tributary

We do not have cable, which is close to admitting that we have no electricity. We realized the ROI was getting pretty slim. Even before that, I found myself not really interested in what television offered. I watched but didn't invest.

I am now in a state where I don't now recognize many of the people on the cover of People, let alone the the supermarket tabloids. This leave me uneasy. All this culture in which I swim, passing me by. Okay, I know who the Kardashians are but am pressed to say what their hold on us is.

So anyway. I saw a bit of American Idol last week. The last (perhaps only other) time I saw the show, Simon Scowl was still a judge, and the talent was at a much more amateur level. My recent viewing, I guess the competition was well along; the singers were competent and they had accompaniment. But the fabrication was just as taut as before.

The orchestration endemic to the show is a political nuisance, and always has been. Simon of course played it the best. His commentary was mean and republican: you're all equally bad. His pleasures were concessions to the idea of winning, and winning big. The other two judges, Paula and Dawg, were there to pretend hope existed. Hope has always been a nice story line in this country.

The latest set of judges showed less centre. Whereas Simon anchored the centripetal force, no one really holds the chain with this latest bunch. Nicki Minaj comes the closest. Her comments seemed unrepentently sour. She's balanced by the cheerful Mariah Carey. Supposedly there's tension between the two, which is just the respected theatre we feel that we need. Folksy hip Keith Urban adds a thoughtful note, and R-Dawg is R-Dawg. I checked Wikipedia, by the bye, and Randy Jackson has serious cred as session bassist and producer. Cred on American Idol is simpler, he just has to say Yo Dawg.

The three singers competing were all women. I don't know if categories exist in the show: male, female, group. The singers all sang heartfelt ballady tripe. Excuse me, I sound a little impatient. I guess they're effective songs, just not on my turntable.

Each singer had a taped session with Harry Connick Jr before performing live. He'd joke with them in a friendly, folksy way then tell them how great they were. Shrug.

After an enthusiastically received song by one of the singers, Nicki Minaj directly said that something was missing. Well first she said she liked the singer's pants. Minaj noted that the singer didn't commit to the song enough. Plausible, tho not perceptible to me. Surprisingly, Mariah agreed, tho she said so in a nicer way. Keith agreed too, but allowed that nerves and pressure effect performances. And so on.

That's the keynote to the show: it goes on. Ryan Seacrest hosts the show, taking the media mogul crown from the now completely dead Dick Clark. Seacrest has no rough edges, is just politically there as a process of containment. Basically, he runs the republic. His blandness, like Clark's, lets him into our homes as the Mayor of Distraction.

And since we have once again had terrorist attacks here in the U.S., thank heavens for the distractions. The patent says that America gets together to worry about American Idol. Well, the country worries about Bachelors and Bachelorettes too, which to me is an amazing insight into our country's soul. We're watching people pretend to date!

I'm sure this goes on in other countries, I'm just not up on the latest data.

I know Idol is losing ratings and, flashpoint, Randy Jackson, as well. People are right now discussing how irreplaceable Dawg is. Honestly, why do I know this?

That Idol exists doesn't bother me. It's the professional wrestling of entertainment. Maybe Nicki Minaj (from parts unknown)has a foreign object in her hand as she points out a performer's failing. It's a zestless subject of conversation, the probity of catastrophic political muteness. That's the less good side of this crap.

Of course that Benghazi tv show has become popular, and we're still watching reruns of Boston Marathon Mayhem. I think the perpetrator did it. They usually do. And we need to know that perps are responsible. Makes things nice and clear.

Saturday, 5/4, was Erin’s birthday. Twelve years ago on the same date, he had four stainless steel pins removed from his femur. The pins held the bone together so the breaks could heal. He was in study mode this past Saturday, so he and I went to the movies Sunday. Pretty full house, e’en tho a beauty day. New England is good for fine days but doesn’t often string them together like this past week. Anyway, the trailers:

Well jeez, everything explodes! I know there‘s no reason to get thoughtful, but why are we so excited about explosions and crashes? I don’t know from Fast and Furious, but I get the faked up dynamics of crash, vengeance, and super-powered nothingness. The franchise is up to six, and I have no doubt you could not tell the episodes apart. Oh this is the one where the car crashes and spewing guns represent justice. Justice, sir, is what I hand to you.

