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.

so now I'm reading American Bloomsbury by Susan Cheever (Simon and Schuster 2006). it's about those famous folk of Concord, down the road. the Bloomsbury reference is probably apt, a buzzing little socio-artistic conclave. I haven't tried too hard but the only one of interest to me among the Bloomsburies is Virginia. I catch a more righteous buzz from Concordia (as I think Bronson called the town). the interrelationships and interconnections of those American eccentrics is fascinating. it's hard to avoid a slavish respect, see the worth of these people without exceeding. Bronson Alcott resembled his friend Henry James Sr, loaded with ideas but lacking in practicalities. tho there's a picture of him sitting on a bench with some apples, and the caption indicates that Bronson would offer apples to passersby, who then were required to listen to his theories (he said hi like the spider to the fly). I didn't know Thoreau met Poe, and have no idea how that would have turned out. I read a bio of Whitman that rendered Thoreau's visit to Whitman as a competition of sorts, giving victory to Whitman for having it more together. which I think meant more boldly confident in his assertions. whatever. it's funny to think of this village of teeming intellectual curiosity since now the town is no such thing. it is a well-heeled, very pretty town with wonderfully dreamy homes but whatever intellectual ruction exists is kept indoors. as is the case mostwhere in the US. utopia now has more to do with nice lawns and stock options than anything Fruitlands or Brook Farm might've aimed for. why isn't there intellectual fervour? hm.

fountain

fountain, originally uploaded by allen_bramhall.

this n that. read The Godfather by Mario Puzo. I've seen the movie bunches of time tho not recently. it's pretty faithful to the book. not surprising as Puzo wrote the screenplay with Coppola. much of the movie's dialogue (which is good) comes straight from the book. Coppola wisely excised some superfluities. Sonny's lover, hardly a plot point in the movie, pointlessly pairs with a Vegas surgeon, and there's overmuch of Johhny Langone too. tho it is intimated in the movie that Luca Brasi is a terror, all we see is a big lug. he doesn't do much narratively in the book, but stories are told of his viciousness, very creepy. Coppola got the right actors for the job. I have no idea if Abe Vigoga or the guy who played Clemenza are what you call good actors, they fit in the movie. James Caan, Robert Duval and the guy who played Solozzo are perfect. Diane Keaton in the movie and Kay in the book suck life from the respective works. the horse head scene in the book is surprisingly undersplayed. in teh book, Woltz thinks logically that if these people are willing to kill a $600,000 horse, they might mean business. the movie plays more on the horror. the dramatic highpoint of the movie is the attack on the 5 families. in the book Puzo is just tying up loose ends. think of Lord of the Rings, where it seems like they didn't have the book handy when they were working up the script. The Godfather stays true to the book, probably because there's so much life in the tale and the people. I also watched Dracula, Bela Lugosi's version. being one of those movies that I saw as a child, it will always have its authenticity as a horror flick. the stiff stage acting works oddly in it favour, everyone seems transfixed. Lugosi is extremely mannered and that bemused smile of his really unsettles. when he vamps out, he always does so slo-mo, his hands tensely poised. he draws slowly towards his victim and just as you start to get a sexual vibe, the scene changes. the book is quite rollicking, which I didn't expect. the movie skipped much of the book's plot, really just made it a star vehicle for Lugosi. Coppola's version sticks close with the book. whereas the Lugosi vehicle gains atmosphere via dry ice, Coppola pulls out all the tools of movie magic, to little more effect. he's got Gary Oldham and Anthony Hopkins hamming it up, Keanu Reeves and Winona Ryder barely registering, but Stoker's plot (not always making sense) bounds long. worth watching if not respecting. my father saw the play some time late in Lugosi's career when morphine had I guess taken its toll and Lugosi was playing an exaggerated imitation of himself. Lugosi in Plan 9 is almost funny, but more tragic really. it's an artist thing in which the manners of the art remain but not the soul. I also watched 300 again. I found myself wanting to see its visual flair, its translation of comix art to cinema. the democratic pieties are plangent. it comes down to the split between those willing to work on their abs and pecs and those not. and who wouldn't want to get out the spear and sword and get some hearty exercise? I scanned the graphic novel some time ago and found it faithfully rendered by the movie and low octane as a reading enterprise. it's a preposterous story but transmogrified into a cinematic experience, it has some gumption. with its same old comix artwork, the book hasn't much to offer.

randon DAYS POEM excerpt

philosophic kindred roll mild rocks over roadways stretching imaginative loggerheads for the matter of study. noodling on capricious keyboard, which resounds, bumping maximum with blithe whimsy, steely kisses from a wrenching moment and then some. how language holds still, with its alerts aligned and the matter craning for attention. this is no cloister or if the snow melts, if that damn groundhog from foreign clime, if the garden seed catalogue, and if there is time, or so we say. we work hard at trying to find. any sentence can be finished.--Days Poem, vol. 2, sec. 222, p 5

I like looking at Sitemeter's stats for this blog to see whence the myriad readership comes. I've been much surprised by the uncommon number of folks who arrive via Google search on 'fisher cats', almost as many as on 'awesome poet" and 'beloved by all". well as it happens, at the top of said Google search are 3 images of fishers. I linked to the middle one when some fishers were noising about nearby a year ago last may. click the picture and you arrive at my archived fisher post, not the picture itself. just so you, dear and talented Reader, know: I m not a fisher expert, I didn't take the picture, I didn't even steal it. but welcome to FISHER CAT FISHER CAT FISHER CAT Heaven on the Net. since you've arrived, I hope you buy my book. it's got all the modern conveniences including author bio, isbn number, title page (with big letters!!!) and, for those times when you need to cite, numbered pages. makes a great gift.

read the intro to A Book of PROPHECHIES by John Wieners from Bootstrap Productions and began a short memoir of Creeley by [author name here] from Pressed Wafer, 2 of the recently dead/dearly departed. I 'met' Creeley 35 years ago at Franconia College, a stirring tale that, tho I must've recounted it here before, bears repeating. those who didn't turn out for other readings showed for this one. it was something of a homecoming for Creeley, who lived a few miles away back in his chicken tending days when he began corresponding with Olson. I didn't think he read especially well as I didn't when he read in Boston in 2000. he read a considerable chunk of a prose piece, which I've never read except for the chunk published in This. I believe the idea of Creeley writing prose excited me then but I'm not sure I absorbed much of the work. after the reading was a party at Robert Greniers, and rather than just the school's student writers, much of the school's community attended. during the course of which Grenier attempted to introduce me to Creeley. 3 times Grenier said something like Bob, I'd like you to meet... then someone would speak to Creeley, or he'd suddenly wonder what was on the record player or whatever. this amused rather than upset me as Creeley was clearly in another state. as was I, adrenalized by the event and, oddly, a commanding sense of myself as a writer. at some point Creeley sat near me. he was full of energy. he managed to make the record player skip, which set him to doing that intentionally by stomping his feet. this evolved into hand clapping. I joined him in the clapping. we syncopated quite intently. intently as well he looked at me, which I returned. an odd little meeting, I daresay. no words were exchanged. Wieners I never met. he brings the Venn diagram of art and illness into a perspective. note that I said a.a clinician would regard Wieners differently from how a poet would regard him. both views, or neither, are 'true'. the ravings of madness are often poetic, but poetry isn't madness. with Wieners, one faces the border of that, the shared space of the Venn balloons. I mean, with Wieners, the sense of that is strong. Creeley's interesting behaviour that night owed something (I'm totally guessing) to drugs or alcohol, but I imbibed neither yet was running on some transporting energy too. somehow after the party I ended up with several people I hardly knew. we 1st climbed onto this rock ledge overlooking Profile Lake (above which the Old Man in the Mountain used to loom) called the Poet's Seat or something like. full moon over the lake, as my memory wants to hold it. and after that, an all night trip to Montreal, and back. hm. yesterday we took food and ate dinner at Walden. the water level had finally receded so that the lower paths were open again. Erin had a disposable underwater camera that he wanted to try out. mallards floated hither and yon. some teens were throwing pebbles at the ducks not out of meanness but because they freaked them out. imagine! a woman called out, I'm swimming with the ducks! I don't know why I connect our latest visit to Walden to those poets. I hadn't thought of that view from the Poet's Seat in a long while. and the Old Man is gone, as is the school, both the institution and the building. Thoreau isn't there, but we remember him. some of what we remember is a craziness, likewise how we recall Dickinson, most writers. I shorely don't want to diagnose. we treat of the expressions and how those expressions grow and make sense. had an intro gotten thru to Creeley, the conversation, my part, would be something like, um, I like Pieces, etc. clapping hands to "Can You Hear Me Knocking" maybe is more a meeting, not to say Creeley had a 2nd thought about it. it all matters.

