Even
the dragonfly must sometime
rest
Wayne Hogan
Andrea Grillo
withered grassland--
once upon a time there was
a she-demon...
Issa
translated by David G. Lanoue
The room shifts
the lemon tree shines
hope behind the horizon
there
Wayne Hogan
Susan Constable
sunset--
tears shine in a frog's eyes
too
Issa
translated by David G. Lanoue
NOTE: I'm happy to say that the problem with the listening widgets from grooveshark is solved and so the widget has returned to the Sunday Service. In addition, I've added one to last week's post of Leaky Lifeboat (for Gregory Corso) by Sonic Youth if you'd care to give a listen.
The Way It Is And Will Be Was
Paddling
up a Venetian canal
leaving a trail you'll never
come back on but
can see from a long way off
as it lasts only
a moment in the pouring rain
Wayne Hogan
the rain
knits us
with threads
of silver
Albert Huffstickler
Issa
translated by David G. Lanoue
The chap sells for $11.56, which includes postage, and I'm nothing if not prompt in sending things out when I get a request---within no more than 2 days, barring drastically unforeseen circumstances.
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| click to enlarge |
Ebb and Flow
my beloved strides the water's edge
trailing her pain in a wake
I sit on the lip of the boardwalk
walking up with the turning tide,
trying to imagine what she passes through
each of us
is pulling toward something new
as water pushes on the skin of the earth
how miraculous, to both be warmed
by the same sun-soft air
Robbie Gamble
Peggy Heinrich
mother I never knew,
every time I see the ocean,
every time.
Issa
translated by David G. Lanoue
Shine on Brightly
My Prussian-blue electric clock's
alarm bell rings, it will not stop
and I can see no end in sight
and search in vain by candlelight
for some long road that goes nowhere
for some signpost that is not there
And even my befuddled brain
is shining brightly, quite insane
The chandelier is in full swing
as gifts for me the three kings bring
of myrrh and frankincense, I'm told,
and fat old Buddhas carved in gold
And though it seems they smile with glee
I know in truth they envy me
and watch as my befuddled brain
shines on brightly quite insane
Above all else confusion reigns
And though I ask no-one explains
My eunuch friend has been and gone
He said that I must soldier on
And though the Ferris wheel spins round
my tongue it seems has run aground
and croaks as my befuddled brain
shines on brightly, quite insane
THIS IS THE FIRST PART
OF A LONG ESSAY ON RELATIVITY
AND QUANTUM MECHANICS FROM
THE STANDPOINT OF KANT
AND SOME GERMAN IDEALISTS WHO
SHALL BE NAMED LATER IN
THE DISCUSSION WHICH WILL BE
ALL ABOUT EPISTEMOLOGY
AND PROCEDURE AND REFERENCE-FRAMES
AND PARADOX AND THE ENTANGLEMENT
OF SPACE AND TIME AS SEEN
FROM GREAT DISTANCES PLUS A LOT
OF OTHER STUFF TOO
(... to be continued)
Wayne Hogan
through
the birds
a history of stars
Marcia Arrieta
Etude
Eighty-eight keys,
each a telescope trained
upon a single constellation.
Stephen Power
Belief
Those who
Believe
The universe
Ends
Stop at
the edge of it.
Edward Supranowicz
Issa
translated by David G. Lanoue
There is a new collection of the Japanese translations of Kenneth Rexroth, entitled Written on the Sky: Poems from the Japanese," published by New Directions. Although the copyright page lists the years 1974, 1976, and 1977 (with a co-translator, Ikuko Atsumi, listed for 1977), nowhere is it stated what volumes these translations originally appeared in. Only on the fly leaf
is found the statement: "Written on the Sky is a selection of some of Kenneth Rexroth's perfect and enduring translations from the Japanese ..." This lack of clarity is unfortunate; from this statement, the reader must assume all of these translations have previously appeared, either in book or journal form.
Of course, the exact opposite might also be assumed. For those who might wish to trace back a poem to its original appearance, in search of context and companions, no trail is provided. The only other volume of translations listed for Rexroth is Songs of Love, Moon, & Wind: Chinese Poems, a new companion collection. It would seem New Directions' only interest is in these two volumes, despite having published Rexroth's seminal collections in the past (most of which are still in print and available from New Directions).
