>

2009/07/31

ab ~

________________________________________________________________





Absences, renewals, silences _______________ i move into a 'hole'

the night is ~




round the world is

long


yet
the heart

lifts




its lip




~


_______________________________________________________

2009/07/30

th ~e








_______________________________________








____________________________________________






___________________________________________









_________________________ the hour ________________________________





________________________________________________________________57











































2009/07/28

so then

okay the poet does not write discourse ~ (not directly she goes around the backbending way) round and round the precourse the heft still pave ~ the wrong mouth method the tunnel reading leading its film second . its scene but opens the highlight of the eye, the film-scene ~
















the stones recover
it








so then the dianoia of the poetry is the elusive grasp of its poetry's prose ~

2009/07/27

can you??




can you cry a name more than once?

yes many times



do the times

make for a circle?

no ,

they make a fine line of love for you ~






and do those lines make you a 'professional' poet, a
confessional poet

we dont care we 're not interested in 'professional "

___________________ poetry is a way: a way of life therefore

"Que les incultes s'emparent de la culture et ce faisant la transforment. Tout le monde devrait avoir le droit d'écrire, se sentir le droit décrire.

Qu'est-ce que c'est que cette ânerie, qu'il y a des philosophes professionnels, des artistes professionnels ? Est-ce que la philosophie n'est pas a tout le monde ? Est-ce que l'art n'est pas à tout le monde ? Qu'est-ce que c'est que vivre alors, simplement vivre, quand on est un homme et qu'on est en proie au langage, si on n'est pas son propre philosophe, son propre artiste ?

Je réclame pour tout un chacun, et aussi bien pour le dernier des peigne-cul, le droit entier de parler le monde, de parler les races et les continents, de faire l'art et la philosophie et de produire aussi le discours culturel.

J'appelle quelque chose comme un mouvement de libération de la culture - un M.L.Q."


Roger Gentis




2009/07/25

: crying your name

forgive me i am still learning how to write, how to write, a love poem ~.
always between my heart and the breath which expresses it ~
is the catch that works and does not. always the double ~

crying your name

crying your name










I was crying your name



but didn’t realise it ~ .


Your name (and then a __)

all the time

ta nomme

est

dans ma cœur

chaque femme c'était toi



toujours






I looked and everywoman was you

Thursday


Vendredi


Samedi

each woman

You















































I was






I was crying your name



but didn’t know



Yer name and then a __


all the time dans mon cœur est

chaque femme c'était toi



tousjour






I looked and everywoman was you

Thursday Friday satuday

each woman was you


2009/07/23

yet another

yet another thing about blogs that is tiresome is the whole concept of

of subscribing I mean I dig it but I can change things constantly in what Ive written so it wont be what is one the “feed” the feed is there to draw the reader out to the text as its written at a particular moment but but its a log, right, and logs change, at least in this world. I mean what is a comma or a straight sentence to a man writing on a ship in stormy sea ________ it’s nothing he writes to save his life, not to get published or become a famous writer. so the good thing about it, the blog, is the machine is constantly changing, the record is transforming recording and producing. at least for some of us that’s how it works, that s the fun of it. so this log is washed over in the changing page of its event, of its moment.

do you turn

is this __ the poem quoted below, older or newer?


Duffy: must it be?new? cant it be a form I am working on?shape to things that come,a way to consider feelings of love, loss, hope, wished for loving, and love?
cant the poem itself be an experiment? often when you love someone, often under really difficult and hard circumstances you say things Indirectly __ so love is a poem of indirection.

The poem is what exactly?

(a series of love letters)

No one is sure . I mean, we know whata simple poem is; somone asked me at a party last weekend to recite a poem and I did.
But

Im very moved by what Deleuze says about wriitng and love



"One only writes through love, all writing is a love-letter: " THat describes my writing to a T. And then just think of the hidden letter in Finnegans Wake, the hidden and lost letter. All western literature, is embedded in letters, coming and going, epistles, trials, hidden caches, of letters, emails, emails that dont arrive, lost ones, forgotten ones. Love is a Great Letter.

Poetry too then, is a Great Letter. A love letter. Written to Someone.

"One should only die through love," Yes, Mister Deleuze knew his literature, eh? yes.