Marvel has Thor comin’ at us. The comic that I remember, Thor flickered between the mighty god and the limping mortal. The first Thor movie strained too much at the soap opera sentiment, Marvel’s gift to comix. Went nowhere near the limping mortal. The best parts of that movie were the interactions of god world with this one. It looks like this next one dishes up the next Armageddon, again.

Marvel also exudes The Wolverine this summer. I don’t find the character, or Jackman, interesting. Wolverine seems like the type who would engage you at a party with how his liposuction operation didn’t work out, I mean it’s all on his sleeve. Okay, he’s a hunk, maybe the human growth hormones he takes gives him a rash. Let’s just say his gravitas seems a bit phony.

A Hunger Games sequel seems prodded. I stand posted as having little knowledge of Hunger Games, but this seems like tripe. I care for none of these flicks, waiting on Star Trek. At least no animated blockbusters in the offing.

Oh yeah, the Lone Ranger. Of some interest to me, but it looks too explodo. Seems like nowadays, scale = explosion. Putting the explosion into a less explosive era just rocks too hard.  I never saw Downey’s Sherlock Holmes but I glean from the trailers that they’re not a matter of grey matter but instead action hero. Which is an off note (and more) for me.

Ironman has one resounding resource: Robert Downey Jr. I cannot think of an actor with a more ready, flip delivery. I know nothing of acting but I think there is effort and craft in his flip delivery. He commands the rhythm, so that you don’t know what to expect, tho the set up is obvious. His effort and understanding carry the film.

I missed the 2nd I-man. There seems some effort at continuity. I know there’s reference to The Avengers.  Comic continuity has always been a bete noire, like anyone could make sense of all the plotlines.

The plot of I-man 3 is simply a petrie dish in which things happen. Add zingers and and explosions and you’re done.

I only vaguely remember The Mandarin from the comics. Sort of a Fu Manchu arch-enemy type. Today’s worst nightmare. In 3, he is firstly served as an Osama Bin Laden cubed. He takes credit for mysterious bombings that don’t offer any evidence of bombs.

I started to flinch when the Mandarin appeared, because it gave off the odour of let’s get the Muslims. Moreso, bombings as entertainment shows an odd panache. I mean, after the heart-rending and hand-wringing of the past month. Ben Kingsley does a lively job with the character, tho. Ominous and crazy, with an interesting rhythm. We feel better, it seems, when that one crazy person is identified. That guy is our problem.

In a flashback, Tony meets with an attractive lady scientist and a wild-looking crackpot science type. Both are just bumps in the night for pre-enlightened Tony Stark. More later, of course.

Tony suffers post traumatic stress disorder, apparently from the Avengers movie. It’s good that the writers have heard of such a thing. Gywneth Paltrow is tiresome, I’m afraid. I think People named her the most important something. In the first I-man, she appeared so that it could be said that she appeared. I think she shall continue to look 25 for a few more years. Can’t last forever, and what are we going to do then? Not really to blame her for that, it’s just a cultural rule that a 40 year old Paltrow would be unacceptable. Same with Jennifer Aniston. Same too with Tom Cruise, as I think of it. Even tho it’s okay for men to age.

Tony Stark, finally ready for action, challenges the Mandarin to bring it on, going so far as to give his Malibu address. Attractive lady scientist comes to warn Tony about crackpot science type, now somehow a hunk. Then Mandarin’s choppers attack the Stark compound and everyone almost gets hurt.

I think I-man flies away. Pepper takes ALS to safety only… Perfidy! ASL and hunky crackpot are in cahoots.

