He was a wise man who invented beer. ~Plato..................
[ Best Brown Ale ; Bell's Brewery, Kalamazoo, MI ]....................


A Poem- for October 
An undone majuscule
from extant experience
while spectral shadow
inlay of today contends 
lowercase falling sun,
minor southwest index
spryly melodic, usher
for threshold moods 
curling on suggested
angles of light, scandent
red vines, serrate turns
midway to plenilune ash, 
memory that no longer
knows to remember,
breezeful passing only
of its own complexion. 


Our bodies are wild. The involuntary quick turn of the head at a shout, the vertigo at looking off a precipice, the heart-in-the-throat in a moment of danger, the catch of the breath, the quiet moments relaxing, staring, reflecting - all universal responses of this mammal body . . . The body does not require the intercession of some conscious intellect to make it breathe, to keep the heart beating. It is to a great extent self-regulating, it is a life of its own. The world is our consciousness, and it surrounds us. There are more things in the mind, in the imagination, than 'you' can keep track of - thoughts, memories, images, angers, delights, rise unbidden. The depths of the mind, the unconscious, are our inner wilderness areas, and that is where a bobcat is right now. I do not mean personal bobcats in personal psyches, but the bobcat that roams from dream to dream. The conscious agenda-planning ego occupies a very tiny territory, a little cubicle somewhere near the gate, keeping track of some of what goes in and out, and the rest takes care of itself. The body is, so to speak, in the mind. They are both wild. 
--from 'The Practice of the Wild'; Gary Snyder

[via whiskey river]


--Marin Sorescu
[trans. by Constantin Roman & Timothy J.L. Cribb] 
To cross the border
Between the sunflower
And the moonflower
Between the alphabet
Of handwritten events
And printed events. 
To be friend of all atoms
Which form the light
To sing with the atoms which sing
To cry
With the atoms which die
To enter into all the days of one's life
Without restriction
No matter whether they fall on one side or the other
Of the word
This passport
Is written in my bones
On my skull, femur, phalanges and spine
All arranged in a way
To make clear
My right to be man.

[two more; four more]


Getting Used to Your Name
--Marin Sorescu
(trans by Gabriela Dragnea, Stuart Friebert, and Adriana Varga)  
After you’ve learned to walk,
Tell one thing from another,
Your first care as a child
Is to get used to your name.
What is it?
They keep asking you.
You hesitate, stammer,
And when you start to give a fluent answer
Your name’s no longer a problem. 
When you start to forget your name,
It’s very serious.
But don’t despair,
An interval will set in. 
And soon after your death,
When the mist rises from your eyes,
And you begin to find your way
In the everlasting darkness,
Your first care (long forgotten,
Long since buried with you)
Is to get used to your name.
You’re called — just as arbitrarily —
Dandelion, cowslip, cornel,
Blackbird, chaffinch, turtle dove,
Costmary, zephyr — or all these together.
And when you nod, to show you’ve got it,
Everything’s all right:
The earth, almost round, may spin
Like a top among stars.


The First Words
--Seamus Heaney 
The first words got polluted
Like river water in the morning
Flowing with the dirt
Of blurbs and the front pages.
My only drink is meaning from the deep brain,
What the birds and the grass and the stones drink.
Let everything flow
Up to the four elements,
Up to water and earth and fire and air.


Where can it be found again,
An elsewhere world, beyond 
Maps and atlases,
Where all is woven into 
And of itself, like a nest
Of crosshatched grass blades? 
--from A Herbal; Seamus Heaney


[ Autumn Leaves ; Georgia O'Keeffe (1924) ].......


Poem of the Neighbours
--Charles Tomlinson 
Bird neighbours the rising tree,
Leaf neighbours the waiting soil,
Flesh, fish, foal, all-kingdom-kind
Neighbour the other, sun to stone. 
Man neighbours the sun in life,
Man neighbours the horse in life,
Horse neighbours the trodden grass,
Oak neighbours the untrodden sky: 
That life shall know increase. 
Cat neighbours the bird in death,
Lion neighbours the doe in death,
Snake neighbours the hidden toad,
Hidden toad neighbours the fly: 
That life shall know increase.


Civilities of Lamplight
--Charles Tomlinson 
Without excess (no galaxies
Gauds, illiterate exclamations)
It betokens haven,
An ordering, the darkness held
But not dismissed. One man
Alone with his single light
Wading obscurity refines the instance,
Hollows the hedge-bound track, a sealed
Furrow on dark, closing behind him.


[ Blackbird ; Brad Mehldau Trio ]

p- Brad Mehldau
b- Larry Grenadier
d- Jorge Rossy


Don't Tell
--John Perrault 
(I'm nobody!  Who are you?  --Emily Dickinson) 
Not on Facebook?
Me neither.
Two of us then.
Better--the reverse:
A couple of ones. 
Buzz.  Blather.
The Belle of Amherst
Twittering at dawn.

Not that I'm not on facebook, only that I'm no good at it!


