book peas 3 

book peace 2 

book piece 1 

John Bennett posted a piece to Wryting by Jim Leftwich concerning JB's work. it is a phenomenal piece for its critical acumen. Leftwich is an astonishing writer himself, an astonishing artist, and comes to JB's work with a technical appreciation as well as an artistic one. JB and JL have done a ton of collaborations together, as well as with others. they surely are simpatico. in this piece, JL really gets into the machinery. I wish I could post the thing here, it's so useful. the piece opens possibilities for me in JB's work (I'm not the best reader around, so any help is gladly accepted). the piece also inspires me to try something different in my own work. these two go on the list of writers who ought to be studied now. I'm not saying I haven't resistance to this work. I think I feel overly stupid, not confident in my critical ability. which leaves me at times not doing justice to work because it confuses or otherwise rattles me. I had this problem 30 plus years ago, when I 1st met the work of Pound, Dickinson, Stein, Zukofsky, Grenier, Olson and, I'm afraid, all too many others, who sent me into dismay. yet I came to grips with many of these writers. Bennett and Leftwich seem to inhabit a universe that, for all its wonders, doesn't get a lot of notice. god knows why. read them, read Sheila Murphy, read Peter Ganick, read Ivan Argülles, read the folks published by Bennett in his Lost and Found Times. there's a lot of energy out there.

my father's memory seemed endless, once, now it is a sieve and going. it seemed like he had the history of both Cambridge and Provincetown in hand, in mind, for he grew up in both places and seemingly remembered everything. but. and yeah living with that change is hard. I remember stories, of his meeting famous people. I have hardly any such, but my father, ordinary as he is, has a few. my father went to see Gene Krupa's band soon after Krupa left Benny Goodman's band. a band member being indisposed (hmmm), Krupa borrowed a player from Glenn Miller's band. my father's up front listening to the band when who but Miller himself comes along to check out the band, and chat with my father. I think maybe Goodman (who played at my father's college graduation (Tufts 35)) also showed up. the time meeting a Robert Benchley feeling under the presumably bourbon-coloured weather on the ferry to Martha's vineyard. the funeral of a friend of my father's father found my father sitting next to and being consoled by Faye Wray. my favourite is when my father's flight was delayed for some important lardy pants. said lardy pants turned out to be Tip O'Neill (not the 19th century ballplayer but el speaker de casa). who sat next to my father and engaged him in talk about North Cambridge, where both grew up. all politics is local, as Tip is famous for saying. Beth and I remind my father of these stories, and he says oh yes, but cannot offer anything more. my father asks where the dining room is, where his bedroom is. even, once, my name. and the hurting resides in his recognition of the loss. and it's funny that his stories now are my stories.

I wish this blog were as funny and odd as Lisablog.

to wit:

Mushroom Forest is my 1st try at rubbing mushroom prints. since they were light-coloured prints, the soors faint, I 1st sprayed with hairspray to fix the spoors, then rubbed with graphite pencil. the image looks better in hand, but I admit I went too far with the thing. Imp Print is a better rendering. I've had trouble getting decent prints because my cat regards mushroom caps spread out on paper as a clear instigation, so he's taken to knocking them off when I'm elsewise engaged. there are 2 shroom prints on the floor thanks to this terrorist's vision and energy. Book Art is simply 2 pages of a used book I have. Geof Huth recently presented a Wallace Stevens poem that he (Geof) had doodled and taken notes on. the previous owner of my book performed a lot of doodles. one story in the book, almost every phrase was underlined, but not as if the reader were getting something from the book, just underlining as the teacher spoke.

imp print 

mushroom forest 

book art 

Barrett Watten's troisième installment to his Weekly Reader presents a meaty chew concerning Zukofsky. worth reading. a description of the contumelious contretemps that arose between Watten and Duncan at the Zukofsky memorial. the intensity seems to rise from concerns other than literature and poetry, something timely rather than timeless. peek at the comments on Silliman's post of 9/21 (and of course you notice that the comments are hardly on Silliman's post), and see that it's a busy onramp to something off. well, you also see that comments boxes, like listservs, are not the best place for dialectics. anyway, Watten's piece puts another light on Zukofsky, the one who reappeared last week. he mentions in passing the sexual innuendo early in A, which I have been noticing. Zukofsky's writing is not, as I would say, picturesque. the careful evocations of sound and sense (that is, meaning) are not sensual in that way. the dance is mental in a way both cunning and lovely. some great photos of Z around. I like the one on Silliman's blog, that sharp edged profile and nifty hat. I don't know enough about the US in the 1st half of the century, Z's milieu, that is. or I should say, revelations thereof are useful in approaching Z.

I'd hate to get stuck in Ron Silliman's comment box.

it is not merely my assumption that few people read this blog, Site Metre gives me the facts. as well as the odd info that so many people are doing web searches on the word 'tributary'. no, they aren't seeking my blog, but I don't know for what they seek. I thank Chris Murray (of Texfiles, which see) for noting this blog's existence. I sure as hell can keep going sans audience, but it's nice to think a person or two is reading. I believe it is particularly at this point that Henry Gould (in the wilds of Providence RI) and I (amidst the coyote, deer and owls of Bedford MA) meet.