Tony ends up in snowy Tennessee on a snowy Christmas Eve. His Ironman costume is broken. He meets a young boy who is fresh from some Frank Capra movie. There’s a cheesy back story there. Luckily, Stark snarks, and the malevolent attacks on our heartstrings are neatly averted. Some great lines between Stark and the kid. Downey gets next to the people when he acts. Even with the big apparent ego, he’s there with the other actor.

Thru out the movie, bits of I-man armour fly about, often to satisfying slapstick effect, but sometimes gimmicky distraction. Kinda wonder why that bit stuck.

There’s an I-man prototype that works for the government, with Tony’s friend Colonel Somebody inside.This must have shown up in I-2.  A bad guy gets into that suit and attacks Airforce One. El Presidente is snatched, and a hole in the plane causes many to be pulled from it. Rather than freeze to death immediately, all 18 decide to plummet until I-man manages to collect them all and place them safely in the ocean. From there they wave to the hero. Nice!

I guess I should mench that ALS developed a something that allows regeneration. Prob: unstable: causes people to explode. Which is the answer to the bombings.

Anyway, it looks bad for the Prez, bad for Colonel Somebody, bad for the world. Tony finds the Mandarin’s compound and, well, it turns out that the Mandarin is a fake. He’s an actor. Kingsley plays him as a small time actor. Kingsley has fun with the role. This guy is supposed to be an innocent figurehead but in one scene, he kills a man. He has captured a businessman then, by invading everyone’s television, including the President’s, he kills the guy on tv.

The movie is pretty violent, in the careless way we like it. Bad people die and sad people die, everyone else can worry about justice.

So the guy behind the Mandarin is hunky crackpot. He shoots ASL when she evinces a moral streak, and so, well, gotta bring it to the mat. Colonel Somebody joins Stark fighting the bad guys with the most explosions possible. An army of Ironman suits aid the good guys. Pepper appears to be dead after a fall into an inferno.

The final battle, I-man vs whack job, is the usual unmeasured mess. They trade vast blows with no effect. Still, it looks like Stark will be toast until… Pepper Potts blasts fire thru her mouth. She’d been infected by the same thing as the whack job. Dunno why this particular attack worked. But it cooked him.

After that, a check in on everyone. Oh by the way, the vice president was somehow involved in the evil plot. The end suggests that Tony Stark may be quitting the superhero biz. We’ll see about that.

It’s fun to watch tho there is a lot of relevant stupid going on, in all these possible flicks. It’s not much different from the stupid in real world, like, okay, for instance, the actions and reactions, the explanations and panic, surrounding the Boston bombing. Magic fire will come out of our mouths and solve all problems. Count on it.

Reading The Education of Henry Adams, a quirky autobiography, if ever. It takes some getting used to his grimly acerbic third person account, but there's a guarded hilarity in there, and real intent.

A phrase struck me—he speaks of his education in Germany—to wit: “...when by-products turn out to be more valuable than staples.” It reminded me of Williams' laser beam: “the pure products of America go crazy.” Both phrases gained traction for me because, at the gym, I saw part of a bio of Snooki from Jersey Shores. I haven't seen that show but the capillary action of American culture assures that I somehow “know” about it.

And I won't run Nicole “Snooki” Polizi down, but I think it is fair to wonder why she's whatever she is. The bio paints her as a someone trying to be someone, wit the deft arithmetic that “someone” = “no one”. Or more accurately, no one = something, accent on thing. We, audience that we are, seek not works but thingness. Snooki is a quantifiable thing, no doubt. Her pure product, which isn't her or hers, is crazy, let's be honest. We, audience, seek quantity. She (by which I mean this formidable televised thingness, not the “person”), is a quantity, one that we can measure. I have sort of lost gumption to investigate further.

There exists a sense in this trembling country that by-product is product, just as Adams intimates. Poisoned water table is a product somehow (miraculously, you ask me), because we need fracked oil so much. Somehow we need Snookis, id est: heroes: as in: broken leg college b-ball players, swimmers in Olympics, champion gymnasts moving on in career: nobodies elected to somebodies. The democracy of fame.