One (from Shakespearean Sonnets)
--John Perreault 
All things important outside the frame
are not. You see we all dwell
in a movie that is the same
and cannot, will not ever excel 
whatever it is the camera's on.
We are never here, but always there
where the influx has finally gone
inside the fear and tenor where 
smoke and dust and trust are left.
Your world is a world of tinted glass.
Even the photography is bereft
of what for a moment really was 
the temperature where we will meet
that judgment that is all too sweet.

[13 more here, via wood s lot]


Poem (The day gets slowly started)
--James Schuyler 
The day gets slowly started.
A rap at the bedroom door,
bitter coffee, hot cereal, juice
the color of sun which
isn’t out this morning. A
cool shower, a shave, soothing
Noxzema for razor burn. A bed
is made. The paper doesn’t come
until twelve or one. A gray shine
out the windows. “No one
leaves the building until
those scissors are returned.”
It’s that kind of a place.
Nonetheless, I’ve seen worse.
The worried gray is melting
into sunlight. I wish I’d
brought my book of enlightening
literary essays. I wish it
were lunch time. I wish I had
an appetite. The day agrees
with me better than it did, or,
better, I agree with it. I’ll
slide down a sunslip yet, this
crass September morning.


Summer Haiku- 2015

full moon-
silver arcs
of dunegrass
dove light
leaves whisper
early evening

fireflies lighting
past midnight
breaking curfew

the news stand,
the headlines,
traffic carrying on

watching charlie rose
while sunlight shines
through the questions

swastika worn
at a grocery store,
July 4th in ‘merika’

symbols like tools
gripped with meaning

shirtless, beer can,
garage radio baseball,
his ghost white hair

river eddies-
faces known
day by day

open mailbox
rust and rain

burying three
blue jay fledglings-
a tight lipped wind

another wine pour,
nostalgia leaking
down from stars

between thoughts-
not the butterfly 
but the flight

august 31 gloaming-
lake water forecasts
september yellow



[ September ; Prudence Heward (1938) ].....


A Day Dream
--Daniel J. Langton 
All day today
Today was a day
Apart from days
That were not this day. 
All day today
The day birds flew,
Rose in the day,
Part of the day,
A sun day. 
All day today
It was a day
To savor days
That are themselves.
This was a day
For those to say
Who love a day:
This was a day--
All day today!


Make Your Laziness Be Real Rest
--Caroline Knox

Make your laziness be real rest; why should you throw out useful sloth—
it's there because you need it; you should think about
........practical emptiness.
About what? Make your loafing real rest, make a deliberate ruin for it.
Make a ruin and be its anchorite in empty time; make a run for it.
Make a rune for your laziness, and now with your ears you
hear the breath of grass and wind, of stones turned to water
in lazy time. Heed the numinosity of a laziness rune; it's imperative to
see a rune with your eyes shut, holding the shaded image
in a historical light! Fallow earth is lazy and productive when we
touch it, knowing its rest in time, and as we remember it from youth.
The sun makes laziness volatile. Rays lift the air everywhere somehow,
harsh- and/or sweet-smelling, and we know it, but while lolling
about we don't register clearly, and isn't that okay. Emptier things:
a mind a blank, a mind a haze, a mind a black polished screen, turning
from meaning. Your laziness can be real rest, make it craftsmanlike,
........a devotion.

[via poetry daily]


When Ecstasy is Inconvenient
--Lorine Niedecker 
Feign a great calm;
all gay transport soon ends.
Chant: who knows—
flight’s end or flight’s beginning
for the resting gull? 
Heart, be still.
Say there is money but it rusted;
say the time of moon is not right for escape.
It’s the color in the lower sky
too broadly suffused,
or the wind in my tie. 
Know amazedly how
often one takes his madness
into his own hands
and keeps it.


[ Pylons (study for The City) ; Fernand Leger ]...


Supermarket Pastoral
--Samn Stockwell

I saw a ground squirrel with a long naked tail
in the wilderness behind the Stop & Shop
where the brook rushes into the vortex of an abandoned dryer.

I, too, have a wasting disease
and at my core, a sinking, but I am not done

continuing, watching the old Quakers pushing their peace signs
in front of the supermarket, pushing eighty
and seeing everything in its terrible proportion.

[via poetry daily]


--William Carlos Williams 
The little sparrows
hop ingenuously
about the pavement
with sharp voices
over those things
that interest them.
But we who are wiser
shut ourselves in
on either hand
and no one knows
whether we think good
or evil.
the old man who goes about
gathering dog-lime
walks in the gutter
without looking up
and his tread
is more majestic than
that of the Episcopal minister
approaching the pulpit
of a Sunday.
..................These things
astonish me beyond words.


Summer Song
--William Carlos Williams 
Wanderer moon
smiling a
faintly ironical smile
at this
brilliant, dew-moistened
summer morning,--
a detached
sleepily indifferent
smile, a
wanderer's smile,--
if I should
buy a shirt
your color and
put on a necktie
where would they carry me?


[ Sunset ; Felix Vallotton (1910) ]...