a Unitarian church stands across the street from us. its bell tolls hourly, but I've already come to hardly notice. altho today, starting around 5pm, it kept ringing for maybe 30 minutes. it may be a war protest, best guess, tho no one was outside on the green to make the point. the church now sports a banner on the side proclaiming the virtues of diversity. which is white middle class suburban talkspeak for what, exactly? I grew up in the Unitarian church, so I claim the right to throw stones. when Beth and I 1st married, we thunk as how the church would be a good thing for Erin, as a social vector, if nothing else. my father, at the time, was still attending church, as he did responsibly for some 50 years. I had long since lost any interest in the church beyond the physical structure itself, a neat airy contemplative space, but a place where Erin could meet kids was an important consideration. the minister, who married us, told Beth that the church's youth group wasn't what you might call receptive to, well, anyone. that this new kid, Erin, might not be welcomed for reasons of his being, well, the new kid. or shit like that. at the time the church seethed with a brouhaha concerning whether or not to have a sign welcoming gays. the result of the battle was a temporary invitation to any stray gays who needed an insincere home where they could be welcomed for who they are, for a while. honest, it played just like that. the Unitarians might scare up some anti-war sentiment but the diversity thing is just a sham. it is words as defensive maneuver. as I said, my father was a long time member of the church. the church did little when he could no longer manage attending church. periodically a couple of church members would officially count coup on him, you know, tag the old guy, reap Unitarian karma points. I hated it. especially when, overwhelmed, I called to see if the church could provide any relief for a caregiver of one of their members (negatory on that one, good buddy). so that banner across the street, with the central casting unit of shiny diversity smiling at all, brings an anger to me. there was never a moral structure involved in the church that I knew. words glazed motive. talk is cheap. Walt Whitman is almost a Unitarian minister, except for an essential sincerity that trumps his showboat nature. I mean, when he invokes a picture of him give succour to a runaway slave, he manages to keep the political moment true. yes, I realize he maintains a hovering erotic element, natheless there's something gosh darn true in the exploit of his words. for all his bluster, he's on to something. as poet, there is pathfinding to do. always. the Unitarian syndrome is only for followers. the ecstatic intent of a singular path provides a grace of reflection that a Unitarian blowhard doesn't bother with. I guess I got my dukes up. that sanitary banner, and the flags of diversity adorning the nifty little church garden, just don't get the work done.

I swept some of the typos from the post below. I admit to an antic rush as I post to the blog. especially when I am fading towards sleep, as often is the case. I rather like the lightheaded sloppiness of such a process, but am not agin cleaning up the work a bit. I feel the need to report this, just so's you don't think I can't write a nifty sentence if pressed.

ah, let me ruminate... yesterday, Beth noticed that the nest of wrens in the eaves of our porch were more noticeable: you could see their little heads sticking up. bumptious artisan that I am, I grabbed my camera. 1st picture, I held the camera over my head, and got evidence of the wrenlings but hardly a great shot. I climbed onto the railing and managed 2 more shots. the flash went off both times, which I rued as being rude. as I attempted a better position, one of the chicks levitated, as it seemed, from the nest and... well, it plummetted. it was like a flight, resembling (too) maple tree seeds, what are they called? the things you, as a kid, might've split and stuck to your nose. or maybe you didn't... anyway, that whirligig downward spin. thud. I felt like I was just injected with Michael Vick's soul, I mean, did I need to assault the nest for the sake of some half-assed photograph? Beth told me to return it to the nest. we have a friend of considerable ornithological expertise (a bird, wren maybe, was named by him(!!!)) who asserts that it aint nothing to do so, won't taint the little ones. so I tried to capture the wee bit of bird. it looked a little stunned but my agitation and clumsiness as I tried to collect it were enough to send it skittering. its skittering could fairly be placed in the category of flight. Beth, watching, finally said let it go. mom and pop were vocally about. I felt rather like crud but released from the effort. I took my guilty feelings elsewhere but soon Beth came to say that the other 2 chicks left the nest. mother wren had corralled the 3 and the learning process was go. okay, so this long nature study really wants to be about writing. about poetry even. because think of the flux of feelings involved, and how a writer comprises such. furthermore the symbolic 'facts' that spring up. okay, yeah so well like, we accept poetry as a transformation, don't we? or translation. we see words as experience. sometimes this just means congestive heart failure. too much fluid overfills the possible breath. in this metaphor, the fluid is a potent sentiment. o love! o death! o inadequacy! writers try to wring the bejesus out of that sentimental event. the writer thinks: I felt something and must share... this is a pet called Bad Poetry. it's the conscious clicking of gears that is the trouble. Blake's Songs of In and Ex aren't thunk thru positions in sentiment, they are rare scrapings of essential skin. likewise the mosquito bite clarity of Dickinson. I'm not trying to put up barriers here, in matters of canon or style. the event of those chicks taking flight was brusque monstrance of momentum. you have your own select gathering. 2 centuries ago, Keats had his nightingle. terms differ now. plenty of writers still posit central motifs like, say, chicks floundering into flight (or death). but there's a less direct approach now. my being situates in the motivation factor, which is emotional, sometimes stupidly enthralled with the peopled response. I shan't write a poem that baldly places wren and me in poetic 2-step, I've weeded that impulse from my directive. that doesn't mean I wasn't affected. and poetry, I daresay, springs from that very fount. still, I mean. e'en tho I might dodge the possible exploit of emotive meaning, that I might proceed with procedures, that I might seem to hand the steering wheel to another driver. th energy transfer occurs, even if the lofty sentiments that Sam'l Johnson asserted as poetic positive aren't painted on this writer's forehead. this morning, as I left for work, a wren chick sprung from under the porch and lighted on the car. a wee frailty building life. it survived its 1st lonesome night in the world of predators, there's the one fact. I think I look at birds because they are of The Poetry. because they are tonic note in some chord of which my writing somehow... I don't mean nature poetry or that, I mean the instance of their fact, read by me. those instances of facts could be anything, o rare writer, anything that brings you to bear the weight. I'm saying poetry is sprung from the world but not that it details the world's distractions. I'm not suggesting a right poetry, only noting a means and process. I could, this night, write a poem involved in all the spurts of emotional response that arose as I engaged the bird moment, or have done it yestreen. yatta yatta yatta. hey, let's get rid of the obvious. the obvious has done its job. let's see poetry go beyond pious NYers identifying their moments in the flux. for instance. and so on. metaphors are nice until they die. similes need to be trimmed daily. why are you involved in your writing? you there, I mean, the one with all the words in your head. why are those yourwords? I posit no answers, but like how things bump up against, in words and all.

