When the Invitation Arrives

the poets in the minefields of Pennsylvania labour day and night to produce the fairest examples of their craft. in California the entire population is in love, dreamy love, love without bounds or off track betting. in the wee country of Liechtenstein comrades walk straight to the shoe factory every morning to receive their free sneakers. in Rwanda the lions share their bread with the dead. and while this joy more than subsists, the moon looks down. the moon has pretensions to understanding, just like us, for the moon rolls thru the heavens tied to earth’s mesmerizing gaze. most people don’t care about that. in every inch of the land once known as Russia people open boxes with hope in their hearts. in Japan, the brilliant bullet trains add zest to understanding, such suddenness, such noise. and on it goes. a puddle called Walden Pond extrudes facts daily, and when people drown there, they drown deeply. no mention yet has been made of the delightful fund of lyres that the Grecian model government stockpiles for times of need, an agreeable figurative uncommon hug for one and all. France has learned to emulate the finest mountains of Peru, and even Parisians (formerly, a pox on them) are newly cheerful and inclined to greet Incas without ponderous escapade. Honduras cannot hide its cheeky aurora, Canada has half a mind to shout with glee, Tonga and Madagascar have learned frantic hand-holding tricks, Poland grips the ball with new surety, everything Chinese adds the lift of oneness, trees sprout in the rocks of Thailand, chirping Floridians remove their masks, and everyone, everywhere, dances this glow. all this, friends, can be shipped right to your doormat.

Jean Vengua muses on Paul Metcalf, the reminder of whom (and his writing) is lovely to this child. I don't remember how I came upon Metcalf's work, probably via those Olsonian journals that were a-plenty in the 70s and 80s. he drew particularly from Melville's practical side (as Olson drew from Melville's impractical). the harvested facts and opinions that formed the basis of much of his work developed a lyrical content as he chockablocked them. in some ways, he was like a sensible Pound. and there was a novelist aspect to his work, indeed. this sense of viewpoint and aspect conditioned what he wrote, tho in form he tore from the novel pattern (his early work, the largely standard novel Will West, is awkward in the way it holds itself back). I shall have to dig out my Metcalf trove. thinking on Metcalf distills thoughts about reputations. it seems, tho I'm not the best judge, that he has faded already. death don't have no mercy, as I hear. th flush of newness seems commanding nowadays. I think much can be learned from Metcalf. if nothing else, he always excites me to read, to look for the poetic in other venues than poetry books.

More on FISHER Cats

fisher cats, or more properly, fishers, belong to the marten family. they have pointy teeth and sharp claws. fishers generally weigh about 25 pounds, on earth. one fisher can tear down a house in 15 minutes. they have a rapacious appetite and a roisterous sense of humour. they just love to eat Republicans and frolic in diatomaceous earth. when domesticated, they prove to be able accountants because they are very good with figures and they don't care who they hurt. if you run over a fisher, its pack will find you and tear you to shreds. they will then drag your remains to their secret hideout and poop on them. they have infiltrated New England and their armies are spreading across the country.

listening to Olson at Goddard College (from Penn Sound, dummy pants), heck why do people read poems, just? promise: next reading I give, and I will read again (exclaim Days Poem publicly, why don't I?), I shall moremore than poetry. that process, as it occurs, is important. the made thing already happened, so the moment of the reading had ought to include the moment of the reading. which could, indeed, include a poem that I might have forethoughtedly brought. think of that Vancouver reading, thronged with excitement. and one infers that the entertainment of poetry wasn't the only thrill, but the educating force of thinking minds also riled the audience. are readings like that nowadays? I don't mean to imply that my jibber jab would be such, I mean only it would be a shift of emphasis from a showoffy push of the poem here that visited me. if I wrapped myself around the moment, where the audience and the poems I thought to bring and whatever leaves of grass in my grey matter all could gather a momentum of expression, wouldn't that hold a candle? do you see what I am painting, and where? unguard yourself, that's the message, me and you alike.

nice succinctitude from Rodney Koeneke. and it is not a matter of originality, a bogus concept really, but the poet's connection to the active making of the work. drive your own bus, that is, because it is the process not the production that means anything.

in lieu of reading hip dreadnaught BAP bashing again, you tickle the eyeball and the brain behind it with the further poetic ruminations of Jeff Harrison and Yours Truly at Antic View, the full service poetry blog.

saw Wild Hogs, an uneven comedy that should have starred Steve Nothing and Shirley Null but instead boasted a million dollar cast. it had its moments but I am astonished by how bad Travolta was. and that's coming from someone who sees no reason why he's employed in showbiz. considered yourself warned.

