2017-05-22


Spring Haiku- 2017


first week of march,
a screen door bangs in the wind
with no one home


at dawn I can hear
the lone owl in the cedar
holding to a question


computer crash,
looking up and sunlight
takes me elsewhere


april thunder
breath of a heart leaving
the cold behind


first warm air, a dream
out of which or on into
no one knows


peeper frogs trill the only age they know


infinite
of a clear blue sky
about a tulip


faint nap-
a silent breeze sifts
through cherry blossoms


everything in bloom
i look for the same in all
my other thoughts




2017-05-20



[ Eschantos 31 ; Clarence Holbrook Carter (1978) ].......



2017-05-18


and green mixes in
mixes
into all
colors belonging
-
...........to breath
-
for there is earth
inside
and to dig
-
as the day transpires 
here was a calm
here a gale arrival
and did not bear
-
........knowledge
-
did not instruct
in every tongue
and the song was in
...............................vented 
o where do we go when we go
now here
-
you are where
an eye opens where
a star awakens here 
the earth as a world
an image of the sun
_
as the pool of blood
that lies
about the heart is
an ocean 
moves about
and dissolves in the eye
_
the flower transfigured
_
quick selves ascend to peace
a handful of dirt
as sacrament 
and psalm beneath canopy tree
sways the way an eye does in passing

--selections taken from Music for Films; Peter Gizzi


2017-05-16


Song of the Interior Begin
--Peter Gizzi 
Some sky of hydraulic
spring....Some season ever
So the tree for even
a twig....O branch....O earth 
There is too....(psalm)
Neither a pool nor
a crown....And day spills
to where is....O water 
Begin!....Begin!....So sing
of lever...Are eyes
shy?....O iris....O onyx
Into blouse of
--
........Air go there..!

2017-05-14


..........[ Chat Colette; Brassaï (1938) ]


[via Picture This..]


2017-05-12


...birdsong
back. of .the .head
.....cloud
.......tree
.......branch
..........twig
..........leaves
...................street
....................fixtures
..........................litter
............................trash
.............................debris
............................a rake
.............................forest
................................paper
...........................barrels
.............................sound
.......................traffic
.......................in the wind
...endless.....the world
......turned round
..................so the sun
..................the same
...................variety
.................like all
....................the news
......................there is
.......................to be
........................heard
.............................to know 
........--Larry Eigner


[via BOMB]


2017-05-10



Feeling your way along, you can, it seems, discover the right value, so to speak, momentary as it may be — nothing lasts forever, the ephemeral is ok. It’s never quite enough, though (anyway there’s always an amount of concern abt the future, your own and x million others’), and like anything else the present isn’t to be exaggerated. 
--Larry Eigner


[via jacket]


2017-05-08



 I feel my life again the strangeness
........it should be the same 
......sky grass tree level the eye 
..........with silence the picture
.....................bright
...........the gift. of thought 
.........it's the old day......speed
.................is an idea
.........the sun light so unmoving 
............the bodiless roof
.........of a birdhouse 
..........no, it's a
............hose bracket, that's 
.......right
........................being so small 
.....the way a bird flies
..from the 3rd brick step to
......the tree  towards the sky 
....the burden of twigs 
........the birds flying, tree
............cloud, stems, rain,
..............to be, mostly, leaf
..........hulls, to pass the ocean  
............deeps, green, black 
.........the constant energy, the head
...........flight voice, at the top of a gutter
.............the blue continues to dark

 ........--a selection of poems from "the"; Larry Eigner




2017-05-06


[  Santiago Ramón Cajal ].................


From 'The Hundred Trillion Stories in Your Head': The world of the infinitely small, like novels of his youth, seemed more real to Cajal than everyday existence. How else could he routinely spend up to fifteen hours a day, for almost fifty years, alone in the laboratory? He claimed to have observed a million neurons, witnessing them in every phase of their lives: birth, development, movement, relationships, adversity, trauma, decline, and death. On thumbnail sheets of dead brain tissue, the Spaniard’s cherished stories came to life. He imagined neurons as protagonists in an intense cerebral drama. Their fibers “groped to find another.” Their aching contacts became “protoplasmic kisses”—“the final ecstasy of an epic love story.”



2017-05-04


The Body
--Marianne Boruch 
has its little hobbies. The lung
likes its air best after supper,
goes deeper there to trade up
for oxygen, give everything else
away. (And before supper, yes,
during too, but there’s
something about evening, that
slow breath of the day noticed: oh good, 
still coming, still going ... ) As for
bones—femur, spine,
the tribe of them in there—they harden
with use. The body would like
a small mile or two. Thank you.
It would like it on a bike
or a run. Or in the water. Blue.
And food. A habit that involves
a larger circumference where a garden’s
involved, beer is brewed, cows
wake the farmer with their fullness,
a field surrenders its wheat, and wheat
understands I will be crushed 
into flour and starry-dust 
the whole room, the baker
sweating, opening a window
to acknowledge such remarkable
confetti. And the brain,
locked in its strange
dual citizenship, idles there in the body,
neatly terraced and landscaped.
Or left to ruin, such a brain,
wild roses growing
next to the sea. The body is
gracious about that. Oh, their
scent sometimes. Their
tangle. In truth, in secret,
the first thing
in morning the eye longs to see.