I have been poking along in A. so much of which I have no reference. Olson is unusually lucky to have Butterick and others (former students) do the dirty work, help with references. we're talking a team effort here. I am sourly disappointed with the Poetics list, in that its conversation tends toward theory at the cost of specific enthusiasms. whenever a poet dies, there are eulogies on the list. but why so few mentions of these poets while still alive? and by enthusiasm, I don't mean yow, this writer is cool!. I mean whatever involving energy one might take from the writing. I get what people don't like about Olson. like, hey daddio, lighten up, man. that Maximus persona is pretty heavy, a big bully guy. still, I have an enthusiasm for his work and what he did as a writer. I can't point in my own work where Olson pulled me thru, I just have to assume, given how I read him, that he must've. it is awesome that folks convened to talk of LZ. I'm thinking last year may've been Lorine Niedecker's cententary (her turn, that is). was there an event for her? I'm percolating here, kinda uselesly. I'm real susceptible to enthusiasm. I know the people convening in NYC for LZ are into it, you sure get that from Josh Corey and Ron Silliman and Stephen Vincent. t'weren't just a gig. and I am psyched to lay into Z's work, just to taste that enthusiasm myself. I read Z when I was a teenage knucklehead in college. I was much challenged by his work, even bugged, but found myself picking out the shiny bits. I just want to hear about what others think are the shiny bits,with Z and with anyone else that pops their cork.

a reason Henry's work in progress interests, and why it should interest you, is that it is happening now. Olson died before I'd herd of him, but I did await the 3rd volume of Maximus with keen interest. I've seen Rachel Blau DuPlessis' Drafts build over time, tho its appearance coincided with my own drift from poetry in the 90s, so it is only recently that I've givern her work due attention. the other big works were largely done before I came along. well, I did witness Duncan's later work as it appeared. the point being the opportunity to see the work grow. Lanny Quarles asked of John M Bennett, on Wryting-L, if there were any in depth considerations of John's work. and of course, there's little beyond reviews. but it's a good question. instead of waiting for the next generation to confirm what we suspect, we should pile on, get in.

more from Josh Corey on Louis Zukofsky. good stuff.

just to get it right eventually, my lifelong goal: Gary Sullivan's book from Faux Press is titled How To Proceed in the Arts(2001). I said Succeed, which shakes the meaning some. now equipped with accurate information, you can now proceed to buy the book, see Faux Press link to the right.

Z-Fest Notes from All Over

yes, I've groused, but these are really useful and insightful.

Vincent
Silliman 3
Silliman 2
Silliman 1 (and you might want to give Kirby Olson's comments a pass until he ties his thinking cap on tighter)
Corey 2
Corey 1

Lanny Quarles moved his blog. I've retained the old one in my links (likewise with Carl Annarummo) for historical purposes. I realize that it's an edgy move on my part to implement such changes but I'm a topnotch guy.

glad to see this post from Chris Murray. there are always people out there who can say it better. I'd've liked to've been to the Zukofsky event, yet even were I close by, I mightn't've made the bother of going, just for the expectation of disappointment. plus it's a gunslinger sitch, where's your cred. really, the greatest honour to LZ would be the reading of his work, in earnest of respect for the writing. not to say people's glimmers aren't interesting and useful. I find Stephen Vincent's "Walking Theory" to be a great (I won't put this in terms of comparison) tribute to LZ for the poems radiate lessons from LZ, while remaining fully SV's work. a practical example, that is. boxing up LZ and delivering him to a class structure kinda sends energy in the wrong direction. the 80 or whatever attendance is not, by my lights, a good turn out.

okay here's my take of this. the background words are Greek chorus, fairly clear and organized. foreground is a jumble of letetrs building a thing amongst themselves, the characters of the Greek play. their muddle in comparison to the strict tempo chorus, that balance and consideration. and beyond that, nice to look at.

see, names come up, or I stumble on a book, and then I'm keen to read. thus reading a little of Drafts (1-38), Toll by Rachel Blau DuPlessis (Wesleyan 2001). I know I read the 1st poem in the series long ago in Temblor (which must be the handsomest mag ever (peace Leland Hickman)). the poem locates itself outside the Olson/Pound historical stance. its focus is more like the word or letter, in an inward mystery way. I would call it an exploration, a word I usually hate in this context but I think here is appropriate. her motivation perhaps similar to Zukofsky in ways, going smaller (in a quantum way) than sentence and, um, 'meaning', to syllable and letter. Grenier heads there. it'the work is a little intellectual in a dry way, like a professor's exercise. like maybe the work of professoring kinda slops over the boundaries into the writing, but that's really just a quibble. poets as professors do got to watch that, tho. the thingieness of writing gets objectified. I (non-professor) can do that too, of course, but professors got more opportunity. word to the wise, Rachel.

"It is time to experiment, time to leave the well-ordered but stuffy operating theater, time to restore a vulgar vitality to brain surgery and unleash the energy now trapped in the subculture. There is nothing to lose. Society has already told us that brain surgery is dead. Let's build a funeral pyre out of the desiccated conventions piled around us and watch the ancient, spangle-feathered, unkillable phoenix rise from the ashes!" --G Sullivan on brain surgery (see below).

is this flarfy? who cares. it's a terrific, serious-sounding call to arms about an... issue... great touch of tone, great meaning out of meaninglessness.

re below: I appreciate Gary for his humour, never enough of that around. he's also a very good critic. in his book from Faux Press, which my memory says is called How To Succeed in the Arts (I have the book, and have been reading it recently, but memory is overrated), he remembers his friend Ramez Qureshi in a touching tribute. the mentioning of whom, in his introduction, invoked a sort of integrity which he wished his book could claim. and I think that integrity is part of Gary's work. I really am disappointed in botching the chance to see him (and Brandon Downing) read in the Analogous Series. anyway, flowers in the road.

Gary Sullivan keenly dissecting brain surgery. finally, someone with the guts to speak out!!!!!

