3 Translations of Alfonsas Nyka-Niliūnas


Photograph from VDU

Tenebrae


When you arose from Tenebrae,
And first opened your eyes
You lay in Eden
On the river shores of Hiddekel,
Looking at your naked body,
That had become word, the word
I had to tell you.

An athletic young angel sent by
The Eternal One to punish us
Stood before you.
With eyes not yet open
To the light of day,
Stared at your breasts
gushing with milk and honey.

But the angel and I, blinded,
Unable to find the word, were punished
And driven to Tenebrae,
Where both of us
Search for you in the dark.


Summer The morning opened an enormous folio. Melancholy children play In the dusty painting. Time rebounds in stone, Walls, and leaving no sound Falls on faces. The greying Sunday slumbers On the Tems retrouvé book. Poppies Whisper in the garden As they unfold their umbrellas. The wilted lilac still-life (Gentileschi, with a zyther) Poisons memory. A blue bird flies From your voice, Flusters with blind wings And searches for our tree.
EXILE Unknown flora. Earth‘s birth in nature‘s catastrophe In the wilted nettle rustle. My heart cracked Like the window pane from the bell‘s thrust. Datura fatuosa. Gernanium Valley solitude. The thistle with numb hands Tears at the earth and cries. Eternally I walk In the funeral procession Of nettle and chervil rustle. All that remains is Your testament Written in footsteps on the grave.
Tenebrae


Iškilus iš Tenebrae,
Pirmąkart atvėrusi akis,
Tu gulėjai Edene
Ant jaunos Hiddekel upės kranto,
Žiūrėdama į savo nuogą kūną,
Tapusi žodžiu, kurį
Aš tau turėjau pasakyti.

Atletiškas ir jaunas
Angelas stovėjo prieš tave,
Amžinojo atsiųstas nubausti,
Neatitraukdamas didžiulių
Nepraragėjusių akių nuo tavo
Medumi ir pienu
Trykštančių krūtų.

Bet angelas ir aš, akli, 
Neradę žodžio, buvom nubausti,
Nutrenkti į Tenebrae,
Kur mes abu
Ieškom tavęs tamsoj.


Vasara Rytas atvėrė didžiuli foliantą. Dulkėto paveikslo gatvėj Žaidžia melancholiški vaikai. Laikas atsimuša į akmenis, Į sienas ir, nepalikęs jokio garso, Krinta ant veidų. Pražilęs sekmadienis snaudžia Temps retrouvé tome. Aguonos Išskleidę baltus lietsargius, Šnabždasi darže. Nuvytusių alyvų Natiurmortas (su citra, Gentileschi) Nuodija atsiminimais. Iš tavo balso Išskridęs mėlynas paukštis Blaškosi aklais sparnais Ir ieško mūsų medžio.
EXIL Nepažįstami augmenys. Gamtos katastrofoje gimusi žemė Mirusios dilgės šiurenime. Nuo varpo smūgių Sutrūkinėjo širdis Kaip lango stiklas. Datura fatuosa. Geranium Valley vienatvė. Usnis sugrubusiom rankom Drasko žemę ir verkia. Aš amžinai einu Dilgės šiurenimo ir bulių Laidotuvių eisenoje. Nes mums teliko Pėdom ant kapo parašytas Tavo testamentas.
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3 Poems by Uwe Kolbe


Photograph from BR Bayern 2


The First Encounter

Aimless he wandered, that wide-eyed boy
beneath the scorching sun the gods controlled.
He said, Make summer mine! (They granted it – and how.)
He didn’t know what hit him –

Who’d so long staggered stiltwise down the uncertain paths
unfurling like carpets on this hill of wine,
whose stilted voice had so long shied from song
the gods smelt blasphemy.

No-one can say for sure when that demon-child struck,
when the ivy whipped him and the bulls stood up,
the tigers roared and the snakes flick-flickered
across the crimson scree.

You don’t believe it, fine. Just step out from the garden,
and walk, and keep on walking, till you forget all things
and all the names of things, till that old sun just once becomes
the god it really is.

Then gasp and heave, and spit the fatty phlegm
from the astonished mouth, and at dusk where the waters
     flow,
where the fish rise up to devour the dragonflies, there at last
smash into your true self.

And you’re here, in the palace of the meadow-wood
where even the oaks no longer look the same
and the willows and poplars draw down from the sky
the ancient silverlight.

When you return, they will not understand you,
if you return. From this point forth, there’ll be
so little to say. You can’t find anything older than this.
The light glints in the wine.


The Pedestrian Tunnels of Plovdiv
Berlin, 9 May 2003

To the women in the underpasses
only a bleeping toy made in Taiwan
sings the song of the sun which sails
high above, where they so seldom are.

They sit in the neon light and hope
that just one time the selling will be worth it,
that today somehow there’ll be those throngs of women
buying the panties their men will so desire.

In boxes like aquariums
they sit and knit and nod and read and dream,
waiting for rare dispatches from above.

Maybe the end of days is nearly here
when they will hold a slaughterfest down there,
and bring us roasted on a spit the golden calf.

Die erste Begegnung

Umweg für Umweg ging hier der Schüler des Lebens
unter der sengenden Sonne eines Sommers der Götter –
nur einen gönnt! sie gönnten, und wie, nur nehmen
konnte der Schüler nicht,

ging noch auf Stelzen, traute den Wegen nicht,
die ausgerollt waren wie Teppiche hier in dem Weinberg.
Noch sang er nicht, und sein Zögern war Lästerung,
sah aus wie Vorsatz.

Niemand bezeugt den Tag, an dem ihn das Höllenkind schlug,
Efeu ihn peitschte, Stiere aufstanden,
Tiger brüllten über dem Land, und Schlangen züngelten
über dem roten Geröll.

Glauben mußt du es nicht, verlaß nur den Garten,
gehe die Straßen, Wege so lange, bis du vergessen,
wie wir es nennen, laß die vertraute Sonne einmal
wirken als Gott, der sie ist.

Sauge die Luft herein, hechle, keuche, und spucke den fetten
Seim aus brennendem Mund, pralle im Dämmer am alten
     Fluß
auf deine wahre Natur, dort, wo die Wasser stehen, Fische
Wasserläufer erbeuten,

endlich und hier, unter vertraut noch erscheinenden Eichen,
die aber schweigen, dunkele Wächter am Hofe der Pappeln,
Weiden, die hoch aus dem Himmel das Silberlicht leiten
in den Palast des Auwalds.

Wenn du zurückkehrst, werden sie dich nicht verstehen,
wenn du zurückkehrst. Von diesem Aufbruch wird
wenig zu sagen sein, denn Älteres kannst du nicht finden.
Da ist ein Licht in dem Wein.


Die Unterführungen von Plovdiv
Berlin, 9. Mai 2003

Den Frauen in den Unterführungen
singt nur ein piepsendes Gerät aus China
das Lied der Sonne, die vorübergeht
dort oben, wo sie selbst nur selten sind.

Sie sitzen in dem Neonlicht und hoffen,
daß der Verkauf sich heute einmal lohnt,
daß heute viele Damen viele Slips
zum Anreiz ihrer starken Männer brauchen.