I say we a lot, and I'm sticking with it.We are still putting things in their place. books have yet to be unpacked. reading Faulkner and the latest issue of Tricycle (Buddhist mag), c'est ca. who reads books, anyway? well, if reading books soaks your teabag, why not get Days Poem. it was written with the belief that Walden Pond, bears, Henry Thoreau, Fu Manchu, Nepal and hobos all exist. it was written with love. we are now going there regularly, Walden, that is. it makes sense. so anyway, in lieu of reading, we watched Twister again last night. it holds up well. that's a thing about movies. many, I find, wear out. after a few viewings I tend to fast froward (typo alert! I retain it because how often will froward show up in anything I write???), or want to, to the nifty bits. Twister remains quite compelling visually, even tho some of the effects look a little like last week. I love the sense of place. somehow, the movie makes Oklahoma in the summer seem like a jolly wonderful place. oh those lovely farmhouses and lush cornfields, and I'm sure it doesn't get hot in Oklahoma in the summer time. the camera treats all the characters quite amiably, even what's his name as the Snidely Whiplash of tornado chasers. the antic crew of good guys is a fun ensemble of Hollywood almost nobodies who each has a fully defined 2-dimensional character to play with. funny to see Philip Seymour Hoffman before he became Capote (which I haven't seen but I'm sure his transformation is blah blah blah breathtaking). while Helen Hunt, Bill Paxton and Jami Gertz play their de rigueur pas de trois, tornadoes come and go. it works. the wonderland of Oklahoma brims alive with twisters. altho Helen Hunt has a mission thru out the film, the tornadoes never become vengeful murderers, as Hollywood movies tend to track. timely laughs lift nicely, most notably near the end when Helen and Bill enter a barn for protection, only to see scads of pointy scythes and pitch forks rocking in the building breeze. this may be as close to twisters as I'll ever get. soon I shall read poetry again, soon write.

the simpsons

the simpsons, originally uploaded by allen_bramhall.

a blast

a blast, originally uploaded by allen_bramhall.

angular

angular, originally uploaded by allen_bramhall.

cross walk

cross walk, originally uploaded by allen_bramhall.

nuclear Walden moment

nuclear Walden moment, originally uploaded by allen_bramhall.

Antic View now up to installment 129. I think this is useful mind muddle. Jeff Harrison is a sui generis whose conceptual cogitations provoke useful routes and branches. I think my own humble application toward the confusion is worth reading, but I'll put the trumpet down now. I hate to think a Jim Behrle nerve tonic is "what it's about". I mean, okay, social program molds our movements, but I hope our thoughts are freer. which is to say, writers not just preening but risking to state the tentative nature of the exacting process is worth readership. the spectacle of whingeing, of course, may be more enticing.

my mind drifted to thoughts of Walden and Thoreau today when any chance arose. there aren't a lot of natural swimming holes hereabouts, so Walden shimmers with that attribute. my family aimed elsewhere for swimming excursions, as I was growing up. my grandmother lived in the town of Townsend, on the NH border, so we went there. the VFW kept up a swimming area across the street from the little store my grandmother had there. saturday nights thru the summer there were chicken barbecues with a band concert after. it was like Mayberry, or one of Mark Twain's stray warm memories of youth. a few years ago Beth and I were coming back from western Mass and made our way to the swimming hole. the river was gone, gone I tell you. only the bare bones of the band box remained of, what, my youth? the river, no major artery, had apparently been diverted. my friend grew up in Concord and fondly remembers the cement pier that stretched into the water of Walden, perfect for leaping into the water from. I always considered that thing monstrous, but I saw with different eyes than my friend. just as the many visitors to Walden see different uses. as Beth and I walked along one time, we unavoidably heard a conversation between a man in the water and one on shore. the one in the water was opining about the Jungian qualities of swimming. etc, as you might imagine. and sure, some people want to enact an Annie Dillard moment. I mean that kind of self-conscious circumspection that accounts for a great deal of nature writing. I demarcate a difference in Thoreau, cheer me on at your pleasure. sure he was a hearty blowhard, insofar as he was loaded to the gills with aphoristic concentrations. I think he's hilarious and fresh air often, but still, you know, he could get caught up in a John Brown mystique. I forgive him, as I should forgive all such eager failings in judgment. but I see conviction in his process, or more aptly: actions in his words rather than words in his actions. the Annie Dillard sort of precognitive philosophizing is thoughtfully glib. which doesn't sound like I'm making sense. I mean something about how the subject jolts her expression, like her thinking is controlled by the structure of essay, and not in Montaigne's embracing sense (whose effort of comprehensive consideration reminds me of Thoreau). rather, Dillard defines territories of populated worth. I offer Dillard only as an example of a collective of popular, or populist, writing. and maybe why I give Thoreau the nod is simply the palpable example of his cabin (by which I mean the replica sitting there near the parking lot, a couple hundred yards from the actual site of his cabin). that replica offers a wonderful, perhaps useful, picture. room enough for a bed, a desk and a chair. for all that, a kindly fireplace, and an open, brimming door. I see this as a vision of a writer. there would be room for that handful of books, more accurately that armful. say ten essential books. we just moved, as I've said. our books are in boxes, may remain thus for a while. which ones will call for me? as a writer, what books do I need? a writer writes. a writer is not a NYC bar. a writer is not a school or tenure track or political position. you know where this is going. a writer efforts letters, words and sounds. that uncluttered cabin is so much writing. it is the Bhagavad-Gita played as a trumpet. it is a walk out and about transmogrified into letters surrounding words. Walden Pond is a movie only vaguely starring the glacial pothole itself. people go there to exercise, to play, to relax, to talk, to eat, to imbibe some rarity of thought or mood, and all of this is right. the writer has this clean box of a room and the mechanism to enter the written motion. think of Thoreau with his outlook on the pond. his little desk upon which he writes his journal, tinged with the loss of his brother. I don't mean to make hero of Thoreau any more than call Walden Eden. neither assertion would be useful. Walden has just been particularized, and Thoreau is just another candidate in the flush. how crucial to remember this! we write poems not as proofs or definitions. we write what is with us, in our cabin, in the squared resonance of our place, here, now. if Don Henley had not come along, Walden would not be here? I don't know. I just want to stay with the particulars of the place. the one here and now, with all the words involved.

we've decided to make Walden Pond our go to place, it being convenient for said purpose. purchased a season ticket, even (good at all national parks. no reason really to consider it sanctified but the place is. sunday we decided to eat dinner there. well, the place was packed. in fact, it only just reopened when we arrived at 5:30: attendance at Walden's plush wateriness is strictly limited. so the only perch we could find was by the road to the boat ramp. a dusty place indeed. I took a dip and while doing so 2 pairs of mallards paddled close by. they moved purposefully toward I don't know what. not much after, they moved purposefully away. the sense of this idyllic postcard held fiercely in place (against the onslaught of blighty progress) is strong. but the sun, oh, it sinks into the trees to the west in spacious loveliness. I cannot tell you how uplifting it used to be to cycle by on my way home from work years ago. just that glimpse as I raced to the intersection with rt 2. yesterday we just swam. I don't really swim, to be honest. I never cottoned to the immediate collection of water in my ear. to be further honest, I am unnerved by the extent of nothingness below me when I go into deep water. fathomless death or some such. I think of Titanic and Perfect Storm and Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald (I just refound that song, by Gordon Lightfoot. I'd assumed it was about some, say, 19th century disaster but in fact Lightfoot's song was tantamount to a news report, came out within a year of the sinking of the freighter on Lake Superior). so I don't swim so well. I took a movie recently of a swarm of swimmers plying their effort in a circumnavigation. nothing that Thoreau imagined, I wot. yesterday the water was like bathwater. mallards, 3 pair, were a mite annoyed at our appearance in their bailiwick. it is a poetry, you see, to see a place as a place, as a center, as something definitive. we live in a new place, as I have reported. it has a porch. the porch is all the world. when we first saw the porch, which looks onto the town green and the unavoidable Unitarian church, it was festooned with mock orange blossoms and a reliable sun-and-verdure motet. I'm not faking the poetry. we sit on the garden bench that I bought long ago, drink beer, and tune in to the traffic, the wrens and house sparrows in the mock orange and everywhere else, the failing sunlight, and gulping torrent of frog voices, etc: ferlies and marvels. is poetry a place? isn't Thoreau writing that poetry, as he rambles and preens about his wild land of theories? isn't Dickenson, in the flickering garden choices of her own written word? it is a blasting simplicity, and yet... I mean, even Faulkner, who could be a circus show, he does include that position of place within the structure of poetic response. yes, it all gets hokey, with Don Henley presiding over some vision of sanctified, and one wants to feel better than the eager touring parties who come merely to splash, yet that all goes beyond the point. the point is a drop of water. poetry, in that drop.