Here is what. Beth's mother, staying with us, revealed a surprising high blood pressure. She does cardio and lifts weights, and usually maintains good bp, so this was cause to visit the emergency room (Emerson hospital, where I was born). They didn't keep Beth's mother, and gave a course of action.

I went with Beth to take Norma there. I kept to the waiting room, when she finally got called, in a fit of discretion. My last trip to the emergency room, I had been bit mildly on the butt by one of three dogs. The only concern was rabies, tra la tra la. While waiting, I watched loathsome 700 Club then or some such, the fare on the tv. Pat Baboone hawked gold as investment, which reminded me of Jesus in his fit of pique.

Yesterday, the offering was first of all Katie. It's that Couric lady, boiled down to iconic 1^st name. Larry King, I swear to god, reported how he tried to put the moves on the young Katie, impress her with his suspenders. The current Katie seems ageless. Perky smile to the end.

I had a book with me so wasn't attending carefully. One segment concerned a website that brings women together on the Internet. Sort of feminist but really it's just more accommodated enterprise. Not so much feminist as those who benefited from feminism. The site will still have the same yuck as anything else on the net. I mean, the show is geared to the feminists who watch television at 4 in the afternoon.

Another segment seemed about the same thing, tho I don't remember its specifics. All squeezed into a segment, with noise and commercials between segments. Television. Katie is good at the three minute interview, I just don't get the three minute interview. Especially as it could as likely be with a half life semi-celeb or the Prime Minister of Somewhere Important. All boiled down, neat.

Next came Ellen, another first name basis. Her sitcom was drab but she's a pleasant enough entertainment entity. She started the show with a stand up routine just as shitty as Jay Leno's, a disturbing lack of effort. Apparently it is free amphetamines for the studio audience because they were jacked to the nth. I guess I could seem exciting with a claque like that.

One of the lame jokes concerned the recent near miss asteroid. A few minutes later a pretend asteroid was sent down a cable to surprise no one. It was like elementary school.

The main bit of the show concerned a woman who had been on previously. Just an ordinary person like who watches Ellen daily. She was on earlier to explain how she does stuff for everybody. I mean, so I infer. As a reward for this generosity, Ellen sent a camera crew to the woman's workplace, a beauty parlour I think.

The woman was suitably animated, which apparently makes her funny. Ellen meanwhile stares at a monitor as if she were looking at Dick Tracy's 2-way wrist television. A grinning minion was onsite at the beauty parlour, ready to scream as needed.

First there was a need to seem surprised that a camera crew was at the beauty parlour and Ellen had deigned to communicate thru the airwaves. THEN a male stripper appeared, but he and his pecs were largely ignored. Finally Ellen presented the woman with fifty thousand cash money. The minion had a briefcase she was supposed to open but had to go off camera to undo the stuck latch.

Ellen's show has the annoying habit of showing both upcoming and passed bits from the day's show. I thought they were already done with that but the woman had to do thru her screaming surprise, joined by the grinning minion. This stuff accounted for several segments thru out the show.

In a quieter moment, Ellen interviewed Josh Duhamel. I'm sorry, I don't know who he is. I've heard his name but can attach it to nothing. Standard stuff, helped by Ellen's mild flakiness.

He's either married to or girlfriended by an additional celeb, I don't remember who. After references to Valentine's Day—the show was a bit dated (1973 was my guess)—Ellen presented him with “sexy” heart-shaped underwear. It was a de rigueur sort of gesture that no one wanted to play with. Josh did put them on but didn't let it bloom into a bit. However, later in the interview, he said, “I hate to admit it but I have a heart on”. That seemed pretty good but then I realized that he just read it off a cue card. Oh of course, this is television.

Gosh I forgot that after Ellen's perfunctory stand up, she announced it was time to dance. Her band—a guy on a keyboard—started in on something lively. The crowd went crazy, many moneymakers were shook. Ellen glided around to some other music in a distracted way, like she wanted us to know she had ADHD.