____________________________________
So lets say the poems I write are always hidden THe surface is the cover. So its natural to ask what is under the cover. (see above)

thats a good question.________________________

Now as the person who writes it should I say what I think, or know is under the cover. Its my cover after all isnt it? but what if my cover is so deep I dont remember. what if i am lost and love has got me loster. what if it turns out I missed love.
or love misssed me.
what if I missed messages when I was supposed to get them. What does that mean,t o s ay I was supposed to get them?


What is supposed? I dont know, or I only some of the simplest part of the answers to these questions, so for me, I write the poems. Theres's someone I love.

yes, there is, and you know poems are usually written for the people we love. It can take a long time to love someone....

someone who's out of reach ~ .

And the fictions is perhaps my best way of loving and giving love, because it is not all worn down with the Me and the I.

So the question, is, the question is: Me? I ? what is that? is it something thatI ought to fictionalize?

Perhaps the greatest fiction is the I. THe I who loves, becuase when you love someone and really 'lose' yourself, at that moment, you are dying, dying of love, and love's dying, right? isn't that what the great poets were all writing?

And as well, I am not I when I write this. I is not I.

______________________________ Think of the women and men in the Gulag, that Solzhenitsyn's speaks who married and love people they never met for years. Sometimes for ten years, and knowing g they were there, made them live.. under terrible conditions..... This is something so powerful.. I have to think about it, and think. And learn. We learn and relearn all the time. love.



"your name





Where do you turn when these words don't
come a letter dangling
in the air
marks your fate
tests your time and"



where do you turn - draft re draft

here do you turn - draft re draft

is this old or new?

Duffy: does it have to be old Or new? cant it be a form I am working on? shape, shape to things that come,a way to consider feelings of love, loss, hope, wished for loving, and love?
cant the poem itself be an experiment? often when you love someone, often under really difficult and hard circumstances you say things Indirectly __ so love is a poem of indirection.

The poem is what exactly?

No one is sure . I mean, we know whata simple poem is; somone asked me at a party last weekend to recite a poem and I did.
But

that is one thing, yet knowing what a poem is not the same as saying one, how a poem is not necessarily What it is.


So lets say the poems I write are always hidden THe surface is the cover. So its natural to ask what is under the cover.

thats a good question.________________________

Now as the person who writes it should I say what I think, or know is under the cover. Its my cover after all isnt it? but what if my cover is so deep I dont remember. what if i am lost and love has got me loster. what if it turns out I missed love.
or love misssed me.
what if I missed messages when I was supposed to get them. What does that mean,t o s ay I was supposed to get them?


What is supposed? I dont know, or I only some of the simplest part of the answers to these questions, so for me, I write the poems. Theres's someone I love.

yes, there is, and you know poems are usually written for the people we love.

And the fictions is perhaps my best way of loving and giving love, because it is not all worn down with the Me and the I.

So the question, is, the question is: Me? I ? what is that? is it something thatI ought to fictionalize?

Perhaps the greatest fiction is the I. THe I who loves, becuase when you love someone and really 'lose' yourself, at that moment, you are dying, dying of love, and love's dying, right? isn't that what the great poets were all writing?

And as well, I am not I when I write this. I is not I.

Example:
"Simple phrase of marry and rain it hearts the swollen womb
bests marriage to children of happy
swelling the untold ages of your near pages close rhyme
to the eye of intent closer still the mask the heart rainbow is this how it speaks



your name





Where do you turn when these words don't
come a letter dangling
in the air
marks your fate
tests your time and
making you wait"



where do you turn - draft re draft

genre___________ cross fictive _____2___

when is a text a poem that's finished_______________________________________________________________________________________________________________


this one was alreayd self conscious but in a light mood. So one can talk about Moods in Poetry, just like one speaks about Moods in Grammar. So then, are there cases in poetry? Analogous to grammatical ones?
___________________________________
"but none knows the detective like
edgar allan poet



the night wing
across its lyricism



the deniers deny
the believer retrieve~"

the word retrieve works better than the expected rhyme just because of that and as well the information it brings.






ReCall To Poetry: genre___________ cross fictive ________

Mister DuffY writes

Mister Duffy you wrote


"lets try this out Mister Duffy. A draft to draft re draft. a poem becoming other than it-was self. we've already heard it (without music) so now let's see how it sounds."


and I Clifford your other self,
your becoming writer

____________________________________________________________________________________________

Does the night wear stockings?
when you cant breath?