this blog has seen little of my consummate verbiage lately so I take this sunday evening to produce some brain-scrapings for your delectation. we have, as I did mench, moved, down the road a piece. we remain in the luxury of our boxes but made a goodly effort today at emptying a few. we situate across the street from the town green and the inescapable Unitarian church there. I was born into a Unitarian church but it gave me nothing, tho I liked the church building as a bright meditative space. my birthday was wednesday. I share it with Herman Melville, William Clark, and Jerry Garcia, probably others. there is no reason to associate myself with them, but let me anyway. Melville is a wonder, certainly in his greatness (Moby Dick) but also in his struggles. Lewis and Clark are a trope that has lost nothing for me. a sense of creative adventure in that journey. I'm planning to write a rockopera about the Corps of Discovery, done as an hommage to Jerry. Madonna would be wonderful as Sacagawea. yesterday was the birthday of Robert Grenier, Roger Clemens and Percy Bysshe Shelley. of course Clemens stinks, the greedy crumb bum, but the other 2 pulsate. one time at Franconia College I was in a room with Grenier and another person, just the 3 of us. somehow birthdays came up, and it was revealed that mine was 8/1, Grenier 8/4, and the other person 8/3. well I was born in the Year of the Dragon and according to all horoscopic evidence I'm a pretty wonderful person. you could look it up. we went to Walden twice today. 1st time, Beth and I circumambulated its verdant gleam. the 2nd time we brought foodstuffs at dinner time. the parking lot had just reopened when we arrived. attendance amidst the pond's coconut tanning creme aroma is kept strictly in hand. a sign explains the wherefore of the pond's high water level: porous pavement. rain seeps thru the pavement instead of running off. less erosion, thus. because of the rise in water level there remains little of what you'd call beach. benches that used to line the wall bordering part of the pond are now underwater. that's so freaky! I aint hardly read nuthin' lately, books have yet to be released from their limbo. in boxing books I happened upon Sound and Fury, which I am slowly rereading. Faulkner is so wound up in his mythology, which is a good and bad thing. his weak novels are caricatures, of Faulkner, of the South (a South he invented, or people believe he contributed to the American psyche). in S&F, he's clearer on the mythic extent, it feels close to home. when he overburdens the furious tragic element, and the dogma of Southern decrepitude, he sucks out loud, to put it baldly. yoiu can tell him I said so. in my edition, S&F is aptly offered with As I Lay Dying. which is a grisly comedy that should have been made into a film by some ardent and exacting filmmaker. I mean, it is funny the way Goodfellas is funny, and maybe Scorsese would be the one to do justice to this aweful and compelling story. Madonna would be great as the corpse. and my ramble report endeth here...

alien space pod hatching facility

alien space pod hatching facility, originally uploaded by allen_bramhall.

curb

curb, originally uploaded by allen_bramhall.

train time

train time, originally uploaded by allen_bramhall.

in the Good Taste is Timeless Dept., saw a kindergarten called Magic Touch. having remarked that, let's not go there.

we're in the midst of moving, just down the street but still, so I'm in no condition for one of my typically brilliant posts. in lieu of same, I offer Vanilla Fudge, part of my Youtube time wastage. they made a name for themselves in the 60s (harbinger of the 70, which led to the 80s, I believe) by whiteboying soul songs, substituting muscle for inflection. quite a few of their songs are in a time signature called sludge, but here we have a bit more energy. the drummer could give Bonzo Bonham a run for heavy hands. the drama tires me, tho, as does the singer's hand gestures. they give a pretty thunderous application of sound, but strangely anemic for all that flexing. I guess i should have pointed to this version. ah yes, Doc Strange on bass. god, it's like bad poetry. it's great to see such great dancing, too. this IS poetry, right here, fresh 2007 imitation soul. I mean, this kind of inflated crap's pretty common in the poetryworld, yes?

I meant to include this photo of Stephen Rodefer in the post below but couldn't find it on Ben Friedlander's Flickr account. and it was right there all along. as well as another pose in the same startling paisley pjs (does paisley grow?). I only know about Rodefer by way of unsubstantiated rumours, but the picture fits the impression that I've gleaned.

Stephen Rodefer's Four Lectures now online. the ardent hilarity situates some serious terms in poetry and language.

I offer thee this odd piece of 60s pop culture. closer to English music hall than rock music, id est not exactly the Yardbirds, but hey, the sudden channeling of Jerry (not Lee) Lewis, and that laugh...

Tom Beckett is the first publicly to take the gloves off with Days Poem. he notes his encounter here, his worthy blog. I am honoured by his notice. he is a serious, generous presence in the poetry world that counts, the one where words actively associate in their process, not merely in the social construct. aesthetics-wise, he and I may seem to stand at antipodes. does my flow seem exhaustive? whereas Tom metes out each word with deliberation. I see Tom caring for every word. I saw this in Robert Grenier, too, an implacable attention. I care too. my own attention, however, does not boil down like Tom's does. it bubbles up. I don't see this as conflict or contraries. DAYS POEM was written willfully as a marathon, an exercise of extent. tho it comprises 1000 pages, those pages are filled with scads of paragraph-sized bits. those bits are for you, if you will take them. aptly, Tom wrote his note on Thoreau's birthday, Thoreau, and Walden (his creation), being frequent visitors to DAYS POEM. a poem is a poem, a map, a membrane, a shock, suddenly, when day seemed ordinary. I can only proffer what I wrote. thanks to Tom for the touch. thanks again, too, to Eileen Tabios for taking the machine I gave her and letting it run. Eileen is too too.

I haven't done Youtube justice, what with musical groups to catch glimpses of (Moby Grape on Mike Douglas Show, where they are introduced, typical, as the Moby Grapes) but for the nonce, this bit about Led Zep. begins like a Monty Python skit, which, essentially, it is. the controlled, disdainful 'aesthetic' argument here is no different from any other representation of the new in the fuddy world. Led Zeppelin as the latest thing that the youths have come up with. the BBC tool is just playing along with the joke. this is exactly how poetry dies slowly, how the arts get boxed in. the taxonomists use their tried and true metric to measure the anomaly, having 1st determined that it is an anomaly. it's a defensive reaction, as if the walls will be overwhelmed by this new mutation. which, perhaps, they will. and is that so bad? but really, Led Zep doesn't cancel The Beatles, nor vice versa, and I daresay the Grecian Urn remains despite Charles Bernstein deciding to write poems. I HATE AESTHETICS.

, originally uploaded by allen_bramhall.

a friend gave me a copy of For the Time Being, an anthology edited by Tyler Doherty & Tom Morgan, and published by Bootstrap Press. it is 'about' journals and features many writers of interest: Joanne Kyger, Joel Sloman, Marcella Durand, Joseph Massey (and many more), id est: old and new. Bootstrap strikes me as a going concern, which the bleak metro Boston landscape could use, in spades. the press has just published A Book of Prophecies (did you follow the link above or did I waste my time throwing my html knowledge around???) and seems to be providing some local energy hereabouts. the press is based in Lowell, where falling apart and getting back together are just about synonymous. work the good up keep is what I say, or better still: carry on for the greater glory. I look forward to scraping my nose across the pages of this book.

, originally uploaded by allen_bramhall.

, originally uploaded by allen_bramhall.