Jean Vengua recounts a mime attack--it can all be explained by the words, Berkeley, California--giving me the opportunity to speak of my Easter Bunny moment. to wit: running thru lovely Concord centre of an Easter morn I bespied The Easter Bunny. seeing me she, the voice was female, called out "Mike, get the runner". EB was across the street--okay, maybe it was someone in a costume--but this "Mike" was on my side of the street. Mike dutifully ran up alongside me and stuck out his hand. I understood the gesture and stuck out mine. Mike handed me jelly beans. I said thanks, running on, and Mike went back to receive more orders from The Easter BUNNY (sound dramatic music). it is a funny ole world.

Last Word

The green field
is a given
tho it takes away

light spills
across his path

he loves to
blink and stop
run and recede

the day darkens
in his exceptional run

we live in the names
and the positions of love

a heaven exists
of running on

we still hold something
in the fog
of our morning

2) Less the bolts of lightning
and less the fields
of lazy grass and
less the dog's
own mooring. Loss ejects the
pleasant sound of lost river,
tributary. Scour the landscape,
which the dog
now roams
full and light. Trees poke high
and dive deep. All union fixes
the sky. Our drama recedes
in the quickness of the dog's
run. Focus is our plan.

3) Only so much
room, only so much
love, the candidate
of love and moving on
comes to know
the green field
of perfect light feet.

The way is clear.

Love mentions us
in passing.

4) These days
are filled with night
and poems need
stars to bring
the words to
warm embrace.

The race is to
the end of this day
and the mortal start
of another.

Love connects the two.

5) It was a beautiful sunset.
The moment of touch
prosecuted an homage,
a peace, tender
information of
long green field.
Is it my job
to remember you? It is
my job to hold the space
we held together.
It remains your job
as well.

my dog passed away today... passed away, I eupheme, except a generous clarity enters the term. he slipped into death, sweetly, tho Beth and I cried. and I told him he'd be running, running ahead. he was part husky, part German shepherd, that sort of thing. I nicknamed him Next County Brownie because (typical of huskies, I am told (by Beth, who had purebreds)) given the opportunity to roam free, he'd take it. if he managed to get away, he was prepared to cover the map. it's the husky nature to find the way home, but that's after sufficient time to explore. under previous ownership he got away, and was found in a restaurant dumpster, living the good life. 4 days before 9/11, I trotted off to the nearby farmstand for dinner fixins. there by the side of the road was Brownie. I was surprised to see him there, 1st. 2nd, that he didn't trot gleefully away when I saw him said something bad. I went over to him and saw a gash in his shoulder. which looked like what another dog might've done (Brownie himself was anything but aggressive). and then I noticed that his foot, which he held off the ground, wobbled. I pieced together that he'd been hit by a car. so he had a broken leg, which was really traumatic for us, worry and expense. in fixing the break, the vets only worry about the main weight bearing bones, so tho he healed, his leg splayed and he wasn't quite as devastatingly fast as before. he wore a cast for a while. I'd be up early in the basement, writing and would hear the dog pace. thump thump thump, it sounded nothing but like Ahab on the deck. and the 1st chance that he saw an unattended open door, out he dashed, luckily Beth was in position to catch the boy. memories now attended as the life that was lived. our home now feels empty. the cat, a nervous fellow, is disturbed. he really, I mean truly, idolized Brownie. and Brownie, who was cool as a yankee, never really seemed to reciprocate. he bullied the cat tho it often seemed in a protective way. when people visited us, the dog would shove the cat, who did not readily cotton to visitors, away. all these specifics define nothing, of course. I so strongly see Brownie in the green light of some endless field, running without time as a burden. loss is a saturation. death demands that we look. tomorrow I will not walk the dog. it has been a retelling of my father's death.

snake

snake, originally uploaded by allen_bramhall.

perspective

perspective, originally uploaded by allen_bramhall.

web

web, originally uploaded by allen_bramhall.

chairs

chairs, originally uploaded by allen_bramhall.