2017-05-02



In the words of Gaston Bachelard: Everything comes alive when contradictions accumulate. And to be fully alive—that is to say galvanized by Eros and its boundless incarnations—is to dwell within the living heart of surrealism, that place of arousing, ambiguous, and above all marvelous encounters. This fervent receptiveness characterizes the human child whose embodied recollections of having been, not long before, nearly indistinguishable from a larval lizard, assures direct access to the wonders of the phenomenal world, its mineral, vegetable, and animal kingdoms which are, as is the child, in constant mutation. In sympathy with all this, she recognizes and intuits her place within the vast, unwieldy network of terrestrial forms and, further, enters the world with residual genes that spontaneously offer variant readings of what it means to be human.... 
Everything from galaxies to slime mold is a shapeshifter, and the imagination’s irrepressible artifacts reflect this intimate and innately subversive reality. The mind, too, is restless. And here one must specify terrestrial mind. Examples abound from chameleons to the most astonishing: Octopus vulgaris, who in the blink of an eye can vanish from sight as she imitates exactly in color and texture absolutely everything around her. Her cousin Thaumoctopus mimicus impersonates other species—everything from snakes to fish.  
--from Metamorphosis and the Surreal; Rikki Ducornet




2017-04-30



Just how hungry are people for a new Cormac McCarthy book? So hungry that The New Yorker felt a need to have an essay about an essay written by McCarthy for the current issue of Nautilus. From The Kekulé Problem: Where did language come from?:

The unconscious is a biological system before it is anything else. To put it as pithily as possibly—and as accurately—the unconscious is a machine for operating an animal. 
All animals have an unconscious. If they didnt they would be plants. We may sometimes credit ours with duties it doesnt actually perform. Systems at a certain level of necessity may require their own mechanics of governance. Breathing, for instance, is not controlled by the unconscious but by the pons and the medulla oblongata, two systems located in the brainstem. Except of course in the case of cetaceans, who have to breathe when they come up for air. An autonomous system wouldnt work here. The first dolphin anesthetized on an operating table simply died. (How do they sleep? With half of their brain alternately.) But the duties of the unconscious are beyond counting. Everything from scratching an itch to solving math problems. 
Problems in general are often well posed in terms of language and language remains a handy tool for explaining them. But the actual process of thinking—in any discipline—is largely an unconscious affair. Language can be used to sum up some point at which one has arrived—a sort of milepost—so as to gain a fresh starting point. But if you believe that you actually use language in the solving of problems I wish that you would write to me and tell me how you go about it.

2017-04-28



He was a wise man who invented beer. ~Plato..................
[ Black Tulip ; New Holland, Holland, MI ]......................


2017-04-26


The Search for Lost Lives
--James Tate 
I was chasing this blue butterfly down
the road when a car came by and clipped me.  
It was nothing serious, but it angered me and
I turned around and cursed the driver who didn't
even slow down to see if I was hurt. Then I
returned my attention to the butterfly which  
was nowhere to be seen. One of the Doubleday  
girls came running up the street with her toy
poodle toward me. I stopped her and asked,
"Have you seen a blue butterfly around here?"
"It's down near that birch tree near Grandpa's,"
she said. "Thanks," I said, and walked briskly
toward the tree. It was fluttering from flower
to flower in Mr. Doubleday's extensive garden,  
a celestial blueness to soothe the weary heart.  
I didn't know what I was doing there. I certain-
ly didn't want to capture it. It was like
something I had known in another life, even if
it was only in a dream, I wanted to confirm it.  
I was a blind beggar on the streets of Cordoba
when I first saw it, and now, again it was here.

2017-04-24


Zebras Anything
--James Tate 
I wish somebody would give me
a couple of live panda bears.
After all these years I deserve them.
Yesterday I nearly went insane 
searching for a toucan:
“No toucans!” everywhere I went.
One son-of-a-bitch even went so far
as to say: “Toucans are filthy, 
disgusting birds, terrible pets;
and on the endangered list besides.”
And I said, then I’ll take the last one,
I’ll be responsible; my pets 
don’t have to bow and scrape to me.
We are equals, this I believe,
so give me the pandas.


2017-04-22



[ Filide ; (1958) ]


ds- Max Roach
bs- Art Davis
ts- George Coleman
tr- Booker Little
tu- Ray Draper

Song by Ray Draper and version from a self titled album with Coltrane can be found here. But this is my preferred. The Latin styled melody really pops to life with the loosely directed trumpet line from Booker Little when paired with Roach's breathable rhythm. And then add the contrasting maudlin, slightly vaudeville low brass of Draper's tuba.. jesus baby... overall emotional tone becomes music listenable ad infinitum...