Gary Sullivan's comic Elsewhere no. 3 arrived yesterday. a departure from previous numbers. 1 & 2 were impressionistic (I hate that word too but it seems appropriately descriptive in this case), #1 being trippy sights and sounds of Japan, #2 of Coney Island. #3 collects the comix Gary did for Rain Taxi. placed in an autobiographical vector, there is some similarity to that mordantly British and hilarious (if those two terms aren't synonymous) cartoonist whose name scandalously escapes me, partly in the humour but especially in the thick lines and consequential black patches. the cartoons revel in goofiness yet intersect with a "pure" poetry, that being the literature that drives us to words, rather than the aesthetic bickering and social compunction of the Poetry World. some of these cartoons are homages to poets, Paul Blackburn for instance, featuring portraits derived largely from well known photos. these portraits are very sweet, reflecting the sincerity even the worst of us carries for those writers who meant something to that burgeoning writer within us. some of the images Gary offers are wisecracks, like the one labeled "Stein Discovers Repetition" which shows her swallowed in a vertiginous maelstrom. or "O'Hara takes on NYC", with Frank, flying above rooftops, thinking "must... have lunch...with LeRoi... then write Pollock monograph... and catch Billie's last set...!!". which is a pretty good encapsulation of how we see him, now. the more localized historical bits, like about flarf, flounder some in a defensive mode. the loving distance isn't employed in these instances. put it this way, much of the pretty considerations and confrontations have been sweated off Creeley and Blackburn, whereas there really is a Poetry Project and whatever pull and tug that goes on there (of which I know little, only guess). the battles of flarf aren't so interesting, nor were the decades of Langpo battle, surely not when we can read the poetry instead. so there's that. there's brief mention here of Ernst Herbeck, Gary's translations of whom are really wonderful and to be looked for. anyway, that's my brief initial look. I just scanned my book trove to remind myself of the British cartoonist to whom I've related Gary: Glen Baxter. there is a visual similarity I think you can see, and they share a skewed autobiographical element, but never to make overmuch of comparisons. the comic is self-published and available thru Gary at Gary Sullivan World Headquarters. he's on a great and varied project with Elsewhere. I was about to write recommended but somehow I don't think anyone's on the edge of their seat waiting for my proclamation, and yet, I mean it as I see it.

we watched Epic Movie yestreen. of particular interest to Erin, but the tv ads when it was in theatres looked funny: I was all for killing the evening with it. of course the ads cornered the humour available in the flick, but so it goes. I have a pretty heady tolerance for these 2-bit parodies, like Scary Movie (I've seen parts of at least 2), and so forth. EP is by no means as well crafted as the various movies by the creators of Airplane. instead, it survives with a throw it in the moat and see if anyone salutes motivation. so there's much that is stupid, lame, puerile, as well as a few hearty laughs. welladay! it begins by posing the idea that it has a plot. brief back stories parodying Snakes on the Plane, X-Men, Nacho Libre and DaVinci Code brings the 4 lead characters together. there's a disturbing outing into Willy Wonka land (despite Depp, I was in no mood to meet that film) then it's a scuffle largely with Narnia. one starts to feel the compelling sag of the originals. I mean, just a little undermining serves to send the whole mountain sliding. the cast is nameless, except for a few recognizable cameos like David Carradine and Fred Willard. some of the satire was no more than imitation. Nacho Libre looked no different from the original, and now I wonder if I really liked the original. and I've sat thru Narnia twice, but seeing it twisted a trifle, I wonder at that as well. it's rather fascinating to see these cinematic wonders without the lens of movie magic, i.e. big budget. a nice bit was the glorioso battle from Narnia. in EP, it hinges on one of our heroes finding the clicker from that Adam Sandler film from last year. he stops the evil army in its tracks then, with his family, proceeds to lay havoc on the frozen warriors. all this muddle seems potent with some sort of aesthetic intention. or it is a learning node. think of poetry as signs of the poetic. so much of the crudzoid poetry we meet daily consists of signals telling us that we are in the presence of poetry. lofty sentiments and rococco malarkey and the whole 9 yards. the appeal of crappy and/or minor movies situates in the deft insincerity in which they work. don't those Oscar-worthy movies that are cranked out yearly overflow with sweet crude quality sincerity? sincerity of the commonest manufacture. we deconstruct with the urge to discover the real thing beneath the crap. Fred Allen said something like, Hollywood is a place where you brush away the tinsel to see the real tinsel inside. our daily duty, in poetry, is something similar. we seek to eject the clunky weak contributions of imitated energy. I guess I'm saying that Epic Movie gives a view of that process.

been reading Stephen Vincent's new book, Walking Theory (Junction Press 2007). of which this current ramble mayn't be a review. because, 'istorin, find out for yourself, but really, the book causeth mental ramblings. so look: first poem is simply the route of a walk, Nathan Whiting-style. and further on Vincent goes divagation and ponder. I don't mean to be lame here, just thinking of methodology in the option of walking, walking. when I ran more assiduously, 80+ miles a week, I used to fairly regularly transcribe the runs afterwards. couldn't help it. what Stephen does is more mature and philosophic, a thoughtful sense of place, in time as well as in space. death is present here because death was present for Stephen as the work was written. death of brother and father, fading of mother. I can only say his work with his mother is exquisite, makes me sad at my own failings as my parents drew towards the edge. but I shan't go further here regarding Stephen's work, I'll save that for another time and when. I'm drawn into thoughts of Thoreau, for instance. who certainly had his own walking theory. I live near the centre of a circle of say 25 miles diameter, just guessing, that Thoreau covered. check out his journals, crisscrossing his world. he applied himself to the world as if it were new and wonderful. isn't that the treasure of poetry? not, say, in the emotions described or enacted, but in its language. death and its lack of mercy may likely be a topic or starting point for a poem, for a writing, anybody's, but that aint the news. the news is the juncture of language and the person. Thoreau, or Vincent, wander, and see. writing is a way of seeing. I don't know the details but Stephen makes walking a part of his writing process. and Thoreau, you can see him rise in the morning, step from his cabin and apply himself to the miles and landscape, to see specific eggs hatch, or buds break. you can stretch it to Berrigan or O'Hara, this will in the world. I mean, you can stretch it to any poet worth the name, but those 2 make nice pictures. wandering out there under whatever impetus, writing swift briefs of their momentum. think of Dickinson, more painstaking, perhaps, and much more local and constrained. and what is Silliman's BART but that same acceptance. it appears I have no focus at this time so let me hint just this vaguely at the resonances I hear in these varied. each day and its opportunity. and I offer Walking Theory as kindly exemplar of method and process, of a mature arrogation of the writing act.

days at the library

days library, originally uploaded by allen_bramhall.

two towering human monuments

two towering human monuments, originally uploaded by allen_bramhall.

DAYS POEM in a tree

DAYS POEM in a tree, originally uploaded by allen_bramhall.