That being said, Written on the Sky is a handsomely produced volume, with 88 poems, each appearing on a single page. Many of the poems originally appeared, as might be imagined, in One Hundred Poems from the Japanese and One Hundred More Poems from the Japanese. The difference in presentation from previous volumes is readily apparent. Transliterations of the original poems are not provided (though the original Japanese script for the names is, to the cynical allowing for the vertical use of much white space). Translations of some of the names have changed, making collation between the original volumes and the new cumbersome.
There seems to be no apparent unifying theme or approach; if there is, it isn't obvious to the non-scholar. It is 4 x 6," produced with an embossed cover of heavy mylar-like stock and beautiful to hold and behold. The poems are generally every bit as beautiful, which is as good a unifying theme as it gets, I suppose. Rexroth's translations from both the Japanese and Chinese have served over the last 50 years as the introduction to Eastern lyricism for the curious poetry reader. And this book, something of a curio one might expect to just as soon find in a museum shop as a large or independent bookstore, does not disappoint when it comes to the poems themselves.
A small selection illustrates the overall high quality:
The flowers whirl away
In the wind like snow.
The thing that falls away
Is myself.
Prime Minister Kintsune
No, the human heart
Is unknowable.
But in my birthplace
The flowers still smell
The same as always.Ki No Tsurayuki
Chine-jo
No one spoke.
The host, the guest,
The white chrysanthemums.Ōshima Ryōta
Minamoto No Sanetomo
Because
you are tired, because I thirst for
salt, we turn to each other.
You are barefoot. It is winter.
This is going to be a difficult story.Gayle Elen Harvey
Of Duluth I SingOh Duluth.
Oh downtown Dul-
uth. Oh oyster-on-the-
half-shell Duluth. Oh
boarded-up poet-infested
storefront hole-in-the-wall
Duluth, oh.Wayne Hogan
First, you must waken,
Then walk, in cool morning,
Into a meadow
Not of your making,
And listen intently.
Then you may answer.Paul Ramsey
Issa
translated by David Lanoue
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 honestSteve Richmond
fall from grace
long way
to the bottom
I'll hold
your handMichael R. Battram
Issa
translated by David Lanoue
Cover by BoboForging a poem is
Like nothing so much as
Building a butterfly
Of bronze.Patricia Higginbotham
MotherSurgical teams
Pinned her
Monarch glands
To a mythical cure
And she steeped out
Of her body
With scissors and rose.Patrick Sweeney
Charlie Mehrhoff
on the flower pot
does the butterfly, too
hear Buddha's promise?Issa
translated by David Lanoue
I promised I would return to this remarkable little volume of Issa poems, A Few Flies and I, selected by the childrens' author Jean Merrill and Ronni Solbert. I previously featured four poems. Here's a handful more:
------At the morning exhibition
Of the Buddhist image,
------The sparrows also are on time.
-------The flying butterfly:
I feel myself
-------A creature of dust.
A thousand
Plovers
Rise
As one.
------Visiting the graves
The old dog
-------Leads the way
The deer
Are licking
The first frost
From one another's coats.
All the while
I pray to Buddha
I keep on killing
Mosquitoes.
As mentioned previously, the 3 line translations are by R. H. Blyth and the 4 liners by Nobuyuki Yuasa. It is very refreshing, indeed, to have two different approaches in one volume, not something that happens too often. Some volumes of Baudelaire do this, Dante also, but it really is lovely to have this approach with Master Issa. I've tried here to select poems not previously featured but when something is a favorite, my resistance is minimal.
Sometimes, you just have to cave.
***************************************
This week's featured works are from a combination of #31 and #32 which, issued as a pair, were short and long-line issues respectively, plus two from #29 (February 1992). The countdown to #1 is beginning to feel like a free fall from a building or a very tall bridge.
Cafe Poem
--That little old lady has a purpose.
--She's a cartographer completing the map of her life.
--It's there on her face,
--as contained, as exact as the will that lies
--deep in that small, sunken breast.
--She looks around her, laughs.
--Another line forms,
--another move toward the completion she already envisions.
--There's nothing more for us here.
--Let's leave her to her work.
--Albert Huffstickler
Poem Up From Too Little LightWas it a dark and
stormy night or just
a round shadow all
stuffed with sound
and too little light?Wayne Hogan
From #29:
side street(wind chimes)
porch of no one's
at home
backdrop of busy
street sounds
lone
hollow
chimes
-- ---yet
here is
-- ---that pulse toDeborah Meadows
The further back in the run I go, now 17 years in the past, the more I encounter an earlier me, a novice editor, working toward something. Though still something of a novice today, I fancy now that I see a thread, even in this early work, of the direction thematically that the magazine was heading. For instance the first 3 poems revolved around sound (two about wind chimes, one about an ocarina), followed by two alluding to symphonies, the later symphony poem also introducing a flower motif that culminates in the last two poems of the issue, with two poems, one about breathing, the other mentioning Yogananda, sandwiched in between.