1st of all, 3 demerits for not having charged spare camera batteries. we went apple picking, which on this perfected sunday afternoon is hard to argue with. for all its quaintness, as you might imagine. it isn't quaint, really. I mean, I used to think, pick 'em for me. but it is lovely among the trees, the sky so blue, air crisply clear tho warmish. the yellow delicious (called golden supreme) looked like fantastic flowers in the trees from a distance. I track particularly to empires and macouns. empires have a deep bluish red colour that is exquisite and tastewise are my favourite. bag of apple swag in one hand, camera in the other, until, alas, both batteries depleted. which was before we came upon some stones set as benches, on the edge of the forest. Stonehenge, where the dewdrops cry and the carts meow!!! then a tour of local new england nowhere, little towns on the NH border. anyway, pictures once I can retrieve them from a charged up camera.

Walden. last sunday Stephen Vincent and I met at the pond. he's on this coast for a number of functions, which he will likely recount on his blog. we met at the replica of Thoreau's hut, located in the parking lot across the street from the entrance to the pond. a crisp autumnal afternoon, postcard pretty. we circumambulated and talked. I like offering the local highlights to people, share my interest. Olson's sense, or sensation, of local very much excited me as I came to understand poetry, and the greater surge of writing. btw, Ron Silliman lists 25 recently received books. 24 are categorized as poetry. the 25th, The Light Sang as it Left Your Eyes by Eileen Tabios, was placed in the molten category of other. it is a fussy fustian that would make such a distinction. so Eileen's not a poet, eh, she's an otherist. which, frankly, I'd like to be, as well. but anyway. that tangent drew from my own, if not Mr Silliman's, fluid sense of poetry's boundaries. so anyway, we, this nuclear family, have taken Walden as a necessity. we've declared that sunlight on water, etc, is needed on the bows of our eyes. water is like that, certes. Beth was on the Jersey shore with a friend last weekend, feeling that resource. bodies of water bear primordial benefit, or something like. Walden is our local fare. today we brought picnic and settled near the shore. swimmers criss crossed the water. the sun glinted low with metallic harshness (last gasp). 3 pairs of mallards noisily preened and dabbled. Erin remained behind reading while Beth and I took a lap. autumn in th air and that rings an urge to read the English Romantics. always, this is true.

I saw a book today entitled Truth and Poetry Concerning Uric Acid. honestly, I did. sounds like a title I should use somewayhow but it's a 19th century medical book. Truth and Poetry placed in opposition. poetry as fabulous, unlikely and untruthful. it is fair to ask why such an interpretation could exist at all. poetry is a consternation of language. not a misuse, but an objective demand on language's boundaries. and, yes, there are effects in poetry that can make anyone wince, in every generation. the Byronic hero (which Byron himself could be pretty acerbic about) has yet to keel over, for instance, and of course, odes to dead animals. to say poetry is truth is to step onto a wobbly rock, but poetry possesses something that relates to others (readership) in a deep way. so that people who disparage or ignore poetry still accept an assertion pertaining to poetry, almost as a religious function. I cannot speak knowledgably of the truth of uric acid but I doubt not at all about the poetry of it. a language of uric acid, a communication of the processes and reactions involved with uric acid. think, in this world, of the details, each bit with a language. the novel JR by William Gass... [is that right???]... features a young boy as the title character. that boy makes the vivid point that everything you see, even toilets: someone has made a millions bucks on. every thing, too, has a word, every word possesses marks of poetry. I mean poetry as an aggressively expansive force in lives. I mean poetry as a conformation and challenge within the mighty relationship of out selves and the world. holy crap, this is a large involvement, people!!! so this medical book, from a bygone, but still: the poetry of uric acid: it exists!!!