I biked over to Walden Pond this morn, as witness the pictures below. yes, The DAYS POEM Whirled Tour continues. which I am taking way too seriously, but anyway. it's a lovely place, tho fences, crowds, 5 bucks to park year round, all combine to take some magic away. not that it was ever a retreat, a mile stroll into the village. a spa was on the shore in the late 19th century, and let's don't forget that train that preceded David Henry David's arrival there. I got to the pond around 8, and performed photographic rites at the Thoreau statue and replica cabin. as I finished assaulting the statue a man stepped from the cabin and immediately spoke with me, as if we were finishing a conversation. he remarked how Thoreau's journal was some 2 million words, which works out to roughly 250 a day. I said, about a page a day, typed. yes, he said, but some days he might not write so much, and some days it might not be good stuff. and the thing is, the guy seemed vaguely familiar, like he was a tv personality, I mean of the sort on public tv. across the street and down into the geologic bowl, plenty of swimmers were in the water or soon to be. I mean distance swimmers, most of whom wore wetsuits. water level was unusually high, I've never seen it so. I remember walking there when Erin was 12, and he saw a ballasted person walking chin deep in the water. which amused Erin greatly, he had to converse with the struggling exerciser. I had strong feelings of 1st being with Beth. we went to Walden a number of times that spring and summer. which was also when I was writing DAYS POEM. so the poem inhabits that space, sure enough. hence this effort to take silly photos en scene. I went to the site of Thoreau's cabin. a picture exists, I might even have posted it to this blog years ago, of Beth and me standing at this site. we enjoined some lucky passersby to place our image into posterity. gosh, was my hat on backwards, my mouth dumbly open? and did we not look like recent refugees from that vaunted turnip truck? yep. an impressive cairn built of pebbles stand on the site, including several rocks with writing on them, poems even. I added another pebble. Thoreau presents the portrait of himself in his doorway making jonnycakes. inside, a bed, a chair and a table. a pleasant simplification. the idea of Thoreau escaping is perverse. his experiment took care of most of his needs, tho of course it was back to mom with the laundry. okay, we all have our imperfections. his scouring of the landscape was a job and purpose. his declaration that all one needs for a home is a coffin-like box is hilarious but only partly exaggerated. I'm speaking of the writer life. he had access to books, and the natural world was plenty book for him. he had a journal and pen. he had his flute. and now I'm thinking that the Thoreau expert that I met either had his facts wrong or I misheard, because 2 million words doesn't seem a lot. the edition I have of his journal is some 5000 pages. what would it be, 100, 200 words a page? numbers, whatever. he didn't write form, if you get me. he was thinking aloud. thinking in a creative sense. he wasn't campaigning against earlier poets or novelists so much as ideas. more essence than form. I think aesthetic competitions get in our way. I mean the taxonomies, such as Ron Silliman imparts to the literature that he reads. think of Thoreau on his walks, ready to be interested by everything. Silliman, not to single him out, insists on boundaries. of course a poem is not a birch leaf or rainbow trout, and no one should have to love crappy poetry. but I sense a but. Thoreau allowed his curiosity, accepted it as vantage. what I learned from Robert Grenier, seeing him in action, is this 1st step of seeing the writing as poetry. I thought he was exceptionally generous to the writers in class. the poetry world is driven by attainment. some of which are plain ludicrous: poetry prizes, vetted university chairs, and the sincerest chuckles of getting it at readings. some are merely miserable, the castigation of writer X in favour of vaunted Y. we all do it. I don't want to anymore. not because of Thoreau but because I'm finding a loss in such limitations of view. Grenier, it struck me, was excited by poetry, language in that intensity. descriptive assessments don't get far. gatekeepers, feh! I guess this Thoreau I'm inspired by is my invention,romantic as we all romanticize. but it is to a purpose, which I think is displayed in DAYS POEM. just o round this back to the beginning point.

, originally uploaded by allen_bramhall.

Wow! Totally Awesome BOOK!!!

Wow! Totally Awesome BOOK!!!, originally uploaded by allen_bramhall.

not to out anyone, but Anny Ballardini wrote to say that she purchased a copy of Days Poem. yes, it is indiscreet of me to tell all. but in her message to me (hah! Days Poem's 1st incursion into Italy, Europe, anything to the right of Bedford, MA!!!) she referred to the poem as "Your Vocabularies". great, wonderful, lovely! I like that sense of active usage, that I write with "my" words. a writer on the Wryting list, Bob Brueckl, under-published yet astonishingly unique, frequently uses the words of other writers, most particularly those of John M Bennett. I don't know his process, but it is NOT a matter of quoting. Bob always credits the author from whom he mines the words, yet the poems always reverberate as original Brueckl's (id est: strange, lyrical, squalid, scatological and lovely). the possession of those words is fluid, is the point. so I believe that the words in DAYS POEM are mine as superluminary possessions that shine for the moment of the poem as mine. and you may use the same words as yours, even at the same time. !!!!! I guess it's a socialist possession, as the use and re-use is inexhaustible. anyway, thanks to Anny for her part in the potlatch that is poetry.

from Call Me Ish:

You can approach BIG America and spread yourself like a pancake, sing her stretch as Whitman did, be puffed up as we are over PRODUCTION. It's easy. THE AMERICAN WAY. Soft Turn out paper cups, lies flat on the brush. N.G.

Or recognize that our power is simply QUANTITY. Without considering purpose. That is, so long as we continue to be INGENIOUS about machines, and have the resources.

Or you can take an attitude, the creative vantage. See her as OBJECT in MOTION, something to be shaped, for use. It involves a first act of physics. You can observe POTENTIAL and VELOCITY separately, have to, to measure THE THING. You get approximate results. They are usable enough if you include the Uncertainty Principle, Heisenberg's law that you learn the speed at the cost of exact knowledge of the energy and the energy at the loss of exact knowledge of the speed.

I think this is wickedly wise stuff. doesn't that 3rd paragraph sound like a disquisition on language? America, that thing beyond country, is a language, as well as an implement. it is a political unit, of course, even as it slops over boundaries. but stop not there. you maybe heard of the investment turbine, the BRIC countries (Brazil, Russia, India, China). bursting at the seams with the new working monster. not talking just poli sci or economics. here is language caught in people, or vice versa. a language of usage, and a usage of language. think of the recent examples in poetry. LANGUAGE poetry, which is so consciously political in its self-regard. or flarf, which is consciously apolitical it its sources. apolitical doesn't exist, of course, so naturally we have a cognitive intensity of concern in flarf's welcoming of the so-called inappropriate. I throw these out as examples of the merrie making to be confronted. I mean I go back to Olson, who I have been reading for 35 years. and he goes back to Melville. and Melville goes back. the news aint old, and it has something to do with how poetry aint a knick knack. it aint. it don't gotta be fraught with laboured points, but certainly it seems to live stronger in a confrontation of essential speech and action. love America? hate it? what's the point? sure there are American acts you can point to, either way, but the more majestic problem is the machine itself, and how it construes us. and by us, I mean every which person, creature, plant or entity humbled on this orb. how do we contain any of this in speech? how does speech become action? no doubt I'm way beyond myself here, but I just want to maintain that Olson aint ready for the back shelf, so far as I can see. and Moby Dick continues as a new and vital puzzlement.

so I started to (re)read both Call Me Ishmael and Moby Dick. I take Ish as exemplar in criticism, or how I want to involve myself therewith, at least. it's Olson's thorough involvement as a writer that makes it for me. that is, criticism as descriptor is only mildly useful to me, and this because my sense of taxonomy isn't particularly sharp. I like seeing Olson tussle familiarly with Melville. it's an energy exchange, and still highly charged. Moby Dick is dear to me as well. modernism became (as I see it, in that old century) a re-vision of boundaries. the poem as this deft enclosed field of posture, and the novel as romanticized neighbourhood of the unliving portrait: both these tributaries flexed into a repositioning stream. the nature of which slurs expectations. the interesting novels have released plot from its imperial directive. and poems aren't gems. MD is a poem, and why not. I think the stuck poems nowadays are practiced sessions with other poems, half-assed cloing experiments. you know, NY School Mach 99, LANGUAGE POETRY v 27. history, science, philosophy are saviours of both, allowing fresh air to instill, simply to instill. there's some critical lojinx going on, causing literature to turn into something slack and segregated rather than proficient and alive. art isn't decoration any more than it is a cv bullet. the arts are something integrally inside life, a communication and process and integration that doesn't just enrich but motivates and encourages. which is why the art maven naysayers as well as the blind eye provocateurs are so wrong. I know I'm screeding out, when I only want to remark the vivacity of both Melville and Olson in their astonished work of discovery. "What did happen to measure when the rigidities dissolved?" asked Olson in a Melville essay. kick ass, you tards, is the message, grown into the spring wind of lovely grass and leaves and hopeful flowers for a while.

Henry Gould's project (his oeuvre, I mean) has a comprehensiveness that certainly fits the modernist sway, but also points to an enveloping commitment that I find admirable. or put it this way, I don't care that 17 new poems arrived somehow (and now must be turned into a chaobook to announce on the Poetics listserv), that magic act doesn't get old, but still, what is it that you embrace beyond production? I like obsession, focus, dedication, tho not in the sense of chaffering venues to accept your poems. I like poems connecting to an active life of process, not just freshened manufacture. hail to thee blithe guy in Providence. I mean, this is going on before your/our eyes, O public eye, this growing work. part 2 of my ramble, vaguely connected, nods to Eileen Tabios's doctrinal acceptance. recognize, as some New York buzz bombs tiresomely can't, that the struggle is human and possible, even as poems sometimes occur. everyone's nervous about their 'wares', because poetry lacks mathematical assertion, or at least, poets so lack. you write 15,000 poems in a year and some hang around and some blow funk. where's the control? oh, it's on your nasty blog!!! not for Eileen, and this is a force to reckon with. not to say I'm a positivist. I'm just another ego in the ego room, so I feel cramped all the time. but in stray moments I remember that I've flailed and flailed, albeit not overly publicly. I have 1000 pages on potential display (Days Poem the marketing exercise), and when I look at it, it is new to me. I feel like the poem's relative, not author. I have no schematic by which the work developed. you know what I am saying. you write by accepting. you cannot, let us say, out think the poem, because the poem aint thinking, it's doing/making. the made/done thing. it is on the poet to be in the positionfor the poem. and the reader, good lord, you are on the same ride, too!