Now, through older eyes, the issue doesn't quite lift off, the whole not equal to the sum of its parts. Each poem, however, does its part and I enjoy the work, some of which is in styles that I don't necessarily gravitate toward any more. So this is a novice cutting his teeth, possibly at the expense of the poets. Let me finish this thought, however, with the poem that opened the issue, which says much more eloquently what I'm struggling with here:
last will and testament:make a wind chime
from my bones,
hang it
where the poets speak.
let me be a part
of the conversation,
life.charlie mehrhoff
***************************************
to enlightened eyes
Buddha's bones?
dewdrops in the grassIssa
David Lanoue
Cover by Oberc
This past Sunday, February 27th, was the birthday of a personal favorite here at Issa's Untidy Hut: Gerald Stern. Stern was born in Pittsburgh, which has been my home for the last 18 years, and lives in New Jersey, where I was born and raised. Much of our non-mutual time was spent in the same haunts in Jersey, New York, Philly, and Pittsburgh. His imagery is familiar, I might almost say familial, an imagery that is spot-on in both detail and emotional sagacity. I won't belabor the point, as I've covered much of this territory in past posts.
Happy birthday, Gerald. Wishing you all the happiness you have so generously given others in the sharing of your work and life.
Yesterday, I noted the recent anniversary of W. H. Auden's birth. I thought it might be nice to dovetail these birthdays together with a poem by Gerald Stern in memory of W. H. Auden. It's a bit longer than I usually post here, but a lyrical, insightful homage.
I am going over my early rages again,
my first laments and ecstasies,
my old indictments and spiritualities.
I am standing, like Schiller, in front of Auden's door
waiting for his carved face to let me in.
In my hand is The Poem of My Heart I dragged
from one ruined continent to the other,
all my feelings slipping out on the sidewalk.
It was warm and hopeful in his small cave
waiting for the right word to descend
but it was cold and brutal outside on Fourth Street
as I walked back to the Seventh Avenue subway,
knowing, as I reached the crowded stairway,
that I would have to wait for ten more years
or maybe twenty more years for the first riches
to come my way, and knowing that the stick
of that old Prospero would never rest
on my poor head, dear as he was with his robes
and his books of magic, good and wise as he was
in his wrinkled suit and his battered slippers
—Oh good and wise, but not enough to comfort me,
so loving was he with his other souls.
I had to wait like clumsy Caliban,
a sucker for every vagueness and degeneration.
I had to find my own way back, I had to
free myself, I had to find my own pleasure
in my own sweet cave, with my own sweet music.
--Once a year, later even once a month,
I stood on the shores of Bleeker and Horatio
waving good-bye to that ship all tight and yare
and that great wizard, bobbing up and down
like a dreaming sailor out there, disappearing
just as he came, only this time his face more weary
and his spirit more grave than when he first arrived
to take us prisoner on our own small island,
the poet I now could talk to, that wrinkled priest
whose neck I'd hang on, that magician
who could release me now, whom I release and remember.Gerald Stern
In all these rotten shops, in all this broken furniture
and wrinkled ties and baseball trophies and coffee pots
I have never seen a postwar Philco
with the automatic eye
nor heard Ravel's "Bolero" the way I did
in 1945 in that tiny living room
on Beechwood Boulevard, nor danced as I did
then, my knives all flashing, my hair all streaming,
my mother red with laughter, my father cupping
his left hand under his armpit, doing the dance
of old Ukraine, the sound of his skin half drum,
half fart, the world at last a meadow,
the three of us whirling and singing, the three of us
screaming and falling, as if we were dying,
as if we could never stop — in 1945 —
in Pittsburgh, beautiful filthy Pittsburgh, home
of the evil Mellons, 5,000 miles away
from the other dancing — in Poland and Germany —
of God of mercy, oh wild God.Gerald Stern
dead poem #9in the night
I'm my dream
my enemy
rabid dogs
suck my wet fingers
headless children sit in a circle
of chairs around my bed stomping their feet
as the mattress burns
the worms flow
my face
fills
outBill Shields
------------Todd Kalinski
from our fathers
we inherit feet
from our mothers
long arms
we walk away
always reaching backRobert S. King
So It's Sometimes SaidBig Apple celebrityites
are to the ontological plenitude
of quotidian propinquity as
Arnold Schwarzenegger (minus
Great Garbo) are to the
ruck of humanity. Or so
it is sometimes said.Wayne Hogan
James J. Langon
Something in the slight spring
of the branch
as the bird
alights —
Last night I wandered from my previously stated purpose of mining R. H. Blyth for more Shiki translations and sat down with the 1st volume of R. H. Blyth's 4 volume Haiku, opening it up to the preface and beginning to read. I was positively knocked out; it is, simply, transcendent. I've plumbed these 4 volumes over the years for many of the hundreds and hundreds of poems by acknowledged Japanese masters of the haiku, by poet and by season (the later being the general schema of the volumes). Let me let Blyth speak for himself:
The history of mankind, as a history of the human spirit, may be thought of as consisting of two elements: an escape from this world to another; and a return to it. Chronologically speaking, these two movements, the rise and fall, represent the whole of human history; and the two take place microcosmically many times in peoples and nations. But they may be thought of as taking place simultaneously or rather, beyond time, and then they form an ontological description of human nature.