Josh got another segment, wherein he and Ellen asked a studio member questions. A bag of green goo from Nickleodeon hung over her head. After sufficient wrong answers, the bag would fall on her head. Her final question was what is the third planet from the sun. Cue the hilarity.

Bethany Frankel I'd heard of. Darn it, I never saw Real Housewives of Anywhere, but I know she started and sold Skinny Girl margarita. So there's that. She wasn't interesting. She has a show that supposedly shows off her business acumen. Someone who has been mentored by Bethany on that show came on to sing Bethany's praises. The mentored has developed a product, to wit: dolls that attach to cameras so that children will smile when their picture is taken. That seems like a curious nothing but then I never sold a margarita mix to Jim Beam for millions.

The local news followed. It's been a while since I watched the local news. Many of the same people, only older. This one has a face lift, that one looks all crinkly. At least it was the A-Team. The bench players tend to do that frowny face to show concern for those folks whose house burned down. Updates on new pope deliberation.

Entertainment Tonight followed but I won't try to detail that mess. However there was one Kim Kardashian story I cannot pass by. Since Kim's youth is fleeting, or fleeing, she has upped the ante, beauty regimen-wise. The latest trick from the heroes of cosmetic surgery is oh my god injections of one's own blood. This entails oh my god jabbing needles in the face to get the blood, then centrifuging the platelets out—I was a little too shocked to wholly get the science—and then oh my god the face is jabbed again. And that was Kim's blood bespattered mug right there. My god!

Oh, there was also a news story in which someone had interviewed Matt Lauer. Apparently Matt did not put the skids on Ann Curry's Today hosting gig, says this guy speaking for Matt. I just want to know why Matt is important. I get Katie to the degree that she's lively. I guess Matt's good looking, and sort of a comfortable presence, but I am yawning as I write this. For god's sake, why Larry King, for that matter? Why Bethany? Help!

And all the while, the hospital. A police officer asked if I was Eddie (I wasn't). A grandmother and young granddaughter waited while mother was attended to. The girl went immediately to a busy board, on which was a telephone. She would call Andrew inviting him to come by, then go to grandmother and tell her Andrew was coming by. She called someone else to invite them to come by to see Andrew, who was coming by. Etc. This went on.

The television put forth many hyperventilated announcements concerning the 1/2” of rain we would get thru the night. None of the rivers that might flood flooded.

Eight years ago today my father celebrated his 94^th birthday. Tho he had been bedridden for two months and was in serious decline, he really did celebrate. The entire family came by that day to see dad. This gave Beth and me a chance to go out, a brief respite from care duty. While out we confirmed to each other that we could no longer care for dad at home.

We tried. He required 24 hour care. Even with a hired caregiver, Beth and I were swamped. And how was it all affecting Erin?

When I entered the room, I found people making the best of dad's best. Dad had perked up as he hadn't in two months. He was alert and responsive, even if he didn't speak. And he even ate ice cream and cake. He really hadn't eaten or drank anything in weeks but now he was enjoying ice cream. He was shockingly perky, as if belying the effort of Allen and Beth.

Dad went into the hospital with pneumonia, which he'd had before. As a patient, he was stoic. He didn't complain much, accepted the eternal annoyances of hospital care. At some point, he confided to Beth (not me) that this was his last. It didn't seem like it except that he had stopped eating and drinking. The hospital sent him to rehab after a few days. He didn't improve. I don't remember the details but at some point there was a meeting with the rehab people and the social worker with the result that dad would be brought home.

An oxygen system was brought in, and round the clock caregivers were hired (one per shift). I remember one wild night with a blizzard and shift change. It was like a hallucination for me, trying to rest with brouhaha all around. Beth or I had to help the caregivers because there were things that a single caregiver could not do alone.

My father became surprisingly combative at this time. I was helping to turn him over and he wailed at me, “Why are you doing this to me?” It was all too much.