In ihren Kästen wie Aquarien
sieht man sie stricken, nicken, lesen, träumen.
Und eine sagt der andern was von oben.

Vielleicht ist nicht mehr fern der Tage Abend,
da halten sie dort unten Schlachtfest
und bringen uns das goldne Kalb, gebraten.

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John Kendall Hawkins Reviews Poetic Revolutionaries: Intertextuality and Subversion

Poetic Revolutionaries: Intertextuality and Subversion

Poetic Revolutionaries: Intertextuality and Subversion
Marion May Campbell, Rodopi, 2014

As I read Marion May Campbell’s new book, Poetic Revolutionaries: Intertextuality and Subversion, I was reminded of the still seemingly sacred notion of a democratic historical progress. This notion celebrates cultural alterity (and all that that implies), and makes an urgent appeal to textual revolution as a means to political resistance. Campbell’s work is rooted in the relativist revolution – the book is part of publisher Rodopi’s Postmodern Series – and her intense, erudite study addresses a state of disunion that has loosely bound the dwindling body of progressives ever since.

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3 Poems by Rabindranath Tagore

Sraboner dharar mato poduk jhore

like the streams of monsoons
let it descend
this melody of yours
upon my face
upon my heart

along with the light of the east
let it arrive every dawn
upon my eyes
through the dark of night
let it rain deep upon my soul

night and day 
in this life
upon joy 
upon sorrow

like the streams of monsoons
let it descend

the branch that does not flower
does not fruit at all
let your cloud breezes
rekindle that limb

whatever is feeble 
whatever is febrile
in this my lost life
at every level 
let it flow
upon the streams of music

night and day 
in this life
upon thirst 
upon hunger

like the streams of monsoons
let it descend
Sraboner dharar monton poduk jhore

শ্রাবণের          ধারার মতো পড়ুক ঝরে, পড়ুক ঝরে
তোমারি         সুরটি আমার মুখের 'পরে, বুকের 'পরে ॥
পুরবের          আলোর সাথে পড়ুক প্রাতে দুই নয়ানে--
নিশীথের         অন্ধকারে গভীর ধারে পড়ুক প্রাণে।
নিশিদিন          এই জীবনের সুখের 'পরে দুখের 'পরে
শ্রাবণের          ধারার মতো পড়ুক ঝরে, পড়ুক ঝরে।
যে শাখায়        ফুল ফোটে না, ফল ধরে না একেবারে,
তোমার ওই     বাদল-বায়ে দিক জাগায়ে সেই শাখারে।
যা-কিছু          জীর্ণ আমার, দীর্ণ আমার, জীবনহারা,
তাহারি           স্তরে স্তরে পড়ুক ঝরে সুরের ধারা।
নিশিদিন          এই জীবনের তৃষার 'পরে, ভুখের 'পরে
শ্রাবণের          ধারার মতো পড়ুক ঝরে, পড়ুক ঝরে ॥















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Aaron Mannion Reviews An Anthology of Modern Irish Poetry

Irish

An Anthology of Modern Irish Poetry. Wes Davis, ed
Harvard University Press, 2013

The words you gathered then
Will live on in an alien tongue.
(Máirtin Ó Direáin, ‘Homage to John Millington Synge’)

Reviewing a publication like Wes Davis’s An Anthology of Modern Irish Poetry feels like an act of hubris, a rash attempt to sum up an entire culture in a few pages. This problem stems, in part, from the collection’s strength: comprehensiveness. Davis gathers together fifty-three Irish poets of the post-World War II era, apportioning significant space for each in this almost one thousand-page book. Continue reading

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Justin Clemens Reviews Poetry and the Trace

Poetry and the Trace

Poetry and the Trace
John Hawke and Ann Vickery, eds
Puncher & Wattmann, 2013

Sometimes irritating, often informative, occasionally incisive and sporadically genuinely interrogatory, the thoughtfulness evinced by (many of) the writings collected in Poetry and the Trace triggers further chains of association and dissociation. This is a genuinely critical collection in various senses of that word: at once analytic, hortatory, and urgent.

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2 Poems by Alla Gorbunova

Sonata Out of a Tin

1
o lord, I call on thee out of a tin:
make it blossom like Aaron’s rod
like gardens in tin rays and maples.

– I myself am made of tin
and everybody around is a tin clown.
generally I feel as if I were in a tank,
that is, in a tin.
in other words-
tough tinny!

I was wondering and thinking a silly nervous thought,
and not from within and not from the outside,
not from the outside and not from within,
and never understood anything.
and the silver fish died and wasn’t resurrected.
I should think up a cursed thought,
so that nobody else dies, but it seems that I won’t make it.

you so-so tin clowns,
why do you stop me from doing my
fiery work, my
true work, my
only work!

but what you, mechanical spirits, are doing
will end with the great invention of a tin-opener thing.

2
de profundis, as they say if you
smell tin flowers in a tin –
it’s like smelling flowers in a gas mask,
as they say in the SWAT team.

but when Mary descends
on tin clowns
and walks among them, pointing a gun –
I will be the first
to be shot.

You roll dice and gamble
with the devil-tinsmith, the sly pig,
who at the last moment, before the pull-off
will fling me with a smirk to the stake.

3
o lord, I call on thee from a tin,
make it bloom like David’s psalm –
like prayer and song.

– and with Your knife,
open it
and remove a sharp tin crown
from me,
and replace the hinges
with tendons.
blessed are they
who see knife wounds in the tin,
and tin wounds
on the knife face.


СОНАТА ИЗ КОНСЕРВНОЙ БАНКИ

1
господи, взываю к тебе из консервной банки:
вели ей жезлом аароновым расцвесть –
садами в жестяных лучах и клёнах.

– я и сам жестяной,
и все вокруг жестяные клоуны,
в общем дела у меня примерно, как в танке,
то есть как в консервной банке,
одним словом –
жесть.

гадал я и думал глупую нервную думу:
инутри иль извне,
извне иль изнутри,
так ничего и не понял.
серебряная рыбка умерла да и не воскресла.
должен я додумать проклятую думу,
чтобы больше никто не умер, а, кажется, не успею.

ах вы такие-сякие жестяные клоуны,
что вы мешаете мне делать мою работу
огненную, мою работу
истинную, мою работу
единственную!

но то, что вы вытворяете, механические барабашки,
кончится с великим открытием открывашки!

2
де профундис, как говорят, если ты
в консервной банке нюхаешь жестяные цветы, –
это как нюхать цветы в противогазе,
как говорят в спецназе.

но когда к жестяным клоунам
нисходит Мария
и проходит меж них, наставляя ружьё, –
я первый, кто
подойдёт под выстрел.

играешь Ты в кости и держишь пари
с чёртом-жестянщиком, ушлой свиньёй,
что в последний момент перед спуском курка
с ухмылкой закинет меня на выскирь.

3
господи, взываю к тебе из консервной банки:
вели псалмом давидовым ей цвесть –
мольбой и песнью.

– и Твоим ножом
открой её,
и жестяную острую корону
сними с меня,
и замени шарниры
на сухожилия.
блажен,
кто видит в банке раны ножевые,
но и от банки –
рану на ноже.