I guess our scholars gots to get together. Festival of Zukofsky, or Orano Hoedown. Josh Corey on his blog mentions NOT HAVING TICKETS TO THE RECEPTION (how egalitarian is that?), so... missing a piece in the puzzle. I am very glad to see his report. but hey, I'm tired of Icon Bob Creeley. I mean, I'm ready to deprecate what I like about him, just out of frustration or consternation. isn't there a furniture store opening he could appear at? have I said somethign bad? argh. the tiny economy and Masonic Gang Signs of POETRY LITTLE WORLD. Zukofsky is 'mine' too, even if I'm a dumb ass. also, I'm amidst suspecting that Charles Bernstein is James Tate. could it be? okay, I'll let the fizz abate, and write proper respect later. who's the best damn poet in the world?

the bad men work jerky with plenary districts still rushing to forget. why is it always men and the substance of their balloons? it’s about doctoring with cool testicle, while balloons are made into day stories. you’re on the beach of course or at least Fenway Park, trading examples of moroseness with your neighbour. the blimp itself plans to embark upon the second nature of intent. this is man pie, for once and endless. are you a man? like me, you have an answer. the spaces that tailor for doctrine resume an approach while scaling back the work hours of some little one here or there. remember slavery? it was a great stern boast on improvement. at least, it got things done. didn’t it, or does the news just seem shallow? like, what’s so special about microscopes, that you can’t just read the newspaper? the bad men envelope a few choice importances, and it seems rare even to hear their spatter. it, something, rains onto everything, it looks Spartan and tradeworthy. now we can infer what we will. the blimp might explode, but it will be for our good. the dust of example in the church of great air.

-- [from ongoing blimp writings}

I wanted to write more about Nada Gordon's work, I'm so lame in my articulations. I spoke of her writing's density. I find a confluence of energies in her work. a surreal visual quality, if I know what surreal means. and I do, it means intense, odd collisions of elements (because I said so). there's also the sound of common language being hefted into view, with the odd light of considered thought included. that lumpy phrase refers to the ironic yet sincere public voice that we all inherit and get lost in. I read a few of her poems aloud ("Mom, Is This An Interesting Beach?", "Paeonies" ("dionysian useless category trouble again") and others. reading cold, it is hard to choose a tonal path for her poems. or maybe I'm just a slump. it took me several tries with "Mom" before I felt comfortable. not all her poems are such challenges. I get a little lost in her punctuation, but I'm kinda anal about punctuation. the struggle is just to get the ear for her writing's changeableness. and it isn't a struggle, it's a matter of practice. I haven't read enough of her work, nor heard her read. I need more NGbooks. V.IMP is too pretty to mark up (good paper, well bound) so I haven't got the lines marked that I liked. the reading experience includes sudden finds ("you and your ladylike insomnia"), that make you jump or laugh or just say whoa! as I said previously, her poems written around 9/11 distracted me, as I got thinking of the events of that day. when I moved from a hey something's going on hint from the radio to amazing visual on tv, the 1st thing I saw was a tape loop of the 2nd plane hitting WTC. with Peter Jennings chattering about something else, the picture simply seemed cinematic, even tho I grokked the sitch. I mean, shades of "Independence Day" spectacle. whereas those in NYC were dealing with something much more visceral and immediate. Nada's poems, written around the event, are courageous and personal, different from what I, safely nigh Boston, could possibly produce at that time. it is remarkable to think there is language left, that Nada could situate the writing at that time. "I didn't know it was a subject". I'm not reviewing her work here, but accomodating the energy felt and received. I'd like to see more commentary that rises above captioning the new stuff, but instead does a little muscular work. there's a task for Tributary, if I'm up to it. Gould and Gordon are on my list of poets to watch, in terms of oeuvre, not just the spankingnew pome arriving in the latest ish of WHATEVER.

I find Henry Gould's recent exploration into his own work intriguing and useful. a peek at process. and as he said, no one else is doing that job (someone other than Henry has to tell the world that it's okay to take his work seriously), so he might as well get crackin'. Olson particularly wrote and spoke of Maximus in progress, he had Butterick and others who got the concept or wanted to, and so did a lot of digging. Henry's work deserves to be considered in that group of writers he cites. why not? it comprises something large. the matter of whether the long serial poem is a male domain I don't feel competent to speak to, tho a mention of Drafts by Rachel Blau Duplessis should be made. everyone writes just one big ass poem, that there oeuvre, but there is something tempting about entering into an open ended process. I've put myself into long projects, but they work towards an end, even if that end isn't envisioned. I'm only scraping around in the garden Henry's making, so far, but I like what I see.

room fit 

quick mention of Days by Hank Lazer (Lavender Ink 2002). it represents a year long project, daily ten-line poems. a note at the end explains his process, which is thoughtful and patient. there's method in his method. not strictly journal poems, nor does each day have a poem. the poem and the series is much edited, part of the process. the poems are fresh, flinty confections, but I mean there is a sweet pleasure to them, not to deny their depth. there are handwritten additions, crediting quotes and references or, like Dickinson, adding alternative readings. it's quite a lovely book. Bill Lavender is the publisher and credit should go to his typesetting, which is thoughtful and tasteful (and consistent with what I've seen of other examples of his typesetting). since I've just been reading Nada Gordon's work, I can see a vast difference in density, yet reaching toward a similar sense of made thing. like, Gordon writes in a language that's dense (not convoluted except as humanly possible) and wound up, whereas Lazer writes in one that's spare and unravelled. and the point is, they reach the same place, a poetry.

More Great News!!!

what a day! I've also been acquired by Yahoo! details are still sketchy, especially the part about being acquired by Google as well, but I'm assured that it is all good. looks like I'll have to step up production a tad, but I've been thinking about putting in more time with my blogs. feels great to be part of not just one but two great teams! looks like quite a ride ahead!!!