His 94^th birthday then. I entered the room with this family of mine, carrying a burden of betrayal. It felt cruel that I now had to announce that we could no longer take care of dad. And on his birthday, and at a time when he showed a boost. I burst into tears as I did so. No one argued the point but no one thanked us for the effort.

The next morning, I waited for the ambulance to take dad back to the rehab, which now would be hospice care. Beth took Erin to homeschool class and some normalcy. I had to watch as the ambulance drivers put dad on the gurney and lifted it into the ambulance. My brothers, their wives, their children were elsewhere, anywhere else, I presume.

We visited him at the rehab but he was clearly going down. He didn't want anyone around.

On his ninth day back at rehab, Beth and I visited him. After a while, Beth left me alone with him. His breathing was terrible. I was prepared to stay with him till he passed. I spoke to him. He was awake but not responsive. He didn't seem to want me there. He gestured unhappily. I decided to leave.

My mother died when no one was around. The family kept a pretty thorough attendance but she seemed to wait until she was alone to die. It was this thought that let me leave dad. I stepped from the room and again burst into tears. The attending nurse hugged me.

When I got home, I called my brothers and let them know that dad didn't have long. An hour or so later, one of my brothers called to say dad was dead. None of my brothers were able to get there in time. I took and still take satisfaction, I'm sorry to say, that they did not get to see him one last time. The day was, it seemed fitting, the last day of winter.

I write on a chilly day that nonetheless feels like spring. Red polls are chirping and investing themselves at the birdfeeder. I miss dad. I don't really miss my family—those brothers, sisters-in-law, nephews, and nieces—except as a kind of unsatisfying invention of family loyalty and love. They complained about how we cared for dad, and this, and that. Burdened those who were doing the work.

Both my parents just wanted a family. They wanted to see their children and their wives and their grandchildren. Lives of busyness made visits rarer and rarer. The nucleus disintegrated. Little else remains but ill will.

I've seen one brother since dad died, at a funeral of someone we both knew. I have heard from none of the others, nor have I tried to get in touch with anyone. The three brothers, the three wives, the six nephews and nieces. Petty things occurred and petty things grew.

Eight years later, I see the boundaries that I assumed didn't exist. We weren't really that close. We tried, in honour of our parents, but we were too ready merely to delude ourselves. And I want to write about this but I don't want to complain. I know we all have our stories. I'd like to step across the boundary.

I'm a little envious of those at the AWP groupgrope, just down the road. Arcane subjects to share in Publish or Die Land. It seems a closed system. The panels would interest me, but would they help me? I'm still talking my father's death, and disappointment with my family. I'm trying to find a language in between the anger and sadness, and better than either. Poetry is no good if it lacks intensive spring.

For the past 14 years, I have posted poems to the Wryting-L listserv. Alan Sondheim helped start the list, which has gone thru a couple of name changes. The lit has evolved into a small community of writers who post work that fairly settles under the rubric Experimental. We dassn't worry about the term except to say that the work posted varies greatly in conception and style. I have met a few listees in the flesh, and have corresponded with others.

Recently, Bob BruekL went to the trouble of close-reading a poem of mine. Bob should be better known because his writing is vivid and startling with an often scatological hilarity. People rarely comment on work presented, so Bob's extended reading of my poem proved surprising. In correspondence, Bob has pretty much stated that there''s Gertrude Stein then everyone else. He is nonetheless well-read, and read each word with care.

I herewith post my poem and his response. I do so not to add weight to my writing, but to present someone's approach to reading poetry. As a poet, it is not really my job to know what I'm doing. I am a conduit. That does not mean I renounce intention and technique, it means I honour the process of the words' gathering. A poem doesn't write itself, it finds itself, thru the poet.

Below is my poem, which I also posted to my poetry blog, Simple Theories, here. Bob's reaction, which he calls “Luminoius Lint”, follows the poem. Apologies for the spacy format in Bob’s section. Now how he presented it, but too time-consuming to correct.