The Official Days Poem Publication Site!

additional exclamation points available upon request

you may notice, in the picture below of DAYS POEM--the book, the reading experience--posing on the stone pointing to Emerson's grave, that someone (not me) placed a dime on top. now, to be frank, I was already creeping myself out taking these pix (and yet...). the dime doesn't seem such a nice gesture. I was creeped out further at Alcott's grave, which had a goodly sprinkling of pennies on the grave itself. I didn't even want to enter DAYS POEM into that image. grave as wishing well? or are the pennies for the ferryman? little late for that. I certainly mean to take a photo op at Walden, which DAYS POEM mentions frequently, and I may even have written some of it there.

Sleepy Hollow Cemetery

Sleepy Hollow Cemetery, originally uploaded by allen_bramhall.

good taste is timeless

a delightful view

a delightful view, originally uploaded by allen_bramhall.

DAYS POEM Promotional Tour

Sleepy Hollow Cemetery

Sleepy Hollow Cemetery, originally uploaded by allen_bramhall.

Sleepy Hollow Cemetery

Sleepy Hollow Cemetery, originally uploaded by allen_bramhall.

DAYS POEM Promotional Tour

-- DAYS POEM--

the book is now in hand. I have seen it. I carried it to the Indian restaurant this evening, Erin and Beth took pictures of waiters at the restaurant holding it. it's for real!!! it looks awesome, thanks to Erin who designed the cover (from a couple of my paintings) and to Shanna Compton, who provided emergency tech help. the visceral thrill of the book in hand suffuses me. last year I offered EILEEN TABIOS a manuscript, which--gracious!--she accepted. in some casual aside I mentioned a certain extra long manuscript that I had. unexpectedly, this piqued her interest, she asked to see said ms, she accepted that, and so the story goes. a publisher willing to publish 1000 pages of an un(der)known: this is money where your mouth is territory. I sound way too glib here, because I think this is miraculous. certes, I can thank the changing publishing model, Lulu et al., that makes the commitment less egregious. but it is still a mighty commitment (to poetry, to possibility). I am thankful to Eileen for giving this poem an opportunity to be seen. this is not just a bullet on my cv, this is proof against my own innate hopelessness re the mechanics of the poetry world. so, promote promote promote, because the poem is beautiful, if you will trust the conduit to say so. so...

To celebrate the release of Days Poem, Meritage Press is pleased to offer the following SPECIAL OFFER:

To order a single volume, a 20% discount and free shipping/handling (about a $3.00 value) for a single-volume price of $22.40

To order both volumes, a 25% discount and free shipping handling for a 2-volume price of $42.00

This offer will be good through June 30, 2007...and is expected to be the least expensive rate for purchasing the book(s). Please send checks made out to "Meritage Press" and mail to

Eileen Tabios
Meritage Press
256 North Fork Crystal Springs Rd.
St. Helena, CA 94574

to the right are urls to the books, if you love the internets.

so we were there, watching Pirates yestreen. if I were writing whilst in the theatre, I might've leaned on excoriation, but I'm cooler now. it's a hard film to deconstruct (Kasey Mohhamd makes a good stab), because it's just so crowded. so anyway, three of the theatres at the plex offered Pirates. we got there earlier than expected and saw a rash, good word, of plain ole tv commercials. no explosions. then we got the usual trailers. Live Free or Die Hard signals the apocalypse. I know all those cars flipping into the air will draw the crowds but Bruce Willis tops my Go Away list. as to Pirates, I just kept facing the situation I experienced. instead of watching the movie, I watched myself watch the movie, as one minor dividend of the avid whole. it begins with an apparent clip from Tale of Two Cities and a fake sense of import, then lets the camera find Keira. it was a greater relief, tho, when Barbossa appears. the character and the performance strike the right note, finally, of over the top and grim weird. then the movie feels on track, somewhat. Johnny on the Bonneville salt flat gives us some trippy fun. then our gang of heroes and villains agglutinate into various configurations until the movie ends. I don't think you can watch this movie without considering Disney's stocks. the larger picture, that is. it's like a contest to be the greatest moneymaking scheme ever. it looms with an American value of enterprise. there were moments when I viscerally felt the theme park ride whence the franchise grew. all the sensory input as we sat there, safe from any thoughts. the formerly comedic pirate duo were largely drained of fun but instead placed as placards along the way toward that bottom line in black. placards, what could possibly be writ on such placards? something along the lines of give up, submit, stop worrying. whatever. Calypso and Davy Jones basically disappear in a weird refusal to tie up loose ends, suggesting, I suppose, an intention to make a 4th Pirates. the maelstrom battle was a lot of jiggled string in front of a young cat. the movie ends wistfully, in the sense that it doesn't want to stop making money. well, that's enough for this movie. it really agitated me as I watched but that has worn off, and not much else remains. aptly, today's word of the day is sequacious.

watched Jet Li's Fearless the other night. I've seen a few martial arts flicks here and there but hardly know the genre. years ago saw one in Chinatown, which somehow made the experience more authentic. the plot in that one centered on an invasion of China by Japan. it was alarmingly complete in its annihilation, only one character in the movie survived. armies, villages, royal families: everyone but the hero bought the farm. Fearless began with a prose prologue, something about the West coming to the East. as part of that, Jet fights various matches with Westerners. he fights and humiliates a guy with a lance, one with a sword, and a boxer in separate matches. what I don't care for in action films is the dramatic randomness of the affliction. combatants inflict 18 seemingly similar blows that merely distract the opponent, then one throws the same blow, which is the killer. and furthermore, no one gets tired. this lack of physical basis bothers me. I don't mind the impossible physics that occurs, tho the sweeping angles in which these acts are filmed are what carry the day. after defeating three westerners Jet enters an hour long flashback. flashbacks should last no more than 7 minutes tops in my universe, Coppola and Godfather 2 take note. the principle being that the longer the less flashy. so we go back to Jet as a child. he watches his father compete in the village matches. his father throws what would be the winning blow but holds it before contact. doing this in moral rightness. his opponent not so minded takes the reprieve and boffs Jet's father, who loses. this inspires Jet to fight the son of the winner, who thrashes Jet. Jet vows never to lose again. so he grows to a proud young man and is the young lion of village matches. he tries to goad the village champ into a fight but that fighter is too lofty to deign. but then one of Jet's many hangers on is killed by this Master Chin. Jet seeks hotheaded revenge. cue swirling crashing fight. Jet wins, Master Chin dies. next morning, after drunken victory night, Jet returns homes to find his mother and daughter murdered. he seeks revenge but reaching Master Chin's home finds cowering children and wife. Jet skips revenge. then he learns that Master Chin was defending his wife's honour against the hanger on's blandishments. Jet's dark night of the soul. he goes off on a boat, which sinks, and he's pulled ashore somewhere. befriended by a blind woman, he stays in the village for years. then he finally goes back to his old home to expiate his sins. learned his lesson. and with some effort, the flashback concludes. he has one more opponent to fight, a feller from Japan. I don't know if money's on the line or political power or what but a bad element wants Jet to lose. his opponent is honourable. the 1st round is a tie. Jet is fed bad tea. he's dying. the opponent wants to stop but Jet refuses. Jet's dying. they fight, full tilt. Jet's dying. it looks like Jet's dead then Jet throws a perfect blow, yet holds back. the opponent recognizes the moment and, despite the bad influences, concedes defeat. Jet dies, tho the last scene shows him cavorting in the moonlight with the blind woman. oh I forgot an extra match, in which Jet tangles with a steroided westerner named Hercules. same large person as was Achilles 1st victim in Troy. Jet saves Herc when, in knocking the big feller from the ring, Hercules almost lands on some spikes. honourable Jet.

