) is

Snow blurs tracks
From year
Just past

Russell Libby

And here are 3 runners-up ...

New Year’s Day —

the wreath has fallen

between the doors

Scott Metz

end of the year--
not enough fingers and toes
to count my blessings

Karma Tenzing Wangchuk

ashes, few embers—
enough for a fresh fire though
this New Year’s morning

Joseph Hutchison

Once again, my sincere thanks to all who sent work along. It was all solid and a nice way for me to start the new year.

Happy New Year to all.

And from Issa, a reminder: Edo is the ancient name for Tokyo, but we all may fill in the name of our own town ...

homeless, too
seeing in the new year
in Edo

Issa
translated by David G. Lanoue

best,
Don