Big News!

I've been acquired by Google! the good folks at Google assure me that this acquistion should have no affect whatsoever on either the quality or quantity of my posts (for all my blogs). there's been talk of book deals, international readings, even some movie ideas have been bounced around, but that's getting ahead of things. could BRAMHALL t-shirts be in the offing? stay tuned!!!

some probs are just so big: welcome to a concern: Foetry. hold on to your hats, tho. poetry contests are rigged? they might be run by unscrupulous people??? doubtless a drowsey numbness pains your sense to hear it. well, the shock is finally wearing off here in the Bramhall Poetry Bunker® (walls 17' thick, lead lined to keep out distraction from my march to the poetical tiptop). success orientated? send flowers, candy and envelopes of unmarked Benjamins to Jorie Graham for starters.

few writers have shown so conistent a __________ as __________. S/he has brought a brutal _______ and at times incomprehensible ________ to _______. Her/his influence on contemporary poetry has been more ______ than any ______. ________ ranks with _______, ________, and even _______ as one of the few _____ to _______ such a grand ______!!!!

I've changed the Navbar from black to tan to better express my many moods.

Barrett Watten announces a determination to post weekly, that's weekly, on poetics and LANGUAGE and all the vital issues here. that's a cool idea, bunker musings, foxhole considerations. it's on Silliman's blog, isn't it, in which Duncan says to upstart langpoistas, can't you just have fun? and Watten replies, this is our fun. I wonder at the tangibility of much of the discussion. the attempt to define boundaries in water. well, you can: with walls. BW betrays a historical sense that seems set in the future, circa right now. there's a right-sounding voice speaking here, busy cleaning up the present mess so that the future mess can have a home. I mean, there's something Bloomian (Harold) about this insistence on structuring. which I find mostly just corny. I seem to be ragging on Watten, but am interested in his project, and take what he says seriously if not agreeably. I don't pass over what he says. I just seem to be of a different world. and I guess that'll happen. when I look at my critical commentary, such as it is (and paltry, I know), I wonder how I can keep it all under one theory, aegis, whatever. I know what I have read, I know what has jittered my nerve, but to consume that into a basis looks like more project than AHB can manage. so seat of the pants rules pour moi, and scramble as I may.

nice interview project at here comes everybody. blogs are free webspace. nice to see a different usage of the potential.

the wayback machine

listening to Sgt Pepper's Lonely Heart's Club Band. which was a revolution for mewhen released. over the years I've become more sensitive to Paul's smarminess, John's artiness, and the trend toward over production. there's a wonderful aural field of investigation here, to be sure, but it's also kinda sterile. it's still a pretty outrageous piece of work. pop music becomes self conscious.

not attending the Zukofsky festival, and seemingly a good portion would fly over my head, but here's a succinct bio. I quibble with the sense of influence on view here, slighting Lorine Niedecker and otherwise oversimplifying a still mysterious process by which we take and give. we all get wound up in heroes, it's tough not to.

reading V.IMP by Nada Gordon (Faux Press 2002). she used to post rarely on Subpoetics, but always something that made me jump. there's a potent density to her work. real concentrated, yet also breezy in an affordable housing New York poetry way. her series of poems tangling with 9/11 distracted me, as I got to thinking how I reacted then. I wrote quite a bit in those days, but tho I seemed to be around 'the subject' (and knew it was a subject), I found that I had to remain oblique. direct communique would for me have been a usage that I could not warrant. Nada managed a direct hit, and so did, for another instance, Ivan Argüelles, but I had to be careful. when my mother was dying (9 days in ICU) I told myself NOT to write a poem of her death. mere hours after her death, I was writing that poem. but it was the only one, and it had to happen. I wish I had better words with me, for I like Nada's strength in the bubbly blur, which is political, poetical, philosophical and radical in a fun yet straining way. strain on me, that is. I think more people should be writing about her work. I invite the eloquent ones out there to do so.

HD is especially interesting in the obsession (ie focus) that keeps her at it. I think that engine is what keeps me interested in poetry in general. crafting column filler for the New Yorker or crunchy pastries for Poetry (Chicago) (okay I'm being snide) aint the business I want to be in. the presence of Greece in HD's work is instructive, just as Concord flora and fauna (including human) is with Thoreau. and of course Olson's Gloucester. and Zukofky. and Henry Gould disporting in Providence. it's the relationship of the work to the life. I guess the instruction of the individual poem pales compared to the work of the life involved. make sense? I guess it's not the made thing I'm taken by, but the making thing.

just did a quick read of Tribute to Freud by HD. I have to read it more carefully, but am enthralled by it. she's so persistent, a qquality I think I equate with Duncan. persistent in the artistic vision. both see connective puns everywhere. by which I don't simply mean plays on words, but echoes, connections. seeing Freud from this view is instructive. it doesn't diminish the work that he did to witness his self sense, that he it is who discovers (strikes oil). and HD of course is utterly courageous, as well as wise. I also got Trilogy by her. this book came via inter-library exchange from the Acton (Ma) library. it was donated in 2001 by Robert Creeley. where Creeley lived in his youth. Creeley read at that library this past summer. I was either away or just couldn't swing it. HD's book look's brand new, alas. many many years ago I saw Margaret Atwood read at Lexington's library. I believe I'd heard of her at the time, but this was long before she had success as a novelist. she's standing there thinking, if I want success as a poet, this is it. hence the turn to novels. whew, I've led a life full of wonder, haven't I?