Vegetable Garden Song

— Fruit, vegetable and plant-growers, gardeners, ploughers, agricoles, peasants,
grab your spades and buckets, take us on,
dig for soup and winter preserves and market trading,
and you, granny, will sell us and buy a bottle of vodka,
and mummy will fry us on the frying pan, since
a new autumn is coming, and it’s harvest time:
we are ripe and our fruits are from the earth and soon to be food,
a new autumn is coming and so is a new time, –
may it be good.

The potato spirit was wandering over the potato field at night
and saw: potato wine spread out into four direction of the wind,
and in the ground the potatoes gazed with young eyes of gall,
and in all vegetable gardens they had a farewell ball,
a ball of autumn and last fruits, grown by man,
and in the New World genetically modified soybean
knew: its kingdom has come, and the plastic is melting,
a new autumn is coming and so is a new time,
and this is the last celebration.

The good old veggies: courageous courgettes, cool cucumber,
sturdy turnip, proud swede, and vegetable-growers, farmers,
old men and women of old earth and last gnomes
danced in a circle among garden-beds, from bare
good root-crops: the earth has given everything it had stowed,
all its juices and crops, all its love and power,
and they kissed each other good-bye in a dance of spades and buckets,
the courgette, the cucumber, the turnip and the proud swede,
Matthew, John and Pete.


ОГОРОДНАЯ ПЕСНЬ

— Огородники, дачники, садоводы, пахари, оратаи, крестьяне,
берите лопаты и вёдра, идите на нашего брата,
копайте для супа, и заготовок зимних, и торговли на рынке,
и ты, бабка, продашь нас и купишь бутылку водки,
а мамаша поджарит нас на сковородке, ибо
новая осень приходит, и время страды:
мы созрели и плоды наши от земли и съедобны,
новая осень приходит, и новое время,
да будет же оно добрым.

Дух картофеля ночью гулял на картофельном поле
и видел: раскинулась ботва на четыре стороны ветра,
а в земле картофель глядел молодыми очами,
и на всех огородах устроили бал прощанья,
осени и последних плодов, выращенных человеком,
а в Новом Свете генетически модифицированная соя
знала: пришло её царство, и плавится пластик,
новая осень приходит, и новое время,
и это последний праздник.

Но старые добрые овощи: кабачок кабацкий, огурец-молодец,
крепкая репка и славная брюква, и огородники, фермеры,
старики и старухи старой земли и последние гномы
водили хороводы среди грядок, от корнеплодов добрых
опустевших и голых: земля отдала всё, что было,
все соки свои и хлеба, всю любовь и силы,
и целовались прощально в пляске лопат и вёдр
кабачок, огурец, репка и славная брюква,
Матфей, Иоанн и Пётр.

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3 Poems by Menno Wigman


Photograph by Dolf Verlinden

Menno Wigman combines an almost classical aesthetic with contemporary sensibilities and rock-and-roll subject matter. Dense, metrical poetry about sex and vandalism, death and suburban garden centres. An essentially colloquial vocabulary raised to a higher level by judicious assonance and alliteration. As a translator I’m attracted to his passion and his dedication to craft, and I enjoy the challenge of trying to reproduce both the flow and depth of his work. Wigman is a translator himself and understands and respects the process, that makes collaboration easy. Although happy to explain and identify what he sees as the most crucial features of the original, he is never proscriptive about how I should attempt to attain equivalence in English. I look forward to working on more of his poems later this year.

Room 421

My mother’s falling apart. She lives in a closet,
not quite a coffin, where she wets her chair
and sits the same day out each day. A view 
of trees as well and in those trees are birds
and none of them know who they’re from. 

I’ve been her son for more than forty years
and visit her and don’t know who I see.
She read to me and tucked me in at night.
She stammers, falters, stalls. She’s falling apart.

Animals never think about their mothers.
I spoon some quivering mush into her mouth,
and tell myself she still knows who I am.

Blackbirds, probably. They keep on singing.
The call of the earth. From curse to curse, it’s heard.
Promesse de bonheur

Me in her bed and her stepping out of the shower. 
The way she goes through to the kitchen naked
is how my days will go from here on in. 
    
She hums a song and I am quickened in her bed. 
Infinitely awake, she is, and warm and soft and proud, 
and beautiful, so beautiful I can’t say how. 

It is a love that must. A miracle which will.
And everything I’ve ever longed for in a body 
is there before my eyes completely naked, 

naked and mine. The room’s still panting – lustful and wooden. 
The curl of her mouth, her strong and lofty mouth that’s made
for lips and pleasure, the curl of her mouth looks good.
Jeunesse dorée

I saw the best minds of my generation
   bleeding for revolts that didn’t come.
I saw them dreaming between the covers of books 
   and waking in a twenty-two-town hell,
ill-omened as the excised heart of Rotterdam.

I saw them swearing by a newfound drunkenness
   and dancing on the sea-bed of the night.
I saw them weeping for the cattle in the trams
   and praying under bright and glaring lights.

I saw them suffering from unrequited talent
   and speaking in agitated voices – 
if it had all been said before, not by them.

They came too late. Their promise unredeemed.
   The cities gleamed as black as caviar.
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5 Poems from Sergej Timofejev

He had a face that was in love,
it was already time to admit that he
was in love. In his hands was
a long umbrella and from the windows
the priests were observing him. The little girl
was thinking about her doll, and when
mama took her by the hand, she paid him
no attention. Mama said:
“Should we buy some ham,” and
headed for the shop. He was running,
bouncing and spinning on his axis;
for this reason he kept losing his way.
He was in love, although not one
girl he knew came
to mind; he laughed. He knew
that the weather would be splendid, as long as
this was what he wanted. And even if
he didn’t care, for some time
it would still be the same. The long umbrella
he waved overhead and put
in the vestibule. The night was deep blue, the day was
green, but the lips of his beloved were red,
like a strawberry; he whistled and walked,
congratulating himself. Yes, his beloved
must be splendid; he wrote his friend
an entire letter about this and inserted it into a magnificent
envelope. His friend would be delighted and send
greetings: a postcard with a little violinist
on a lamp-lit street. 


Nightmares.
Globes.
Of lead.
Their smooth slide to the south.
Where there’s an oasis, a library,
A building with cool darkened rooms,
A person speaking an incomprehensible guttural language,
A woman whose face is formed of twenty overlapping photographs.
With a hollow knock
The globes
Roll across the horizon line,
But that one is rotating
Like a glass door
That’s inscribed:
“Keep moving”.
Most frightening of all
Is the pointlessness
Of everything that’s happening.


What I know of Paris is this
photograph of the insides
of a coffee cup.
We see here several Argentinians.
They are amiably conversing, paying no
attention to the owner of the establishment
dead for the last fifteen minutes.
Eventually there appears
a long-haired woman with a bag
over her shoulder. She takes from it
the proofs of an article on theatre and magic.
I go up and lead her away
through the emergency exit.
On the square are several pigeons
and policemen. I know
this won’t take long.
I strangle her in one of the cluttered corridors.
Her body falls. Her wondrous hair
covers her face.
All historians in previous lives
had dealings with psychiatry.