this town here celebrated its 288th anniversary yesterday. it became a town when it got a church organized. the church, across the street, allowed 'us' to detach from neighbouring Billerica (3 syllable pronunciation, for those scoring at home). the celebration consisted of... lame maneuvers. noble canine and I scoped the territory out early, as things were setting up in the town hall parking lot. booths of veritable excitement. returning, I rousted Erin from bed (Beth is in NJ, by the seashore, with a friend). various town businesses and organizations showed their wares and/or wiles. I don't know the celebratory worth of hearing an insurance company's patter, frankly. Erin fell for the siren lure of fried dough, the presence of which was a concession to real town celebration. we went home, not far away, after that to change into dry clothes, for the windows of heaven were opened more than a crack. as we changed we could hear the town's fire engines and police cars, the beginning of the parade. we walked over to the green, across the street, to watch. Erin had his camera, Beth had mine. the town's DPW vehicles followed the emergency ones. someone in each vehicle tossed candy to the spectating forces along the street. this produced the effect of little children lunging avidly in front of dump trucks and such for the caramel bull's eye, Tootsie Roll or even Tootsie Pop that define their goal structure. rain became earnest at this time. apres such excitement was more organizations: scouts, athletics, bands etc. including the Mason's, who wore back suits, white gloves and what looked like a bib over their crotch (!!!). Erin;s karate school passed thru dramatically. Erin chose to pass on the parade this year. near the end of the parade the wind rose noticeably and the rain intensified, even like the tail end of a tropical storm. after noon the rain surprisingly cleared, so Erin and I went to the Native American Powwow just up the road at the VA Hospital grounds. pow wows are a yearly feature here but I've always missed them up till now. I didn't know what to expect. Erin said if it's a bunch of old men sweating then he's out. I can picture what he means but it wasn't so. the small open field held a ring of tented booths and in the centre a dance circle. the booths offered native American gimcrack, to put it crassly. jewelry and what not, much more interesting, tho, than what the insurance companies at the town celebration offered. the central feature was the 3 drum circle groups who supplied the music and impetus for the dancing in the circle. I know nothing from all this so excuse my ignorance. 6 or 7 males sat at a large tom tom. each beat on it and sang. drums incite me, no question. it is basic trance inducement. I love it. I felt like a clod watching the dancers but it is new to me. men, women and children would step into the circle in a gracious formal way and invest in the beat. I saw the steps taken, which I think is touch toe then touch full foot, then the same with the other foot. some waved fans. that's the measure, which is like a breath, which is a poetics in action. how this measure moves the individual is varied. some are very inward and meditative while others are outward and flash. children prancing, elders stately. the town celebration was so culturally inept, it wasn't there at all. Whereas I felt the cultural connection at the pow wow. there was a young fellow dressed up fine who sang with one of the drum groups. he wore a zowee 'native costume'. a red and black statement that is a translation of, say, John Travolta in Sat Nite Feev. he was a terrific dancer, a centripetal concentration. in the same group was one I suspected as his younger brother. he wore t-shirt and baseball cap. during one dance he came out and faced up his brother and they danced face to face, challenging yet lovely in the possibility of advance. They ended on the final beat with a synchronized pose, then hugged. my guess of their siblingship was confirmed by someone remarking on the brothers' performance. I saw an artistic energy of collaboration, which itself fits a challenge. one dance was for children, the candy dance. candy was scattered in the circle and the children danced until the singing stopped, at which point they could dive for the nearest candy. the song itself, the only English one that I heard, spoke of Tootsie Rolls and Charlston Chews. another dance was the jingle dance. this was for young women. several of whom wore costumes (I don't want to use that word) with jingly features. those features, it was explained, are generally made from the tops of snuff containers. a young dancer who was the female version of the guy in red, almost went en pointe in her dancing. she wore a brilliant yellow dress with myriad jangles. golly, it was all so lovely and direct. people certainly came from the further reaches of New England, if not further. some of the commercial offerings were telling, like hats stating Viet Nam Vet or Iraq Vet. I'd like to get that toe step down, tho I cannot feel common in the circle. I mean, I felt like white bread disease. my people celebrated their history by inviting insurance companies to show their wares.