-----There seems to me no necessity, however, to make a Spenglerian attempt to show from historical examples how there has been a movement towards ideas, ideas, abstractions; and a corresponding revulsion from them. In our own individual lives, and in the larger movements of the human spirit these two contradictory tendencies are more or less visible always, everywhere. There is a quite noticeable flow towards religion in the early world, and in the early life of almost every person,-and a later ebb from it, using the word "religion" here in the sense of a means of escape from this life.
-----The Japanese, by an accident of geography, and because of something in their national character, took part in the developments of this "return to nature," which in the Far East began (to give them a local habitation and a name) with Enô, the 6th Chinese Patriarch of Zen, 637-713 A. D. The Chinese, again because of their geography perhaps, have always had a strong tendency in poetry and philosophy towards the vast and vague, the general and sententious. It was left, therefore, to the Japanese to undertake this "return to things" in haiku, but it must be clearly understood that what we return to is never the same as what we once left, for we have ourselves changed in the meantime. So we go back to the old savage animism, and superstition, and common life of man and spirits and trees and stones,-and yet there is a difference. Things have taken on something of the tenuous nature of the abstractions they turned into. Again, spring and autumn, for example, non-existant, arbitrary distinctions, have attained a body and palpability they never before had. We also, we are the things,-and yet we are ourselves, in a perpetual limbo of heaven and hell.
-----It was necessary for us to prostrate ourselves before the Buddha, to spend nine long years wall-gazing, to be born in the Western Paradise. But now, no more. Now we have to come back from Nirvana to this world, the only one. We have to live, not with Christ in glory, but with Jesus and his mother and father and brothers and sisters. We return to the friends of our childhood, the rain on the window-pane; the long silent roads of night, the waves of the shore that never cease to fall; the moon, so near and yet so far; all the sensations of texture, timbre, weight and shape, those precious treasures and inexhaustible riches of every-day life.
-----Haiku may well seem at first sight a poor substitute for the glowing visions of Heaven and Paradise seen of pale-lipped asceties. As Arnold says:
----------Long fed on boundless hopes, O race of man,
----------How angrily thou spurn'st all simpler fare!
Haiku have a simplicity that is deceptive both with regard to their depth of content and to their origins, and it is the aim of this and succeeding volumes to show that haiku require our purest and most profound spiritual appreciation, for they represent a whole world, the Eastern World, of religious and poetic experience. Haiku is the final flower of all Eastern culture; it is also a way of living.
Mary Oliver's Morning Poem
Jane Kenyon's Taking Down the Tree
As This Morning
we have forgotten so much:
how afternoon light
will warm us. the
way our bodies are.
how fingers will move
into a shadow so
slight, there is
hardly room for
the world.Mike JamesAfter Sex
I watch her getting dressed.
She dips her head slowly,
her hair flops away
from the crown
in a swirling semaphore
of golden petals.
Clothes float up from the floor
like butterflies.John GreyMonoepicWonder.Richard Kostelanetz
and O
------how he loved is tenderness
-------------when he touched herJohn ElsbergNovember Sunday Madonnacurls into herself,
the last leaf
on the maple
wind blown
and twitching
still holding onLyn Lifshin
¶writing is motionless
-when I am done.
-my shadow
-on the path of the path.Scarecrow
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