The bicyclist is riding a bicycle.
With a patter, the plaster is crumbling.
Wild grapes coil round the balconies.
Old Giuseppe is wheeling a barrow full of tomatoes.
Several paupers suddenly have a cigar apiece.
They light up; dark blue smoke envelops their wrinkled stubble.
The policeman asks: What’s the time?
Anna, bronzed as ever, flirtatiously greets Giuseppe.
Paolo drives up in an automobile, gets out with a bundle of newspapers
in hand, slams the door, blows a kiss to Anna,
greets Giuseppe with a wave of the hand, goes up the stairs
to the house, slams the door.
The paupers again have a cigar apiece.
The policeman is studying his reflection in the greengrocer’s window.
Pushing a cart and praising his wares the ice cream man passes by.
The paupers have formed a circle; on the sly they curse and pull faces.
Giovanni is leading a little girl by the hand, ginger-curled Tina in a straw hat trimmed with bright ribbon.
They have just bought the hat in the little shop round the corner.
The sun is shining, the birds chirping, flying from rooftop to rooftop.
A light breeze ruffles the hem of Anna’s cotton dress.
The policeman asks once again: What time is it?
Anna and the paupers laugh, Tina takes a mirror and begins
To make sun bunnies.
Once again the plaster crumbles.


Joe Dassin

Joe Dassin entered every home,
Danced with every housewife,
Revealed to every tired man
That golden times were still to come,
There, on Elysian Fields.
He’d put on white slacks and white shoes,
A white shirt open at the chest,
Leave the house early in the morning and not return
Until deepest night, and sometimes
Disappear for days on end.
He would sing, and sing, and sing, slowly letting
Everything slide back into place, everything that was ready to collapse
And already beginning to totter. He wrapped beating
Things such as women’s hearts in soft scarves
And kerchiefs. And constantly wiped the dust from
All the gramophones on the planet. In intervals
That were short, too short, he would fly to the Côte
d’Azur and run into the sea, in a leopard-print swimsuit.
And then hastily rub himself dry, finish a cigarette
And with a quick step make for his private jet,
Already repeating, lips kneading the first lines
Which would turn into the flesh of all forgiveness.
And people would turn on their gramophones, televisions,
Radio receivers, and everywhere he was needed.
And even his death no one took for real.
“Sing!” they told him, “Sing!” And he – slow,
curly haired, with sideburns – he drew close
even in non-existence, and implored, implored:
“Put your heart back into place.
Don’t break it.”

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Paul Magee Interviews Forrest Gander


Image from PEN America

‘Evening covers their shadows, your / eyes cut the evening.’ Forrest Gander was born in Barstow, California in 1956 and raised in Virginia. His books of poems include Core Samples from the World (2011), Eye against Eye (2005), Torn Awake (2001) and Science & Steepleflower (1998). ‘Wind- / blown sands scarf the road.’ Ranging from verse to prose poem, novel and essay, Gander’s work includes travel writing and reflection on geology. Continue reading

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James Merrill House and Its Disembodied Transmissons


Image courtesy of The New Yorker

Wherefore

a grave, deliberate
Glissando of the cup towards the rainbow’s end:
ABCDEFGHIJKLMNOPQRSTUVWXYZ
DJ.        What’s all this?
JM.        Looks like the alphabet.
Gabr.    THE NEW MATERIALS, YOUNG POET, FOR A NEW FAITH:
              ITS ARCHITECTURE, THE FLAT WHITE PRINTED PAGE
              TO WHICH WILL COME WISER WORSHIPPERS IN TIME
                                                                     (Merrill, The Changing Light 446)

Like some piece of technicolour cover-art from a 1950s mystery novel, James Merrill’s Stonington apartment loomed in the background as I stepped out of the gutter-snow and onto the street. I was wearing a bright red coat; the apartment matched the slate-blue winter sky. From the outside, the poet’s house felt as gorgeous and twee as everything else in this tiny – dare I say quaint – fishing village. Continue reading

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Velimir Khlebnikov and ‘Displacement’ as Poetics

For Khlebnikov, the theoretical foundation does not exactly sum up his aesthetics and ideas, but is more of a code to slovotvorchestvo (Futurist ‘word creation’), where ‘languages will remain for art and will be freed from a humiliating burden, [that] we are tired from hearing.’ Introducing the idea of language as a benign and malleable force sans frontiers, Khlebnikov does not seem confined to the landscape of the urban, industrial aesthetics usually associated with Futurism. Literary parallelism, for him, is not only between the gentrified, combustive energy of cities, but can also be exchanged and melded through national folk motifs, elements, allusions and linguistic borrowings.

In trying to determine this accentuation of defamiliarisation (ostraneniye) in Khlebnikov’s world, it is important to explore the idea of ‘the word as such’, where the word itself is an object, evoking the possibility to refer to everything that hasn’t yet been proposed, as signage to a copious relation between one thing and another. The linguistic sign represents what is unsaid: an univocal identity of meaning; the illicit and repressed are the attempt of the unconscious of language to voice itself – in itself an impossibility. Khlebnikov’s word-experiments – for example the misleading use of suffixes and prefixes forming from the same root words, the invention of neologisms, or his attempts to create new Russian terms in exchange for long-borrowed foreign terms – all bring about a sense of defamiliarisation with poetic language. His experiments were a serious attempt to recreate a psychotropic world of folklore with the means of high art: a mediation between fairy tales (skazki), folk culture, the cosmopolitan, a blur of intertextual allusions from the world’s literary canon, as well as the languages that comprise world culture.

Khlebnikov was also devoted to the rational, ‘scientific’ relations of the word, confounding any element of emotion. He created mathematical systems to determine the secreted meaning of individual letters within the alphabet and, in one essay, he makes a distinction between ‘the language of general understanding’ (yazik ponimanie) and ‘the language of trans-reason’ (zaumnyi yazik) to prove that his quasi-equations are actual eternal structures to language. (He also surveyed the different consonant sounds in other languages to prove that these structures existed other than in Russian.) Like Balmont, Khlebnikov was fascinated by ‘the primitive stage of language’1, bringing this pre-verbal manner to the Russian language and to Russian poetics, creating a poetic revolution. Poetics would not only become strange by returning to Slavic folk motifs and elements but also by returning to the root of language. Khlebnikov’s word formations raised the level of objectification that could be utilised in Russian grammar and vocabulary in order to create an unexpected aspect of sound to the ear, to haul out the eternal mystery within language itself, stripping it back to its barest bones of groundless, arbitrary meaning.

Khlebnikov’s notion of the ‘word as such’ is an attempt to discover this ‘something’ intrinsic to language itself – perhaps language itself being zaum. ‘Zaum’ was a poetic attempt by Khelbnikov and Alexander Kruchenikh to create a universal language, where a bodily function, an expression of emotion, or any other phenomenon could be expressed by the hyperbolic usage of a word. Zaum was a revolutionary practice to rupture language by going back to the materiality of the word, taking it beyond itself to a pre-foetal and timeless state. It was created at a time that the culture itself was on the verge of war and revolution at the beginning of the 20th century. By emphasising an unusual register of words and their relations to one another, Khlebnikov has evoked insight into the world of words: this infinite poetics and the internal networks within language to unite people all over the world is a concept echoed in many of Khlebnikov’s essays. It is not only his theoretical assertions, but also his baffling semantic structures, which elucidate a mural of soundshapes (‘zvukopis’), which widen and decentre the scope of play abundant with personifications, accents, and obsolete Russian words.