once again Beth and I did an art class at a senior centre. same one as before, that is. two were with us before, and three others. 2 of the new ones had no confidence in what they were doing. that wall of inadequacy: "I don't know what I'm doing", "I can't paint" etc. with many, a little time could get them slapping the paint on. even as they harped on their lack of ability, you could see them drawn to it. and they listened to Beth and me as we told them just to play with the brushes, the colour, even if they couldn't quite do this. and they all were so supportive of each other, really gleeful to see what others could do. fuck this 'hope I die before I get old' shit. opportunity remains. one, a woman we met before, was adventurous and businesslike. tho she urged others on, she was very focussed on her own painting. one was a careful painting, from memory, of a vase of lavender, one was a spree of colour (mainly purple), and one was a charming, childlike rendering of a house, tree and sun. Beth realized that the other veteran was further complicted by Alzheimer's than we suspected. repeating herself and looping. her husband had, after our 1st visit, got her a sketch pad and a paint set. he realized the therapeutic advantages of this activity. she hadn't used either but she happily carried then with her. and she was so happy to see us. she was so bubbly, loved my joking around (my attempt to knock down the imposition of sullen seriousness), was tremendously supportive of others. yet didn't paint. she did sketch a vase of fake tulips in the room. she declared she preferred drawing to painting. she also problem solved about a flower study she was doing with a woman who couldn't get going herself. another woman had had a stroke. she chatted away, but her voice was low and a little difficult to hear, came out a like a mutter. but she was saying encouraging things, as well as sharp observaions. the one man was an ex-cop who listened so seriously to what Beth and I said. we were cheered to learn that people began painting on their own since we came in. as I fetched water from another room, I found a man painting a design on an apron. the centre actually had quite a horde of art supplies that had been going unused. now, I'm not about to crow how art can save people, of we could have cheered the joint as well with the promise of down and dirty cribbage fests, but it was art making people feel better.

I'm sure a bright guy like Henry Gould understands that praise from this quarter would certainly deserve a vote or two, were there any Blog of the Year sorts of votings anywhere around at this time.........

I guess it is time to admit the truth. Allen Bramhall and his blogs are really a joke worked out by my friend Kent Johnson and me, Ron Silliman. we both came up with the idea but I don't want Kent to suffer more hassle about author function and the like, so blame for the actual writing of these blogs lies entirely with me. on an unrelated note, I am pleased to see the rerelease of my long poem Tjanting reviewed by Jack Kimball here.

Ron Silliman (not some author function)

I actually am enjoying Stubborn Grew, but feel guilty about how scattershot my reading is currently. what Henry's doing touches an Olsonian nerve in me, not that Henry's approach is anything like Olson's. but SB, the whole project, is a poem written with history in mind. I still envy what Olson did, delving local history. I mean, he researched. that's where Henry connects with the Big O. and I am minded of John Clare with Henry's unflummoxed descriptive sense. he's pretty serious about the words he uses, he's accurate (like Clare), even while staying within the strictures of rhyme. which has certainly sent many a poem writer into laughable logical twists and syntactical vacations. SB's 1st line: "Time flowers on the lips of whispered clay". isn't that both strange and accurate? and I propose to bring Ron Silliman into this discussion, for his is an ear of subtle accuracy. the poem "Skies", for instance, is built on unornamented descriptions, and is lovely therefore. anyway, I'm getting the idea that I should drink a little bit whilst reading SB, if I take Henry's meaning aright. done and done. which reminds me of a decadent realization long ago. home from work (at a wine store), done with dinner. I had a glass of fine sherry, a piece of Stilton, and I was reading War and Peace. bring on the wood paneled home library, and the string quartet in the parlour!

Anny Ballardini's blog. I particularly like this odd image. one more for my links.

I fear author function will abandon me when I need it most

mushroom forest dog 

Kent Spicer informs me that he never said that narrative won't work anymore. hey, whose story is this? I suppose I'm guilty of a flarfism, tho I don't really know what flarf is (all the better, I can define it as I want). narrative is a way to write letters into words, someday meaning a sentence has your kids. but it's okay. really.

my reading, my reading. I'm so scattered. was reading of the Pali canon (Buddha's supposedly fairly direct words) yesterday. Access to Insight supplies you with a mass of the Pali canon online, if that is of your interest. I've been reading Dream Songs. which is a master work of sorts. the equivocation centres on how creepy Berryman is, and how suicidally depressive. yet the heroic note isn't faked up, as confessioned poetry often is. I mean, beyond his human shittiness there's a person trying to maintain integrity. unfortunate, I suppose, that biography precedes the poetry, in my reading, at least. as with Sexton, knowing the denouement of the poet's life tints the poetry in ways that probably do it injustice. reading (yes Henry) sporadically at Stubborn Grew by Handsome Henry Gould (Spuyten Duyvil 2000). I believe he has spoken of the influence of both Dream Songs and The Bridge, and I see it. Crane both excites and disappoints me. experiment and formality collide with Crane, not always with successful results. his formality seems like a safeness that he runs to. I've been meaning to put my nose into The Bridge lately. good luck on that vow. anyway, with SG, Henry works within a formal structure. he writes in quatrains. I see a chain of poems, rather than sections. I think the poems stand on their own. which, in fact, were anyone to look at my long works (like Digital Cellular Phone, a couple clicks away), would find that I proceed similarly. altho there may be room in Henry's procedure to interleave poems out of chronbology, whereas it would be unlikely (not impossible) for me to do that. I haven't read much of the book and haven't the energy to offer more than superficial 'insights' (honestly I haven't any insights, sorry folks). despite the apparent and actual formality of his method, Henry has lots of room to muck about. I wish I had more time to read him well. I used to manage hours of reading a day often enough but now such simply doesn't fit my day. thus I jump from one thing to another. also been reading The Anti-Federalist Papers. I suppose that's the publishers title, to go as compantion with The Federalist Papers, which I read a year ago. I still have books by HD coming from the library, plus WEB DuBois.