* * * * *

You Will Hear a Dial Tone to Confirm Your Connection

My dying dad, we talk of rags. The beginning sees the Winston cigarette that somebody wanted. Later approval wore shoes. My dying dad in 2005, fit full of years. Destination smoke. You could say that, tho he smoked a pipe. His smoke was named relishing, which is a principle of poetry.

Why the weird gaze, populace? You old in the hills when you smile piles of underwear track panic. Scouting density is the new fat band. Traces of words stick to rock walls and halos. The linear fat check smiles Galadriel paddle ball. After it smoke rendering oil, the torso of occasion bends windward.

Words of rotation caulked the seeming. The present dad is when you look on a promontory. Whilst, in the evening, memory wants oil. So sliding posse fetch, to bring outlaw rampart dogma home.

The cattle of dad goes to prime. Each word conks oboe with a brow beat. You say intend, everyone else matches panza division hearing loss. Express words in digits of computed aggression, and sorry for the sag.

Too many words associate with too many not really exact ponds. A pond is life and dad. In dad the concept of dad, the concept in all time of dad, when really, it was a form. It bled into a country flag, forming the moral equivalent of lint.

Rags excursion sent my dad. You in clergy, belfry, Reader, pant.

* * * * *

Luminous Lint (by Bob BruekL)

What is this Poem about?  Is it a complex Poem?

Is it a luminous Poem?  Is it a Poem about concepts?

Is it a Poem about words?  Is it a Poem about words as concepts?

Are words nothing but concepts?  Is it a Poem about Poetry?

Are all Poems ultimately about Poetry?  What is Poetry?

Is it a Poem about lint?  

 

Obviously it is a Poem about the Poet's connection to a memory.

It is about from what he has descended, his flesh and blood.

It is about a bunch of memories, some of them seemingly seared

in his brain.  But the Poem is about the Poet's destiny too,

the Poet's dying:  the destination of the Poem is destiny,

the dying of us all, of all creatures, all things, the Universe itself.

But there is THE BEGINNING, and in hindsight, all beginnings

can be seen to see, to harbor insights into what is to come.

But LATER, when everything is worn out, when everything

has gone up in smoke, puffs of words linger.  Words can

imply anything, but things -- objects -- rear their ugly or

beautiful heads constantly, almost accidentally.

 

So "a principle of Poetry" is squeezed into this Poem,

into almost all the Poems of Allen Bramhall, in fact.

Grammar itself, words, sentences -- all these are subjects

of his Poems, or seem to sneak into all of his Poems.

His Poems are about Poetry, even though the number one

subject of this Poem is the memory of his flesh and blood --

heart and brain, the balls and guts from which he has been

at least partially conceived and created, from which he has

been begot.  The Poet asks us why there is a "weird gaze"

on our faces.  But only Poets know that no Poem is weird.

The Poem is not only about the line from which he descended,

but it is about things like PANIC and DENSITY and FAT.

 

But "traces of words" always "stick" around to enlighten

and muck things up, creating other levels of slippery complexities --

and dare I mumble under my breath -- gaiety and even hilarity

in spite of our ultimate destiny.

 

"The torso of occasion bends."  All of our bodies "bend"

toward a seemingly dire death.  But why is death necessary?

It IS necessary, "but words of rotation caulked the seeming"

of it -- ah, caulked the seams of death, attempting to screw it,

or at least screw around with it.  Rotating words are being

screwed into the subject of the Poem that it be tightly fixed

in memory, or cemented into something -- anything.

 

A solid contact is being attempted in this Poem.

Thereby the Poet can at least temptor pre-tempt

a heads-up about the memories that are being

stirred-up and aroused by the rotating words of the Poem.

(And it is not an error to admit that all feelings

are inundated with pain.) 

 

The Poet is stalking all of the words in his Poem

from a "promontory" that he himself has constructed

that he might see what the heck is being destroyed

and re-created, particularly about the subject

of the Poem which is the opposite of death.

 

"Whilst."

 

All the while this is simultaneous with the unruly memories

and things that are "sliding" and slithering away,

away from the Poet's heart and brain and grasp.