In Lacan’s theory of subjectivity, the self is necessarily divided, intertwining with that which (or whomever) is believed to be other to itself: the Self cannot see itself except through the agency of the other. In his essays from the collection Four Fundamental Concepts of Psychoanalysis, Lacan introduces the concept of vision and how internal it is to the structure of our desire and our perception of the desired other. ‘The Gaze’ is an opening; it is not a singular act of observing in a quasi-Kantian model: in Lacanian terms, the concept of the gaze is a point of loss and a series of relations. This relation to things is where ‘something slips, passes, is transmitted, from stage to stage, and is always to some degree eluded in it – that is what we call the gaze’.2

This consolidation and loss of self via the gaze is a construct that benefits readings of poems such as ‘Ra’, whom we find ‘seeing his own eye in the red swamp/ contemplating his dream and himself.’ The poem puts forward the question: who is Ra really looking at? The fixation on others, the hallucinogenic relations that sprout from each and every gaze in the poem – ‘a thousand eyes of the Volga,’ which somehow subsume one eye, although it is not clear whose, by this stage. These malleable notions of the self and how they co-exist between elements, gods, and folkloric motifs require a psychoanalytic tool of interpretation in order to lead to an interrogation of the notion of the self, unfolding as it does in the poems.

Lacan’s essay ‘Subversion of the Subject and the Dialect of Desire’ in Ecrits also provides a theoretical conception of the desiring subject, one in which I frame readings of the speaking ‘I’ in the Persian poems. The representation of subjectivity as shaped by a projection of otherness in the poem can thus be related to the idea of Lacanian desire.

Khlebnikov’s notion of culture is itself not entirely Euro-centric or Russo-centric: culture is something transitional, a declamation of primordial world revolting against the destruction of ‘bourgeois society’ Although Khlebnikov was nurtured by the Futurists’ leap to reveal, defy and invade the unknown and the unexpected, his extraordinary articles, passages and poetic references were devoted to the expressive possibilities that other cultures and languages could bring to the poetic revolution of the Russian language, thus transcending other Futurists in this regard. In order to analyse and understand Khlebnikov’s work, there has to be some understanding of his ideas of language and culture, and his attempts to apply these concepts in his poems.

The fundamental concept of the materiality of the word central to Khlebnikov’s poetics requires clarification. In determining this materiality of the word becoming the space of the word (‘the word as such’ as theorised by Khlebnikov), which is not fully formed, we are led to a poetics of ‘displacement’: where language, words, units, morphemes and syllables are not autonomous, but a space. (For an example of which, Khlebnikov coined the term ‘soundshape’ (zvukopis), which is always in a flux of multiplicity and displaced from its familiar, clichéd usage.)

In order to define ‘displacement’ and why it is utilised in the analysis of the works of Khlebnikov, Deleuze and Guittari’s notion of the ‘rhizome’ has been drawn upon, as it is a theoretical construct that assumes the diverse forms of language as a chain of actions, an event ceaselessly ‘othered’, a channel open to change. Their method of the rhizome is conceived of as a weed of multiplicity, infinite in dimension, encompassing subject and object, image and world, and holding the potential possibilities of signification projected within language. The rhizome is depicted as a series of connections, lines and flights, envisioned by the authors as a valid variation to the standard, binary logic that has dominated Western thought.

By advocating the rhizome as a metaphor for ‘displacement’ within Khlebnikov’s poetics, I will elaborate on the scheme of the rhizome in terms of Khlebnikov’s notion of ‘the word as such’ (slovo kak takovo) as a poetic of displacement and the specific mythopoeia of Khlebnikov that is also one of displacement. In each of these areas, displacement has occurred as a diversity of forms of representation within the word; its related concepts are structured as a configuration of the language of possibility and of otherness central to his poetic experiments as depicted by the concept of the rhizome.

In the poetics of Khlebnikov, language is the very otherness that is a metaphor for displacement. The idea of displaced meaning – a displacement of a unified, autonomous meaning – is outlined in the following extract, where a dialogue between a student and teacher is created to convey the materiality of language in order to substantiate his own poetic excavations. (The dialogue itself is complete with meta-narrative; as it comments on the nature of this literary form itself, it is reminiscent of Plato’s dialogues and attempts to reconfigure the form of dialogues as we have understood them since Socrates, thus reintroducing the form to the avant-garde.)

The dialogue explores the role of words’ internal materiality, as the student is indignant that his philological findings demonstrate that the perimeters of meaning are within a word and are dependent on certain conditions. These conditions, as demonstrated by the internal variation of vowels, are diverse and not independent: they rely on what is both absent and present (as the student asserted with the example of a bald spot and a tree trunk). Conditions of language are exposed to conditions beyond what is present: in Khlebnikov’s poetic world, words have a displaced relationship to what they represent. There is an attempt to cleanse language of its unnatural, static and tired references, and reject the ‘common’ associations of words, which are an artificial and arbitrary construct.

Although this is somewhat speculative, the point can be made that Khlebnikov’s poetics of displacement may have been influenced by his probing into foreign languages. The idea of an ‘internal declension’ is nothing new in terms of Semitic languages. For example, this can be illustrated by the Arabic root verb ka-ta-ba (to read). If it is declined internally, it could mean kitaab (book), kaatib (writer), kutubu (books), etc. As short vowels are generally not written in Arabic, meaning is gathered by context. This visualisation of an internal declining system may have appealed to Khlebnikov, as the idea of visualisation was rather impertinent to Futurism and the absence of the vowel may have had an impact on him. Similarly, the presence of radicals and homophonous logographic characters in Chinese (symbols for words that sound alike but have different semantic meanings) may have also had an influence on the poet, given the ‘visualness’ of these languages.

From the play, Zangezi, Khlebnikov’s improvisations are realised by formulating words with the Russian root ‘um’ (‘mind’) in order to overturn both conventional and unconventional prefixes, affixing to the root word meanings that do not exist, but within the rules of language could be possible, thus displacing the meaning of ‘um’ as it is usually perceived. Khlebnikov’s linguistic developments also represent the possibility of becoming a poetic in itself – an otherness that exists within language. This displacement calls into question the notion of poetic language as a form, rather than as a substance – a protest against semantic conditioning. Like the rhizome, it is a system of relations, as any prefix in Russian can be applied to the root word.

In his notes on the play, Khlebnikov explains this elaborate system and what could essentially be seen as the destruction of a standard language as we know it. As if on exhibition, the root word begins to lack definition: with the prefix ‘v’, it is explained as ‘an invention’. Un-love of what is old leads to ‘vyum’. Or the letters ‘Go’ can be explained, as noted in the play, ‘high as those trinkets of the sky, the stars, which aren’t visible during the day.’ From fallen lords (gosudari in Russian) ‘Go’ takes the dropped staff. ‘Noum’ and ‘Daum’, with their common meanings of ‘No’ and ‘Da’ (‘but’ and ‘yes’ in Russian), signify the argumentative and the affirmative assigned to the mind. The mind is a key to refer to in terms of Khlebnikov’s poetics: the principle of Zaum, trans-sense, or literally ‘beyond-mind’ (za in Russian meaning ‘beyond’), is central to how the Futurists were informed and inspired by language construction and how word-creations existed as form and not only as technique, revealing unexplored norms of poetic language. Like the rhizome, the word ‘um’ is a world – and a word – unto itself.