just saw Night at the Museum, the Ben Stiller star vehicle. a patented cute movie but nothing wrong with that. it was likable, which seems like asking a lot of a movie lately. that is to say, if they add more soap opera to Spidey--yes I know that it's original to the comic--I'll squeak, and if they minimize Johnny Depp any more in Pirates, as apparently, squawk. and so forth. I'll take likable, and don't brain me with fx. so what would be the inspiration of this but Bill and Ted? anachronisms come to life. a lot of shorthand in the plot and 'development', just don't worry it. Robin Williams was absolutely smarmy (where'd his career go???) as the visionary--they actually called him visionary--Teddy Roosevelt. well yes he was visionary, in the empire-building slaughter sense, okay. thanks for dropping by, pal. Owen Wilson, legally enjoined to appear in all Stiller flicks, was Owen Wilson, tho a little tightly kept in. I like that they had Sacagawea, a real yet vanished historical presence, tho they had to create an icky love match with Robin Roosevelt. broad humour, special effects, and at the end a brief, lovely, graceful dance step by Dick van Dyck. more impressive, no doubt, in a theatre but good enough on the telly.

Alan Sondheim posted this link to a John Cage television performance to the Wryting list. it is wonderful in many ways, certainly foremost seeing Cage perform and talk. when people dismiss the new, they so often fail to recognize the degree to which they are intrigued and pulled in. here, people are thinking this is crazy, not music, but they're laughing, reacting with surprise at some of the sounds (the goose call, for instance), and otherwise quite into it. I love how Cage earnestly explains the work around for a snafu that arose because a union squabble prevented the 5 radios that he needed from being plugged in.

DAYS POEM, really released!!!>

just pressing the fact that DAYS POEM has served its time in Gremlin World and now wishes to be addressed as a living breath of Published Poetry

MERITAGE PRESS ANNOUNCEMENT

Dear Poetry Lover,
As a result of some last minute refinement of the project, DAYS POEM by Allen Bramhall has further plumped up its page count. Volume I is now 510 pages, vs the original 494 pages; Volume II went up by one more page to 442 pages. As these refinements distracted as from further promoting the project, Meritage Press is pleased to re-release its RELEASE OFFER, described below, with a new deadline for sending orders:

Meritage Press

A SPECIAL RELEASE OFFER!

A Two-Volume Poetry Collection by Allen Bramhall:
DAYS POEM, Vol. I
510 pages
ISBN: 978-0-9709-1798-0
Price: $28.00

DAYS POEM, Vol. II
442 pages
ISBN: 978-0-9709-1799-7
Price: $28.00

Meritage Press (www.meritagepress.com) is delighted to announce a RELEASE SPECIAL OFFER for a unique and ambitious two-volume collection by Allen Bramhall: DAYS POEM. Mr. Bramhall describes his project with:

"Begun casually, the writing of Days Poem quickly grew into a daily necessity to write, even to plug onward. In this way, it resembles a journal or novel, tho it claims neither genre as its own. It started with an idea of writing large and embracing extent. It settled (and unsettled) itself within the compelling philosophical argument that it is what it is. The thrill of relentlessness and perseverance pushed it until, you know, it came to an end. As the writer of these pages, I wanted to play with hobos, and bears, and Tarzan & Jane, and Walden Pond, and all the words in between. I wanted a little amazement in every day."


BIO: Allen Bramhall was born by the banks of the Concord River in 1952 and has lived in Massachusetts ever since. He was educated at Franconia College and Lesley University, and in non-academic places as well. / Simple Theory / (Potes & Poets Press) was his first book. He maintains a blog called Tributary (http://tribute-airy.blogspot.com/), and a life with Beth and Erin.

To celebrate the release of Days Poem, Meritage Press is pleased to offer the following SPECIAL OFFER:

To order a single volume, a 20% discount and free shipping/handling (about a $3.00 value) for a single-volume price of $22.40

To order both volumes, a 25% discount and free shipping handling for a 2-volume price of $42.00

This offer will be good through June 30, 2007...and is expected to be the least expensive rate for purchasing the book(s). Please send checks made out to "Meritage Press" and mail to

Eileen Tabios
Meritage Press
256 North Fork Crystal Springs Rd.
St. Helena, CA 94574

This offer is good throughout the United States; Meritage Press will take international orders but will have to adjust shipping/handling costs. If you wish to place an international order, or have any other queries, please email MeritagePress@aol.com

Beyond the expiry of this RELEASE OFFER, Days Poem will be available through the publisher (email MeritagePress@aol.com) or you can order through Meritage Press' Lulu account at:

Days Poem, Vol 1

Days Poem, Vol 2

FOR MORE INFO: Meritage Press

oh hi, just back from the ballet. true. someone Beth knows in our homeschool cooperative, learning that Beth likes dance, invited us. she and her husband go regularly. I believe she danced for a well known dance company, at any rate she's involved with dance even now. I've been to ballet once, for The Nutcracker many years ago. for that performance, I sat something like 3 miles away (I didn't measure accurately). despite that, it was a compelling spectacle. this evening we were an easy tomato toss from the orchestra pit: great seats. the Wang Center was renovated in the 90s, I think. you enter into this little concourse that's just crazy with sculpture and painted ceilings and all sorts of gold-leaf gimcrack. it looked like Versailles. Beth said it was like being in a Faberge egg. I love that. I love that intensity of atmosphere. this concourse, whatever it's called, was packed with people who were in various refreshment lines. I just wanted to stare up at the cherubim on the ceiling. wouldn't you? I can't speak of the dance particularly. certain moves are obviously difficult, athletic, physically demanding, which are easy to appreciate. I don't particularly care about the lines and such. oh, the ballet was Giselle. the 1st act featured really lovely autumnal colours, especially a lot of pumpkin orange. my other ballet experience may be the only other time I've witnessed really full tilt theatrical scenery and costumes. at intermission we sallied forth into the concourse, tho I guess I should use the word lobby. Beth wanted a glass of wine so I gallantly stood in the theoretical line, which was constantly interrupted by people going somewhere, or just kind of taking space in a talkative way. the 3 oz tipple of white Bordeaux was 7 bucks, which, friends, is roughly the treatment you expect in a dark alley. and I'm pretty sure the bartender thought I was a brown shoe, or maybe a map with an X on it. it's the same honour as drinking weasel piss beer at Fenway for whatever a cup. is it a Puritan necessity to remove the pleasure from pleasure? minor point. now, I went for the full thrill of my grey suit, which I don't wear often. this definitely is part of that Puritan necessity, and I learned it from my father. yet I was surprised at how casually many dressed, tho plenty did dress up. by the way, the seats were as roomy as Fenway, which is to say not. Giselle was like The Nutcracker in that the first act was the story and the 2nd act was the mushroom trip. I have to read the synopsis again but star-crossed lovers and such, and Giselle dies. 2nd act features ghostly spirits, who mediate a bit, sweep the bad suitor to hell and allow the good one to posture histrionically. really, it's great visual stuff, moody, engrossing and weird. very 19th century. everyone was hitting laudanum back then, washed down with absinthe. I like the music quite a bit, tho I don't recall the composer. my glance thru the scorecard has yet to find mention of the composer's name. I wish things like ballet and symphony and opera weren't such rare experiences. tho jinkies, some years ago someone I know got freebie Celtic tickets and invited me along. the Celts were in their apparently permanent post-Bird crappiness. we sat somewhat back of the basket, low but at an angle that only allowed good view of one basket. the PA was full throttle hype-noise. it was the fakest fun you could imagine. and those seats cost 75 American dollars. I cannot think of a bigger waste of funds. so whatever the ballet tickets cost, there was some reward. I quibble not at all. please contribute to the Allen and Beth Want to Go to Ballet All the Time Fund.