2017-04-20



Penny Along the Ottawa 
Antic blooms atop trees grizzled
about the turnpike, emeralds proximal
to urban sputter, hopeful travelers,
taupe birds buttoned out of habit. 
What else can accompany spring
funneled arterial by triple cadence,
doorless patio puddles, partial tones
of purple.. sunset panned ephiphanic. 
So there's that. Ponderous backdrop
for what we create. Windup homes
where dogged nickles shirt  pockets
payable to minute gasps exhibiting life 
in captious shift-- flummoxed blusters,
umpteenth arrangements indelicately
torqued. To elevate, to recede, however
glum rivers laugh as gravitas currents 
sally emotion to equanimous shore,
her note imitates in a way the wind
piffling through clueless borders,
void of newscasts only minutes ago. 




2017-04-18


Squib
--Fernando Pessoa 
All the Lloyd Georges of Babylon
Were utterly forgotten by history.
The Briands of Egypt or Assyria,
The Trotskys of this or that colony
Of ancient Greece or Rome
Are dead names, though writ in stone. 
Only a fool who makes poems
Or a mad inventor of philosophies
Or an eccentric geometrician
Will survive the vast unimportance
Of what's left behind, in the dark,
And which not even history remarks. 
O you great men of the Moment!
O great and ardent glories
Of those who flee obscurity!
Enjoy what you have and don't think!
Cherish your fame and good food,
For tomorrow belongs to today's fools!


2017-04-16



I daydream, far from my cozy
Self-awareness as a man.
I don't know who my soul is,
Nor does it know who I am. 
Understand it? It would take time.
Explain it? Don't know if I can. 
And in this misunderstanding
Between who I am and what is I
There's a whole other meaning
Lying between earth and sky. 
It that gap is born the universe.
With suns and stars past counting.
It has a profound meaning,
Which I know. It's outside me.  
--Fernando Pessoa


2017-04-14

[ April Blue ; Dan Christensen (1995) ].........

2017-04-12



We are all bound together in a tapestry that like the sea gives the impression of movement towards something but is actually just a maternal body of material... 
The flowers buzz when the vibration of the bees stimulates their pistons and their molecules swell and their petals hum like cellos. Rocks are alive, the firstborn of the natural world, somber without will. 
There is no freedom from this universe we were born into, because it is our vague source of sensation, our soul, the container of our guilt. 
Skins liquefy in heat. And when a bald baby swallow dies on your palm, you feel warmth pouring over your skin, a kind of burning fountain that scalds you like pepper spray. 
Do you think this is a sign of the spirit ripping its energy into you to carry to the other side? I do. There are no actual objects over there, no materials but unformed steaming clouds, colors that harmonize musically, no gravity exists but elasticity composed of invisible images. 
--from 'The Child's Child', The Needle's Eye: Passing through Youth; Fanny Howe



2017-04-10



A Thought
--Fanny Howe 
To return to infancy: to be without speech. 
The threshold between Eden and Heaven.
Ground and cloud. 
Hollowed out, each image will lose its definition bit by bit. 
An infant in Purgatory still covers her head with swaddling
Or is it the sunlight lying on the floor? 
We try to domesticate our spirits like children.
We chase and chastise them until they change.
We spend our lives trying to release them again.


[from The Needle's Eye: Passing Through Youth]



2017-04-08



On Time
--Phillis Levin 
Time can be told in the opening of a flower,
Trumpet of dawn, flugelhorn of the sun
Sinking down. Noiseless explosions
Greet an attentive eye. And the ear
Is a flower, too, a welcome home for echoes,
Kisses, and cackles. Cauldron of starlight,
Tincture and blaring cry, whatever brushes
Your senses unlatches a doorway
Scoured by salt, vanishing as you plunder
The coffers of sleep. So you will know
What it means to be utterly free, floating
Without a hope, floating in hope, a medium
Fit for the being you have become, given
The bed you have made, the race you won.



2017-04-06


An Anthology of Rain
--Phillis Levin 
For this you may see no need,
You may think my aim
Dead set on something 
Devoid of conceivable value:
An Anthology of  Rain,
A collection of voices 
Telling someone somewhere
What it means to follow a drop
Traveling to its final place of rest. 
But do consider this request
If you have pressed your nose
Of any shape against a window, 
Odor of metal faint, persistent,
While a storm cast its cloak
Over the shoulder of every cloud 
In sight. You are free to say
Whatever crosses your mind
When you look at the face of time 
In the passing of one drop
Gathering speed, one drop
Chasing another, racing to reach 
A fork in the path, lingering
Before making a detour to join
Another, fattening on the way 
Until entering a rivulet
Running to the sill.
So please accept this invitation: 
You are welcome to submit,
There is no limit to its limit,
Even the instructions are a breeze 
As long as you include
Nothing about yourself
Except your name. Your address 
Remains unnecessary, for the rain
Will find you — if you receive it
It receives you (whether or not 
You contribute, a volume
Is sent). And when you lift
The collection you may hear, 
By opening anywhere, a drop
And its story reappear
As air turns to water, water to air.