Already, the life of the word – and the forms it could take – is the essence of poetry: an idea that could arguably be said to have formulated the poetics of Futurism. Significantly, this essence, the life of the word, is the key to the history of a people, which here could also be in opposition to the past, on in confluence with it – a life ‘detachable, connectable, reversible, modifiable, and [that] has multiple entryways and exits and its own line of flights’.3 The power of poetry is to unlock that life, which exists in opposition to the past as it is, and should be expanded and opened to the present.

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Speaking Geographies: Collaboration Over Distance

When in transit and upon receipt, to whom does a postcard and its contents belong? This is one of the questions at the forefront of Speaking Geographies, a collaborative poetry collection by Siobhan Hodge and Rosalind McFarlane. This collection, composed entirely on postcards, in letters and via email, is focused not only on the act of sending and receiving poetry, but also how these poems can be reinvented and rewritten according the perceptions of the reader. The collection comprises not only of poems that have physically been sent across great distances; it also thematically engages with and challenges notions of symbolic distance, such as the socio-economic and environmental politics of travel and place.

Processes of transmission and interpretation, resulting in the creation of multiple layers of voices and experience, are unpacked in a series of variously structured poems. Played out in a range of international settings, with a particular focus on linguistic and travel-based imagery, the collection appears to be predominantly free verse poetry, but each piece is located within a particular theoretical scope and technical approach, often based on different schemas for layering the poets’ voices.

In Speaking Geographies, both poets examine and problematise ideas of writing in a range of different geographic locations, then rewriting or refiguring each other’s works. Rather than being straightforward ‘travel’ poems, these collaborative poems are focused on the means and repercussions of exchanging poems written in a variety of settings and from a range of points of view. This pervading focus on interpretation offers room for multiple ownerships of voice and experience, as well as building a subtle form of écriture féminine, via the two female poets’ creation of a separate space for critique and discussion of personal experiences as well as broader themes, situations, and ideas.

Central to this project is a fluid concept of poetic identity and authority. Although some pieces can be immediately aligned with one poet in particular, others are much harder to pinpoint, and occasionally pieces have been constructed with intentionally misleading ‘signature’ techniques. Ownership is not affixed, yet the voices of both poets encompass the entire collection, expanding into multiple points of view. This mirrors the process by which the collection has been constructed; sending poems via letters and postcards leaves the work subject to loss and damage, as well as contentious claims of ownership.

In our discussion here, core theoretical issues confronted in this collaboration are highlighted, with particular reference to heterotextuality, issues of territoriality and gender. In addition, illustrative close readings of several main poems will be provided.


Close Readings: Bodies and Space

Speaking Geographies also contains many poems that examine the processes and implications of transferring bodies from one place to another, often depersonalising individual composite body parts, yet consistently articulating clear narrative voices. A pair of linked poems, ‘Crossing in Real Time’ and ‘Crossing the Real’, as well as the collection’s titular poem, ‘Speaking Geographies’, demonstrate some of these central ideas in two very different forms.

Crossing in Real Time’ and ‘Crossing the Real’ are described as ‘response poems’; one collaborator sent the first poem by letter to the second, who echoed its style. The poems are structurally and thematically similar, with slight focal deviations.

The poems are posed as a question and answer, and though ostensibly these mailed-off poems have made the desired connection, both remain structurally disjointed. There is also no consensus on how best to proceed; one speaker asserts a pessimistic outcome, and the questioner has no chance to reply. The central ‘we’ in the first poem poses questions around grammatical stretches and structural manipulations, while the answering ‘we’ is much more restricted. ‘Crossing in Real Time’ is concerned with how the speaker and listener may converse across languages, specifically via grammar, while also making coy references to the Tsing Ma Bridge in Hong Kong. The respondent, replying in ‘Crossing the Real’, maintains the questioner’s preoccupation with being able to communicate, but makes no attempt to reply in the same form, which combines with the stronger sense of pessimism to foreshadow a loss of voice and ability to share these concerns.

Human bodies are less pressured in ‘Crossing in Real Time’ than in ‘Crossing the Real’. The speaker in the form recognises some potential need for adaptation, reflected in the line ‘perhaps we must breathe — this —spine’, breaking up words and preparing to shift ‘arch—well into each in— / bet—wee—n’. The willingness of these contortions is transformed into compulsion in ‘Crossing the Real’, in which the proposed act of breathing is now a ‘lung squeeze’. Willingness and possibilities are swapped for terms of revision and restriction. The optimism of the former poem is countered by heaver, metallic imagery that intrudes upon living bodies, as both speaker and listener are unequivocally ‘steel shanked and pinioned’. Inanimate objects take on human traits, and the speaker anticipates suppression, but observes that this is self-created.

These two poems foreshadow several of the issues that recur throughout the collection: the ability to speak and to listen, and how these transmissions can be interrupted. ‘Speaking Geographies’ represents the next stage of this otherwise pessimistic outlook, generating a space in which narratives can be naturally overlapped so that there is no need for ‘bridging’. Structurally, ‘Speaking Geographies’ is a multi-layered postcard poem, starting out as a postcard poem sent by one collaborator to the other, and then gratuitously reworded by both collaborators back-and-forth. The initial solo status of the piece is signalled in the first eight lines, but is then collapsed into ‘we’ as the shared memory is divided up and transformed into new narratives:

Speaking Geographies


To write you
postcard leaves and a record,
I looked to sea - you
reflected. This place is 
you in mountain song,
now crouched in bricks, then fretworks
palmed like playing cards. Each breath
seals stamps, sends me south.
We are space uninvested. Take
this instead, knitting narratives 
over migratory seas that we may
bind our stories. Bone-deep 
hankering within storyline maps:
to write our realist fictions we must
placate these pages, ink our dripping fingers,
circumnavigate sealed teeth and we all
go together -
evolving in ever more salvaged directions.

The opening speaker then transfers ownership of the poem and its referenced memories to a communal holding, as the rest of the piece is phrased as a plural experience. ‘Speaking Geographies’ leads to ‘uninvesting’ both as a form of literary currency and permitting a broader narrative to take place, shifting from the wholly personal experience of the opening lines to a broader process of transmission and interpretation. In addition, the poem sets up the collection as inherently connected with the highly contested term ‘world literature’, focusing on the processes and implications of dissemination rather than the notion of a ‘centre’ or ‘periphery’, circulating within or for a particular readership, nationality, or cultural identity. The anti-materialist nature of the poem is tied into the notion of salvage and recycling. These moves articulate the rest of the collection’s focus on creating such spaces, built on shared memories and reworked narratives, to extend criticisms and also to generate a sense of mutually beneficial communal ownership, though not without its problems.

