Issa's Untidy Hut

Sunday, December 9, 2012

Sunny South Kensington: Issa's Sunday Service, #147

If the widget wonky, whack HERE

This is Donovan's third appearance on the Sunday Service and this number is particularly evocative of another time (60s) and place (London). There's a bit of name dropping and it is Mr. Ginsberg's that makes the lit connection :

Sunny South Kensington

Come take a walk in sunny South Kensington
Any day of the week
See the girl with the silk Chinese blouse on
You know she ain't no freak
Come balloon soon down Cromwell Road, man
You got to spread your wings
A-flip out, skip out, trip-out, and a-make your stand, folks
To dig me as I sing
Jean-Paul Belmondo and-a Mary Quant got
Stoned to say the least
Ginsberg, he ended up drying and so
He a-took a trip out east
If I'm a-late waitin' down the gate, it's such a 'raz' scene
A groovy place to live
In the Portobella I met a fella with a cane umbrella
Who must've used a sieve
So come balloon soon down Cromwell Road, man
You got to spread your wings
A-flip out, skip out, trip-out and a-make your stand, folks
To dig me as I sing
Hmm, hmm, hmm
Come take a walk in sunny South Kensington
Any day of the week
Come see the girl with the silk Chinese blouse on
You know she ain't no freak
If I'm a-late waitin' down the gate, it's such a 'raz' scene
A groovy place to live
In the Portobella I met a fella with a cane umbrella
Who must've used a sieve
Jean-Paul Belmondo and-a Mary Quant got
Stoned to say the least
Ginsberg, he ended up drying and so
He a-took a trip out east
Hmm, hmm, hmm
Come loon soon down Cromwell Road, man
You got, you got to spread your wings, yeah
See the girl with the silk Chinese blouse on, yeah
You know she ain't no freak, hmm, hmm

One must be a certain age to know who Mary Quant was and that's a fact. It seemed, however, a good time, mid-December, to take a bright, cheery walk through the paisley-tinged streets of an old school memory.

So to trim up things neatly, here's an amazing reading by Allen Ginsberg at the 93rd Street Y, February 26, 1973, with Gregory Corso acting the igniter to Ginsberg's dynamite (incredible focus - Louis Ginsberg, Allen's poet father, gives it a bit to Corso - & Allen, too, ultimately, lovingly, gives it - all is love, hare krishna, hare krishna - and Charlie, calm the fuck down, don't touch the angel - hallelujah):

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

well, well
pale purple, this year's color...
for young bamboo

Issa
translated by David G. Lanoue

best,
Don

PS. Get 2 free issues. Get 2 more free issues

Lillie poem archive

Send a single haiku for the Wednesday Haiku feature. Here's how.

Go to the LitRock web site for a list of all 146 songs

Friday, December 7, 2012

Sometimes a Wild God by Coyopa

Photo by Wolfgang Sauber

As is rather obvious from what goes on around here, I'm not much taken with the long poem. My miniscule attention span begins to waver after 10 lines or two stanzas, whichever comes first. So it is rather wonderful that the following long poem stormed the castle and swept away my soul. Of course, it came to me via a friend who 'knew' that it would do exactly that, said friend being the very fine tanka poet, Joy McCall. We were exchanging songs and poems and what not one gray Sunday morning (for me, midday, rather soggy for her across the pond) as we are wont to do. She had sent me a lovely Ronald Baatz poem in response to my posting of his poems here, and I sent along a copy of my favorite Robert Frost poem, Never Again Will Birds' Song Be the Same, and she sent this:

Sometimes a Wild God by Coyopa

Sometimes a wild god comes to the table.
He is awkward and does not know the ways
Of porcelain, of fork and mustard and silver.
His voice makes vinegar from wine.

When the wild god arrives at the door,
You will probably fear him.
He reminds you of something dark
That you might have dreamt,
Or the secret you do not wish to be shared.

He will not ring the doorbell;
Instead he scrapes with his fingers
Leaving blood on the paintwork,
Though primroses grow
In circles round his feet.

You do not want to let him in.
You are very busy.
It is late, or early, and besides…
You cannot look at him straight
Because he makes you want to cry.

The dog barks.
The wild god smiles,
Holds out his hand.
The dog licks his wounds
And leads him inside.

The wild god stands in your kitchen.
Ivy is taking over your sideboard;
Mistletoe has moved into the lampshades
And wrens have begun to sing
An old song in the mouth of your kettle.

‘I haven’t much,’ you say
And give him the worst of your food.
He sits at the table, bleeding.
He coughs up foxes.
There are otters in his eyes.

When your wife calls down,
You close the door and
Tell her it’s fine.
You will not let her see
The strange guest at your table.

The wild god asks for whiskey
And you pour a glass for him,
Then a glass for yourself.
Three snakes are beginning to nest
In your voicebox. You cough.

Oh, limitless space.
Oh, eternal mystery.
Oh, endless cycles of death and birth.
Oh, miracle of life.
Oh, the wondrous dance of it all.

You cough again,
Expectorate the snakes and
Water down the whiskey,
Wondering how you got so old
And where your passion went.

The wild god reaches into a bag
Made of moles and nightingale-skin.
He pulls out a two-reeded pipe,
Raises an eyebrow
And all the birds begin to sing.

The fox leaps into your eyes.
Otters rush from the darkness.
The snakes pour through your body.
Your dog howls and upstairs
Your wife both exhalts and weeps at once.

The wild god dances with your dog.
You dance with the sparrows.
A white stag pulls up a stool
And bellows hymns to enchantments.
A pelican leaps from chair to chair.

In the distance, warriors pour from their tombs.
Ancient gold grows like grass in the fields.
Everyone dreams the words to long-forgotten songs.
The hills echo and the grey stones ring
With laughter and madness and pain.

In the middle of the dance,
The house takes off from the ground.
Clouds climb through the windows;
Lightning pounds its fists on the table.
The moon leans in through the window.

The wild god points to your side.
You are bleeding heavily.
You have been bleeding for a long time,
Possibly since you were born.
There is a bear in the wound.

‘Why did you leave me to die?’
Asks the wild god and you say:
‘I was busy surviving.
The shops were all closed;
I didn’t know how. I’m sorry.’

Listen to them:

The fox in your neck and
The snakes in your arms and
The wren and the sparrow and the deer…
The great un-nameable beasts
In your liver and your kidneys and your heart…

There is a symphony of howling.
A cacophony of dissent.
The wild god nods his head and
You wake on the floor holding a knife,
A bottle and a handful of black fur.

Your dog is asleep on the table.
Your wife is stirring, far above.
Your cheeks are wet with tears;
Your mouth aches from laughter or shouting.
A black bear is sitting by the fire.

Sometimes a wild god comes to the table.
He is awkward and does not know the ways
Of porcelain, of fork and mustard and silver.
His voice makes vinegar from wine
And brings the dead to life.

Tip o' the hat to Joy - an amazing piece of writing all around.

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