once saw the law in Apache land. saw the latest in the ground and thru. grew the able in the warland of upper town, lower town, and the in between, when we’re on the path. that path reads of times spent reading back. into the document as an engaged citoyen. as of a place packed with meaning, until we’re not disappearing anymore. Apache land of once ago, even Algonquin land of long ago, even peyote land and dharma land of fly agaric, long ago. the mountain moment of mushroom taking ground and pulling up in a strange task and deliver spore a strange task and even out a strange task and born again. saw this land as upper and lower. argued even the front and back of where I stood, where we stand. and how we could live in the same text, everyday. Pequot land and land of my mistake. Seminole land and dish broken even. even to say the end of the next sentence. even the next sentence then. even land from Carib, from on and onward, from West African in heart, from out of and into same. plump magistrates of quantum physics see dead cat and alive in the same bully box. imagine your surprise when you have your dead life lived ahead of you.

more buddhist resources online. and let me reiterate how exhaustive Access to Insight is. I am just applying this to your interest.

you really MUST go to the Albert Ayler site and check out the music. it is wonderful, so full of delight. "Bells" is a favourite, featuring fugue-like repetition. there's a drone on the horns that reminds me of Highland pipes. melodies are simple with Ayler, childlike and happy. and I love the drums. drums often provide a firmness, but here the drummer sounds childlike, trying whatever comes to mind in an utter playfulness that delights me. I hear children's songs and spirituals. such bright music. there's an interview with AA, with his slow thoughtful voice and a quick French translator as overlay. I can see this music played on street corners.

Blog of the YEAR!!!!!!!!!!!!!

already widely understood by me as the best blog out there, Tributary deserves your vote in the contention at Jim-Side Blog. how do you love me? let me count the ways:

you like reportage on the poetry scene? I'll keep you up to date on the events I attend. if I don't attend any events, I will certainly tell you that I wish I had!!!

like humour? I'm more than happy to make fun of other people. in fact, I quite enjoy it.

theory? I got loads of ideas, most of them legal.

poetry? gosh, I write all the poetry you'll ever need!!!

I am the only logical choice. vote often.

note: this message has been approved by me

it's not a story anymore

in another theatre of the war, Joan Houlihan raises a banner. random access to delight? baloney!!! the Oulipo truncheon looks like a useful tool sometimes, or desperate at the end of all, such all as equates with boundary. but we need a few limits, and limits as well to what we call limits. except, really, there should be a definite within the cursory scan of indefinite pronouns working out their direction. in this theatre of war, too much depends on how so much depends on. red wheelbarrow indeed! Jack Spicer takes this moment to float past. very fine gesture. Emily Dickinson does the same. Houlihan obviously has defense in mind, in the patience of this theatre of war. Eliot Weinberger eats his telephone, eats it larger than life. Gertrude Stein can take a moment to play inspection. now Helen Vendler nods. her nods weigh more than several tons of better anthology greetings, tho tomorrow is another day. note the teeth of gleaming. are you getting all this, dear Friends and Favours??? but stalwart, look, Marjorie Perloff in textual non-compliance. this is the goods, the serum has arrived! Kent Johnsoncharters the only plane that will ever leave Illinois, had to change his name to do it. Ron Silliman and Jimmy Behrle reach the scene bloody but unbowed. sign autographs later, boys, there's work to do! Henry Gould sniffs out something. he puts a blank email before himself, ready to dilate the expanse in which poetry flows. poetry? now how did that come up? never mind. Harvard College has an engine in this. so too that club in Buffalo. the air is thick with whatever would be metaphorically appropriate at this juncture in our tale. Hannah Weiner can now walk thru a wall. Ludwig Wittgenstein is that wall, but only temporarily. a text appears on the battlefield, as if always there. but that's impossible, or at least impassable. Republicans wait 'out front' to discuss plans defining Poetry in terms we can all understand. "narrative's not gonna work" says Kent by way of entering the action. it's a long story but. where were you the night this day began?

the frozen tundra of Providence, RI, has a poet or two. one of which: Henry Gould AT WORK. the war rages, theories are sided or sides are theory. the point is sides. Henry wants to get 'into it' but considers: isn't it all circular in nature? which side of the circle, then, could he be on? anyway, he's writing unapproved poems, into singular night. suddenly the 'phone' rings. Henry listens to the voice on the far speak implement. it is 'Kent'. Kent has a plan...

re pre ceding

btw, the Sentences site didn't work with Mozilla, which is probably some settings issue that I dunno, but it worked fine with Mcdonaldsoft Implorer

I actually own Sentences by Robert Grenier, probably got it from Small Press Distribution. having seen it on walls of a Franconia College hallway. Ron Silliman has written usefully about it, on his blog and elsewhere (has anyone else?), and I would refer Gentle Reader, and you guys too, to look into Ron's commentary, as well as the thing itself. this site is a really useful replication of the Sentences experience. but you can do more with the thing, the index cards, in hand.

Jukka...

do you ever use typewriters? my own electric yardsale ($1.00) beauty belly-upped just WHEN I NEEDED IT last winter, but I see how the utilization of which (hey, this goes back to CHARLES OLSON) could produce, etc. tho I dunno how Gary Sullican, among others, produce the pictures they do with (I assume) typewriters. and the mench of Gary allows me to say ARGH, got the TIME wrong. we was GOING to see HIM and BRANDON DOWNING at Analagous Series somewhere amidst MIT's ownership, starting 4 minutes ago. honest, we wuz gonna be there. now we is square.

the preceding post does mention Kent Johnson.