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Terrance Houle and Adrian Stimson: Performative Gestures from the Canadian Prairies


Terrance Houle | Urban Indian #7, 2007

Italo Calvino argued that writing was a combinatorial exercise and that, for him, reading represented ‘a way of exercising the potentialities contained in the system of signs’. I would like to keep this declarative at the forefront of our investigation into the work of Terrance Houle, neither with a confirmative bias not leaning towards negating the statement of Calvino, but thinking through his statement in our analysis of a few of Houle’s images. Continue reading

Posted in ARTWORKS, ESSAYS | Tagged , , ,

E is for Errand (East Coast of Africa)

Introduction

‘E is for Errand’ is an extract from the draft of a libretto named The Bones of the Epic. As it stands, it is a work from regress – not in progress. Regress because the current text is a portion half-way. The Bones of the Epic is half-way to what it will be: a script for a puppet master (Delfim Miranda), translator/convener (Miguel Martins) and Lisbon noise band (A Favola da Madusa) – to make of it what they will.

Continue reading

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Truth Beauty

‘…truth beauty…’ – this is the second half. The first is: ‘Beauty is truth.’ So again, or still – Keats’s ‘Ode on a Grecian Urn’ – and the rest: ‘that is all / Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know.’1 Thus a poem about truth and beauty, and beauty and truth, knowledge and need, mortality and friendship, the Greeks and us, urns and poetry – among other things.

Continue reading

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Feature Poem with Judith Beveridge: Cocky Farming

Robert Frost once said about writing poetry, ‘You gotta get dramatic’. Caroline Ross’s poem, ‘Cocky Farming’ dramatically enacts the hardship, fight and struggle that can beset Australian farmers, the worst foes being harsh weather and unsympathetic banks. I enjoyed the way the poet comes at her subject matter from an aerial view, looking down upon the landscape and noticing all that is happening over a wide vista. The tone and shifting perspectives in the poem are mainly what deliver the drama, as does the imagistic acuity. Her selection of details creates a compelling sense of the futile endeavour of trying to make a living when faced with immutable forces. The hardship extends also to birds and plants. A terrific touch in the poem is the vernacular use of the term ‘cockies’, so that the birds mentioned in stanza one seamlessly transfer over into farmers: ‘Cockies fight against/ the sun, the wind, the Banks, all threatening/ to snatch away the living/ clawed and scratched each day// from basalt rock.’ The word ‘cocky’ is also not without a certain irony.

The quintessentially Australian flavour of this poem is a highlight and the contrast with English farms gives added intensity. Towards the end of the poem, the long panning shots give way to a more intimate focus, and the image of the farmer holding a grand-child’s ‘tiny hand’ is moving and poignant. I also enjoyed the way the short and long lines seem to imitate and embody the visual movement of the poem from wide to closer perspectives. The voice is strong, authoritative, convincing. – JB

Cocky Farming


White cockatoos swoop 
down from morning’s unsuspecting dawn 
and land, as if one wing, in the eucalypt.

Dirt’s brown odour floats 
up from caked, cracked earth while what will later 
be a scorching sun 

rises above the roses . 
Mulberry trees extend their hands 
one to the other, seeking 

shade even from the dawn.
In England, farms have sheds snuggled neatly 
to the side of great estate homes. 

Inside these huts, machinery 
is hidden by labourers who sharpen, oil, 
and maintain the country idyll’s 

image guarded by generations’ mute 
agreement; owner, farmer, worker, serf.
Australia’s country life

is less genteel, the homestead’s haunted
by a bleakness born of desperation. 
Cockies fight against 

the sun, the wind, the Banks, all threatening 
to snatch away the living 
clawed and scratched each day 

from basalt rock. Here, machinery 
rusts in yards, vegetable gardens are bordered 
by fences invented from dented cans 

filled up with cement and steel posts 
like prison walls built to keep out goannas. 
Low crawling vines sacrifice 

rockmelons’ babies to shrivel 
in the dawn; decoys they hope will distract predators 
while the mother ship 

hides many more under fat 
green leaves growing close to the ground.
In the end, all of this is just a place 

for the elderly farmer to show 
the grand kids; a place to hold a tiny hand 
and deliver sermons on the way 

of things in this country, a wisdom
bequeathed from his life of holding back the dragons 
of sun and wind and Banks.
Posted in GUNCOTTON | Tagged ,

Crossing the Real

Each step is                                                   measured
	       in                      potential
thrust rivets                                                  twist and divide		all strain

		                        banks curve away, harshness
of lines			                       ascend from hours                        lung squeeze 

we span                                                                         miles                                   all centred 
	     floats                                    ghosting ferryways                       shift territory

we revise borders                                            steel shanked and pinioned
passage guarantees                                          gale force intrusions		     all sway
is passive.

Function over form                                          we touch
waves		        through openings		                                  slats under car bellies
suspension of held breath					                                                               count all seconds
	      childish fear of			
                                                                                            falling		
we reach other sides                                        then assemble new doors

to restrict access.
Posted in 63: COLLABORATION | Tagged ,

Crossing in Real Time

How should we perform this act of 
                                                                         - connection - 
			                                                            	                         ?
    	      Belief and bridges:
                                            ( a journey of suspension but the supports )
                                                                                        are a dissipating concave into this dragon
                                                                                        harbour.

Can we cantilever ^ this ^ uprising?
                                           Or perhaps we must breathe — this — spine
                                                                                                     and arch—well into each in—bet—
                                                                                                     wee—n.

We will break no new ground here
                                                              x
                                                               but these letters can fly
                                                                                                           o
                                                                                                                     and even vaults are built with
                                                                                         doors.
Posted in 63: COLLABORATION | Tagged ,

Samurai

Miyata protects the village

another blood splatters on the pebbledashing
an abrupt and to the cowards
scrolling through his phone optics
publicly
you cannot use this death
in your new advertising campaign
black stool water
chants the voices of the Congo
helicopterred, interred
with cherry blossom
“now peace has come to our land”
because of Miyati’s swordsmanship
as only a dominance of force so complete
that is endangers overflowing
can bring love to these odorous




Miyata encounters the 15 vexations

1. the persistence of the stain after the fact
2. abandoned in the face of an undefined duty
3. loosed footing amongst the chatter.
4. Presently, the earth offers no cloistered respite,
5. no cessation nor no practical form.
6. Try the unrequited love of all landscapes
7. or bismuth subsalicylate.
8. A survey of the variants
9. preoccupied in the popular imagination.
10. Of course, in this instance, for this is the season.
11. Broke out
12. because of what was brought to it,
13. the sheer excess of office supplies
14. another line of work
15. his.




Miyata brings mercy to the crippled

a sound of jug from the jugband
air the sword whistles splits
Miyati is eeling the foolish into bits
donning a cloak of wound cleansing maggots
& with larvae bore electric
chasing screen to throat
a high pitch battle wool
& then weeps
having chopped epileptics
into rope dust
before he even realised
sipping divine caviar he plans to
be less direct & kill illegally
from now on




Miyata clocks in

How hunky he
looks over lunch.
The span
of Mickey’s hands, demarcation
of the hour. Almost over
he joins us, making mega-boss
deals on the Far East. The curt
Miyata, stock drift on an ocean
of aqua battle wool. Bunched in
and alert to the sensation of shrinkage.
Retained in wads
under-arm,
now sledding on through a
mountain range.