still squeezing out some sultry days tho autumn clearly imminent. near 100 and humid yesterday. last week we cleaned windows and in doing so took the a/c out, for how hot will it get from now on? okay, so we misjudged that. late afternoon we headed north toward a seafood festival in Hampden Beach that we heard about. an all weekend affair. during the ride up we saw towering clouds and weird light, and some rain. New Hampshire's seashore is just a little more extensive than that of Kansas, so all the usual seashore delights are packed into a modest area. Portsmouth, which is pretty swish and historical, will show you some fancy good times, grand homes and even artistic expression. Hampden Beach is a squalid playground, like Jersey's boardwalks, teeming and chockablock. the festival had attracted a crowd. we could've parked free and taken a shuttle in but wanted to pass thru. past, that is, the $10 municipal parking and $20 free enterprise opportunities. much car traffic and the streets were full of meandering pedestrians. we last ventured here in the winter, during a snowstorm, with a hard bitter wind blowing. it was a ghost town. now (but not for much longer)... people were still on the beach tho lightning flashes could be seen in the distance. and the panoply of delights that caught the eye: karaoke 7 nights a week, tattoo parlours (ooo, parlour, how grand), legal fireworks stores. and I believe you could find yourself a beer here and there. and fried clams. this area is part of the war zone between Taxachusetts and Live Free or Die. no sales tax in NH, and the state run liquor stores supposedly can save you money. also tobacco products are taxed less. I'm not sure you always save by going north, but if you are there for your much needed supply of fireworks, I guess it can all work out. it really was the body electric going on, people in a parade of eat, drink and be merrie. it looked like too much work: we gave the festival a pass. which is okay with me, fish is anathema for me. I can eat fish, and sometimes can even 'like' it, but I just don't want to. we moseyed to the town of Hampden, which is more sedate, pretty even. oh, I didn't mench the resort we passed. it appeared to be an inn, with a donut shop attached, perhaps a restaurant too, all packed in this little building. you'd never need to leave. and don't forget the $200,000 1 bedroom condo sort've near the beach and definitely near every manner of available noise and fun time ruction in the area. we ate at a restaurant we'd hit the last time thru. it is an inn of considerably more extent than that resort. there was a 35 minute wait at the main dining room, which meant that Erin would completely die from hunger before even seeing a menu. they said we could try the lounge, which indeed, after a moment's wait, offered up a table. the lounge was your basic sports bar, with 6 tvs tuned each to different college football games, and 1 Red Sox game. same menu. I don't know how it became the thing to serve up such hyper distraction--the tiresome thump of 'Benny and the Jets' serenaded us as well--but it's de rigueur. I rather like it, in small doses. swift-footed Ellsbury Jacoby lofts a 1st inning fly to leftfield, then sparky Dustin Pedroia pokes a sharp single past the 3rd baseman then David 'Big Papi' Ortiz strokes one into the stands of Camden Yard, where everyone seems to be wearing Red Sox garb. but someone went yard on Dice-K on about his 5th pitch and our scrappy team went down in defeat. not that we were there beyond that meatball that Matzusaka served up. the temperature dropped 20 degrees whilst we roamed. flickers of lightning and barely discernible thunder thru the night, and much needed rain. poetry is everywhere.

just received The Light Sang as it Left Your Eyes by Eileen Tabios (Marsh Hawk 2007). it is compellingly subtitled 'Our Autobiography'. the cover consists of Warholian reverberations of 2 images: Eileen and her father. one infers that the our of the subtitle refers to father and child. which, surely, it does; it's a lovely embrace. Eileen goes it further, tho, by linking herself to the daughter of Ferdinand and Imelda Marcos, who shares Eileen's birthday. just to add a neat Guy Davenport-like coincidence, the birthday is September 11. all this I gleaned from my first scantest scan. I intend no review at this time, and am limited just now as Beth is currently in the process of reading the book (she cooked, hence I washed dishes, hence she had 1st dibs). (what's a dib, btw, and is a plurality thereof really somehow better?). I am inspired to write a few Tabiosian words, generalities upon the phenomenon. Eileen has invented, I here declare, a new genre, which might be called Gallimaufry, or, perhaps, And The Kitchen Sink. I chose those terms for their sense of inclusion and variety. like her previous brick, I Take Thee, English, for My Beloved (Marsh Hawk), Eileen utilizes stylistic variety: prose, hay(na)ku, collaboration, etc. I like how process is so close to the surface. and she does not divorce her blog writing and connections from her poetry. which, too, proposes process as a central energy of the work. that how the poem and book arrived to its life is as important as what its life 'is'. this is consistent with the poets who interest me. I don't mean in the sense of I went to Yaddo and breathed the free air sort of processual undertaking. I mean Eileen lets ideas happen, gives them free rein in the composition. Eileen's gestures around 'the subject' form a space that is the subject. all this is evident by early fresh glances. I look forward to digging in in earnest.