The Poetry Wars (the story so far...

with cudgels in hand, Ron and Jimmy face a horde of Non-Idolators. "I got your back, Ron," said Jimmy with youthful fire in his eyes. "Back atcha, good buddy," replied Ron, whose steely gaze says nothing if not Obey!. suddenly, the chilling visage of Dana Gioia® can be seen moving to the head of the horde. "ohmigod!" blurted Jimmy, "that's...!" "It's gonna get rough, little feller," Ron told his pal, "I can't lie to you. oh where is Eliot Weinberger? where is Kent? we need them!!!" meanwhile, at his secret citadel in backwater Illinois, Kent peers thru his Pomoscope. "It's a big battle comin', no question. I've got to enter the affray! if only I could get my sabbatical early..."

project report 

good cop/bad cop, and always ready to switch roles: Ron Silliman and Jim Behrle. it's not like I don't read these blogs. I've just wanted to be chary with my list, but what the heck. they can both expect to be flooded by upwards of one hitpoint more a day! perhaps that hitpoint will be what puts you guys over the top!!!

tough break for Behrle and local reading series with the demise of Wordsworth (the store not the daffodil guy and former Pope Laureate of England). another bookstore bites the dust. Henry Gould's reading really ruined things, I'm afraid, and not even my presence in the reading series could save things. selah. impressive and steady list of poets read in Behrle Productions, and I don't doubt he'll resurface with more at some other venue.

I ordered--yes I commande--the library to send me some HD books. all I own by her is Selected Poems. which requires more than the cursory search thru my books that I've so far made for it. I've read, in the day, quite a bit by her but it's been a while. tho not her Freud book, which I have coming. psyched about that. I was pleased that New Directions finally produced a collected poems. I realize such aren't always the berries, but they tend to be economical, plus tracking down such and like can be difficult. if a lump of money falls my way, I may invest in HD. I like her early lyrics. the longer works may be pressed too hard into a mystifying corner. that's the impression I remember. I can see the early HD being amuse for Pound, and the late HD one for Duncan. by muse I mean inspiration and influence.

Duncan's The HD Book is here along with a lot of other largely Canadian works. I've been slowly working thru Duncan's book. thanks to Silliman for pointing it out. he 1st mentioned it a year ago. it's been in my mind to read for years and.

this post is not about Kent Johnson.

I liked this visual poem at Geof Huth's blog, and Jack Kimball has done some useful pondering thereof. like, yoiu don't need me. I routinely scribble in books, and also have bought my share of used books that have been annotated. for the most part I like the scribblings I find, even when the jottings are mechanical channelling of the prof. I may scan some examples.

it costs $250 to learn to read poetry for pleasure? why, I can learn to hate poetry for free!!!

I read Sistah Tongue by Lisa Linn Lanae, from Tinfish Press today. I've had it for 2 years, but only now. well, I did scan it earlier, but now I've closer done it justice. it's a terrific thing. it's an essay, in a way, about pidgin Hawaiian, speech disorder, colonialism nd more. if I've made you think some trenchant tract, it aint. the essay core has mutated with the rhythm of the language, plus the book's design breaks up the essay push. the book's design is by Kristin Kalenani Gonsales. she places lines and boxes on the page disruptively, xeroxed scraps of quotes are introduced and there's a great sense of intersection on display, between author and designer, between the various confluence of themes. wow, it makes me want to write run on sentences I guess. the book is really much better than I am describing it. very exciting piece of work. and I must say, the work I've seen from Tinfish is excellent. Susan Schultz is editor, there in Hawai'i, with a focus on the Pacific rim. which is muchly new to me. Tinfish publications possess a rich, idiosyncratic design. please go to the site and see. there are some free downloads available (I'm about to make use of), too.

a little WD40 over to Blogspot, and things are working fine.

by the way, I wonder who produced the accompanying write up. Grenier? the quote marks are Grenierian, and some of the funny statements seem possible as of himself. wonder.

interesting to see Robert Grenier's work at an art gallery. while I was at Franconia, he took over a hallway that usually was used to display artwork (usually photography). he pinned index cards on which he'd typed his little poems. these would eventually become the box of poems called Sentences. so I guess he always had that sense of his work. it was a nat display, put you 'in' the poetry. Robert's daughter Amy provided the cover art for several issues of This. she was at the time around 4, and as I recall the drawings weren't so dissimilar from Robert's, altho she drew 'pictures' rather than 'words'. I think the example here is lovely. the prices are definitely New York prices. suffice to say that I am not a minimalist, but I have room to accept it. I very much respect Grenier's work, but don't entirely get want Silliman is on about with him. but I accept that this could be my ignorance or inability to understand. anyway, Jukka, out there in blogland, check this guy out if you haven't before.

I'd say Blogger's not okay children is showing.

great stuff here. 250 bucks to learn to read poetry for pleasure. probably cheaper in the long run than heroin, you know, as a way to spend your time. and a hundred bucks on using sci fi in poetry. it's actually 350 bucks saved for me, as I guess I figured both out for myself.

HILARY DUFF IS THE GREATEST!!!!!

aside from ascertaining that no one reads my blogs, the other great thing about Site Metre is discovering what people are searching for. what serendipity caused me to refer to Anthony Kiedis a bunch of times on R&S? yeah baby! bring on the diappointment when they land there. someone searched for the phrase "language is prison" and, thank you thank you, I supplied it as of last year: 8/26/03 on R/ckets & S/entries. glad to be of service

the connection is tenuous, the world spins a forest into paper found by the river, the river runs a sampling music, troops to hear, this river bumbles over rock and institute, tells the time a tricky launch, forgets the seaon and anything, rubs the landscape into distance, pours a reasoning, finally tags a person there: (Chris Murray). so be it.