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40 Feet

ten minutes having Everything again asleep in the chair
let’s think of this being
at the cough edge of space
in the grand tradition of double acts
you and I Steven
something many would
not even call pornography

& soaked
in wave
after wave of kerb water from a bastard bus
another
miniature emperor arrives at Gatwick

already I am back, looking to see if I regret
my first
poems, that is the nature of anger
new subject matter:
we could become, but they would notice
if there are reading at all
on giants, on grief
on the sad chance of a meeting the second
when you barely have begun the first
there are giants of regret
taking sheep & goat in their hands
mashed bones a dead hippie in a jungle
plane crash minced into one matter
a lost love you know died starving
& without you loveless furious
holding the busham
before slamming a human head
into a brassbarrail & being lucky
it didn’t crack its brain like a giant’s egg
an angry thief made up of hate steals
milks soothes flat finger bones
wood a natures graves for babies Russian
soft in the looking up light, hurting piled

I’ll heal you by thinking about you

counting down the allotted
heartbeats still most of everything
t o g o
the new young Joseph Buys
to wrap in automatic
Tasmanian honey and kitchen roll

when we were better, getting on in
a one legged horse allowed to live
dragging itself across sand
for competition and then the electronic
list of the missing
broke our hearts
now everything’s big, everybody’s mother
is bluer than blue, whiter than white
privileged as a dip in the car thief fame and muscling up
for money
sounds like a good deal to me
when I’ve become wealthy
I’m bound to be calmest
said a Giant, currently fashionable
if the screaming doesn’t end by sunday
we’ll call a doctor, said the elephant
fresh through the ice
sea lined marrow of fish
of misinformation cleared like paraded
grounded I’m welcome
I don’t want to know

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Oil

The roughneck didn’t care who’s oil it was
he just hated the midnight sun. The toolpusher
hated the sea, and the drill went down
regardless, as the ocean never met the sun.

& at this break in the tail oil, the oil
is called back into its drum
the cylinder steel mask of a northern Oni baba
where North embarrasses
its own deployment hundreds of miles below
terror as houses became unaffordable
because of pressured fossiled compressing
a woman in a bed is transferred to a wheelchair

The derrickman on the monkey board
was tripping pipe when he saw a humpback
whale in the water below. The derrickman
whistled mississippi. The humpback sang
his own song, and the drill continued
regardless, as the ocean never met the sun.

the poor are thirsty, feed them, he said to his aides
he was heard overheard saying, not a stupid man,
but his lies never did put a strain on his hearing
he had the strength to laugh to the end as most terrible people do
he laughed loudest when reminiscing the young crowd dispersion,
the horses baking or his pranks.
piercing barrels shaped shipping, or industry pierced
a few days ago I was listening to the gentle tide of the North sea
now, if the black gets in again, I’m leaving

The roustabout has magic in his brain, a synaesthesia
hears ancient forests in the oil on his fingertips
sees sunlight in viscous dark. All of history is present
the continual line is circular, like in the north, where
the ocean never meets the sun.

What is latticed on the common is the fact if the crude being made o
the deadest things compressed, some were animals
wait till the animal is dead before you eat it
make sure your love is awake before you have sex with it
even if the timing o the children
mournful altar architect is sleepless, them sleeping
rolls over upon its partner imagines it’s America
don’t imagine any freedom oer than that
we the Baptists gave to build a sanctuary of moods
(for if they won’t understand)
I’ve experience in museums & can man the desk

the chainhand stood above the moon pool
and cursed the money he couldn’t let go
he thought of his daughter, wished
for energy in the wind, as the ocean
never met the sun.

a long drop it was to see the chain undone
above him, but fall it did & what hard will
were to be discovered knowing now the tricks
poetry of a man with no legs whose only
wy to making were pulling things from
out of the sea, a cough too that lingered
won’t leave, spitting black hank into a
banana peel

bell nipple, big bear, blow out, cold vent
core sample, drill sting, the floorhand
ran these words over his tongue, and felt
metal in his mouth. (Fish: any object
unintentionally dropped into the wellbore)
The floorhand spat into the wellbore.

the bear named for a terror
oil caked put still at the praising lids
not even a hair to wash his hands
when men in swarms part for another’s
entry on an oil rig, son, you know he were
a hard man, a cut too manipulated
a footage of a flighty walking into the snow
as though were a suicide, and not a hood run
searched out for a certaindistance
a jack shell put into the sky to keep the bear back
the dogs get mauled, but not hurt
Svalbard skulltooth, a neck stroke clinch
that killed a boy, but the bear’s still dead nae
better off than the crudebear, oilbjorn
floorved, who wheels himself abound

the floorhand spits fish into the wellbore
the chainhand stands above the moon pool
the roustabout sees sunlight in viscous dark
the derrickman whistles mississippi
and the drill goes down regardless, as the ocean
never meets the sun.

Posted in 63: COLLABORATION | Tagged ,

1000 proverbs

A Canadian pharmacy is never understocked.
A horse cannot join the mounted police.
A flap of skin need not always be sewn.
A stitch in time saves an otter’s pocket.
A clown’s pocket is full of tricks.
Never offer to clean a clown’s shoes.
A clown is like a bubble, one prick and it’s gone.
Never pass wind in a bubble car.
Never wind a car in a bubble.
In a hearse, there are no back seat drivers.
Sometimes medicine tastes bad, but you have to swallow it.
The bitterest pill tastes nice with cider.
No man is River Island.
There is no point shoplifting in Aldi.
Tesco Value is always valued.
We are all as individual as individual fruit pies.
Eating a pie from McDonalds is like going to a butcher’s for a prostitute.
There is nothing more satisfying than a sausage.
Don’t trust a man inviting you to swim in his bath.
Never trust a man who shares his loofah.
Never wash in a public toilet.
You can take a horse to the toilet, but only in Cumbria.
Don’t eat cheese in a hot spring.
As a lady has wiles, so the Swiss have innumerable cheeses.
A Romanian lady need not be feared.
There is always a man in Romania.
There are mountains in the Ukraine.
Never show a chicken a map of Kiev.
To have egg on your face is not nice.
Don’t put all of your eggs in a rucksack.
Don’t put all your eggs in one bastard.
Better an egg today than an egg nog tomorrow.
Better Butlin’s than a Russian prison.
Better a scarf in Skegness than rubber gloves in Minehead.
Better a wrestler in the vale than in Bognor Regis.
Better a bugger in Bognor than a penis in Penistone.
Better buggered in Athens than in Sparta.
Even the Greek gods smash their plates.
Nyan nyan nyan nyan nyan nyan nyan nyan nyan nyan nyan nyan nyan nyan.
There is nothing more dramatic than a chipmunk.
This is madness. Madness? This is Sparta.
Even green fingers do not belong in salad.
A salad a day to world peace beckoning.
French dressing does not make you a musketeer.
Muskets are not just for the mustard.
A musket in public, a blunderbuss in private.

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la dominate

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