Is the Poem the Poet's attempt to harness something solid

and permanent out of the mess that is the opposite of death?

"Each word conks oboe with a browbeat."

The beat is the rhythm of the coming of death,

and the echoes of deaths that are no longer coming

because they occured, and now nothing remains

but memories -- the remains of memories.  So?

"Express words in digits of computed aggression..."

The Poet implies that the complexity of a Poem

can mar the description of anything, even a pond.

But can a Poet ever possess enough words?

Are words the problem, or is it the fault of each Poet

in how they are abused?  A Poem can express

the love one possesses for anything.  This Poet,

in this Poem, is expressing his love for the Spirit,

Soul, and Body -- for the flesh and blood

that once was here, and is now gone -- yet here

in memories and a Poem, and never totally gone.

Love, memory, a Poem -- are all of these things

only concepts, ideas, structures of words,

foaming words, words foaming at the mouth?

Are words only "the equivalent of lint?"

The Poet's message to us seems to be that

the unconscious experience of the opposite of death

is sacred, and the conscious experience of it 

is shocking and spectacular.  Whoever you are,

wherever you are, whatever you are --

if you are not dead -- "PANT" in awe.

***

I've read this by William Carlos Williams several times, with growing assimilation of its importance. One more of his books that pushed poetry-as-genre around. I did not initially realize how important I thought history was, how much history made sense in the realm of Poetry. Olson drew me into the proposition, and of course Pound. Williams, here, divines a sort of folk expression in his reading of history.

This is an almost unexpected book for me: poet looking at history in a sort of down forest, beguiled, and workmanlike way. It is critical but also poetically rendered. Not scholarly insofar as he cites few sources , and he invests the subjects as solipsistic characters. Yet Pound spoke of epics as poems with history. Williams sees America (the continents) as epic.

Williams grasps the (mostly) familiar highlights and pulls them up to, you know, see the roots. The approach seems somewhat like D H Lawrence's Studies in American Literature. It's an amateur's approach. Enthusiastic but hors de l'ecole. Both books bear the rambunctious of people finding their own path.

Williams takes to soliloquy much of the way, which gives the work a poetic span. He keeps a firm eye on things, and stays free of Whitmanesque cant. At the same time, the soliloquizing asserts that it won't be following the cardinal rules of historical research. Williams is not trying to be definitive, in the sense of one bell tone of agreement. He is choosing angles from which to look.

With Columbus, he provides what was for the time (less so now) a rare wait a sec. I grew up long after this was writ, yet the Columbus I knew discovered America on a merry holiday in October. There arose no question about what that meant. I heard no accounting of people slaughtered in the vested interest of the usual perps. He was served up strictly as Hero.

I know in social studies or whatever the classes were called, we learned about Cortez, Pissarro, and the others who came for glory. They were offered more as discovers and explorers (which they were), rather than conquerors (which also they were).

It was almost Hall of Fame material: Cortez (Ty Cobb, the bastard) beat the Aztecs, Pissarro (Rogers Hornsby) outpointed the Incas, Balboa (Jackie Robinson) first saw the Pacific, etc. The incredible slaughter and wrenching hardly made it thru the code, as taught. Williams wants to peek under the code.

Williams puts emphasis on the Conquistadors, with Cortez, de Soto, de Leon itemized in gross urging. Raleigh appears in grandiose reaching, yet held at bay in the connivance of Elizabethan will. Williams' intent along and thru out is to avoid or outlast the hero's plea. Nothing here like Whitman’s yawp.

Recently reading Hawthorne, Melville, and Poe, I noticed how they held history. Especially with Hawthorne, the settings seem both primordial and close at hand. Time had impact. This New World was busy inventing and reinventing itself. Williams, here, is reading that effort and those changes.

Seems like you can place this with Stein's grand American experiments. Each is a determined effort to make sense out of all the documents, declarations, exclamations, diatribes, darting humilities and humiliations that contrive this country, this land, this place. I mean, that's a poetic project to assert.