Kevin Magee poking. we need a commitment to our own words. "what pillow could have been softer than the novel?" Or, what pillow could have been softer than post-70s theories of form?"

okay, how does one do this?. it's fascinating. when I work with texts, usually in a collage way, I'm a bit anal about keeping the text fairly readable. yet this isn't necessary. if you lose that meaning, there are other meaning possibilities. what the hell is meaning anyway?

the pure products...

Albert Ayler: "The cats, they say the better you are, the harder it is for you to make it but when you make it, you make it big. That's what America is, see. 'Cause they'll copy it from you"

check out the whole Ayler site including a link to a bio.

Ayler's stuff has gone into my music rotation. I laugh to hear this music, it is giddy, happy, perfectly evolved into the moment where we meet. I'm feeling a little crunchy now, seeing my father disappear but jeez is there a meeting in a fluid position of musical out and out? the noise is exuberence, this moment when I could be to you. something that I could hand you...

my father asked me my name today. see how rich it is to think you know. I told him, I wrote it down, and he knew I was right. where does he live? where's his bed?

decided I enjoyed Stephanie Young's blog, so it's on the list. she says somewhere that she feels like a cub reporter when she writes her blog. I have a similar feeling about mine, albeit for me it's a self-involved cub reporter. I like that sense of the thing. rather that than Ozymandias. funny how foreign the left coast scene sounds, I mean the names and places seem so far away. not that I'm well connected with the right coast scenes, nor even Cambridge/Boston.

but I mention Ron Silliman:

here’s a crisp rendering breeze from a hurried canister of weather down below. it rocks the blimp for memory’s sake, into the waves of ruction telling certainty how to go. remaining strands connect us to the long end of the thought. going miles to miles and all around, a cup of tea awaiting. it bothers one and doesn’t another. and above Fenway Park the crowd notes the hand of facts. sure a helicopter consummate in traffic watch. we could be there. or run the tunnel toward the place, trained for the moment when arrived in the time. someday or two a plane will burst, a fracture in the sky with all the need around. this love poem that presents itself, and calls America like all continents are one of ours. which you have to admit, complaining all the way. the rhythm is absurd, and you will take of different skies. Ron Silliman was in the air about it. he listed things and swept away. we thought it fancy, tender or newer than the door. the sky is still or not the same or when I was a child or more than ever. look at your trust. the blimp heads to a place in time, where else would it need to go?


---from ongoing work, "Blimp Gulf

I haven't mentioned Kent Johnson in a while.......

two pieces done while struggling with calligraphy (but I let the struggle be part of it), and one using the printer. I really like how the wind tore the text in the tree one. believe me, I don't know what I'm doing. but it's fun.

tree 

further thanks 

mention poem to me 

I should have posted this link earlier, John Byrum's Generator Press. I have many publications from Generator, collected over the years when I had the money. just not in the position to spend as I'd like now. the site has some terrific visual stuff. one of the later issues of Generator the mag is hand made and stitched, really a neat thing.

this passage by Frank Kuenstler, quoted by Nick Piombino is nifty in its own right, and follows neatly my thinking in the previous post. I guess I like the lines that are less determined -- "In which butterflies in toto" -- over the more determined ones: "In which Big Buddha is watching you", tho I wouldn't mind stealing that Buddha line.

I'm glad to've found Chomsky's blog. nice to have reminders of depth. I get a little nervous about Michael Moore as a fount of information. he seems like a television spirit. I mean, make the words smaller for us. he has done interesting stuff, I just worry about the thinness.

expenditure 

spaceship brownie 

seasonal 

this guy Noam Chomsky probably needs a few readers, so onto my gold-plated links list for him. you might notice that he did oops duplicate-posting, just like us mortals. I wonder what his favourite song is.

reading Stephen Vincent's transliteration of A-22 aloud. it's really good! the sound is terrific, really a pleasure. the repetitions and the no/not sounds provide a backbeat you can't lose. but don't roll over, Zufofsky: this is both an homage and an extension. I think Z is a poet of the syllable, his concision very precise that way. Stephen invokes that pre/consision. as probably he could not avoid, given what he's doing here. but from what I've read by Stephen elsewhere, it is naturally his music as well. plug on! I note that Chris Murray points to this piece on her writing class blog (I dunno the url or how I got there). it's a really good exercise, what Stephen is doing, for it places you write in Z's writing. but it is not just an exercise

oh lordie. I found "Ghosts" by Albert Ayler online. I love this piece. it's a live version. I knew the studio one, which I haven't heard in years. it is hesitant and exuberent, both. Ayler and company stumble onto a melody, exult in it, then exult in reshaping and I'll even say murdering it. there's a sense of the musicians being in separate rooms, hearing rumours of music elsewhere and sending out their giddy contributions. it's a short piece, 2:08. reminds me of Moby Grape's fabulous "Omaha" in that both pieces cram a lot of music and feeling into a short span.

this is the 1st section of something I started thursday. I saw a couple of blimps and got excited..........................................................................



the blimp and its prefix, in the blue air that we sky. simple delicate reserve above the eminence of United States and statement. fits the plus of sky, the use of sky, the bullet in the wind of sky. that’s an advertisement as big as it needs, getting somewhere or nowhere: what exactly is the diff? blue reward of sky for the blimp above.

firmament shuttle crust, steep upward in bump. across the highway to look exactly, strictly engaged.

high as seven united kites, in one blue sky with huffy practicality of clouds that will rain, bobbing to please motion itself or just send gulps of water and light together. then several units of pleasure expand into date and time. America has a poem to make!