2009/07/21

genre___________ cross fictive ________

when is a text a poem that's finished_______________________________________________________________________________________________________________


but none knows the detective like

edgar allan poet



the night wing
across its lyricism



the deniers deny
the believer retrieve~







'but' we (ouiouioui) are not nomads and
do not work for labels and sticky things






as if we did not know what the always ever growing establishment knows



its always already reterritorializing of the territories of text which unbend the furl of

that
corkscrew of


the rusted edge




"it's all good"
"whatever"


flick her floatsome hand

said Mona

She was meant to be one thing becoming many others in her solitudes of fastness
love was not a dog in her way
nor
was
the old I don't even want to know (that)there men before me
(are you speaking in propria persona?)

Love will be pigs but not blodwyn pigs
pearls before swine
eponymous bosch
Hieronymus synonymous anonymous Bosch~ gap tooth old gaffer ~
in the bush


(is that brush? burnt bush the escape goat god
squawking in his horn box transcendence)



"hihihihih" a horse arse's sussuration) shall we ? cinder play
with our platmanteau word?


shall we

or no mister voices can her name



said Jill on the downward pass


video flying from her hand


in the abc's of nothingness and speed
oh to be

now that's winter's there

to be here
or where
it's coming close to your skin



________________________________ AS Usual the lapse in to the lyric pestoral is a deceiving cunning baffling retour _ one and two has to detour _ as Papa Del and Brother Felix sez, cuff yer territory.


_____________________

2009/07/20

objects of desire








(...) les hommes ne cessent de fabriquer une ombrelle qui les abrite, sur le dessous de laquelle ils tracent un firmament et écrivent leurs conventions, leurs opinions ; mais le poète, l’artiste pratique une fente dans l’ombrelle, il déchire même le firmament, pour faire passer un peu de chaos libre et venteux et cadrer dans une brusque lumière une vision qui apparaît à travers la fente, primevère de Wordsworth, ou pomme de Cézane, silhouette de Macbeth ou d’Achab. Alors suivent la foule des imitateurs qui ravaudent l’ombrelle avec une pièce qui ressemble vaguement à la vision, et la foule des glossateurs qui remplissent la fente avec des opinions: communication. Il faudra toujours d’autres artistes pour faire d’autres fentes, opérer les destructions nécessaires, peut-être de plus en plus grandes, et redonner ainsi à leurs prédécesseurs l’incommunicable nouveauté qu’on ne savait plus voir.(...)
"
( Gilles Deleuze - Qu'est-ce que la philosophie ? )

"shal"l not death be wounded

that word shall reminds one of shell. and shell shebe. shebecomeshellshebecome. a poem a fo em ~.
___________________________________________________________________________


shall not be death, the shape of her body



a conch ear curling toward the Venus shore, a shoe kempt wake,



the flows of her backward river glancing sent, the absence of nerves



and verbs. Such she went for the ear,



peelin`the intent of her own renewal not yours,



wishing, hoping only to use you.





abandon period. not a semi-so-calle d colon: in the denials of argument,
grammar, and verse,





but some other place








Room for Rent





One year today he`s dead



One year a day a day one year a dead man



"I just hope he`s not cold," "What do you mean?"
"It`s just an expression"




O I just meant






he`s in the ground cold as can be
but he aint there no more
that`s his remains as they say
whereas he`s become spiritual folk-lore




Trumpets pipes wind blare
a dirty look from a woman wanting to protect her virtue




whatever shreds of punctuation are left



.






a cunning baffling eye to hunt down
the banging the din of her wanting
not me but some phantasm of memory
imagination gift, the robber and death.




let me bend my mouth to her.
(see below)



_______________
(sounds rather biblical mister duff)




She was a saint at prayer
cherry-tree casting scooped airs
across the gallery




and her curves cures wore out the star
the city was battling its pressures
keeping her happy





these nymphs names mean nothing
some long tired glance from over the shoulder
a moralist waiting on the expectation of pain



Far from Paris in the street of tooting jazz-lair columbines
her black-thorn petals the ground, she is Parisian and dead
her warmth preceding her coffin humbles double deckers her down
across the setting sun




She is a saint at prayer in her eyes the
old memory of alcohol rescinds the thought of breaking bread
she finds the window




Tufted by the day leaning forward
her breasts pressed against the white ledge
Carries its weight to the end of day
(she`d like to be generous
but she`s
guilty instead)




Not three boats or three lines marshaling their power
to stay exacting fortunes and prayer
not the lexis of her deceit but the mad chimney





of branching and willing among her loins
or something like that he says reaching
forehead blazoned in the blue weak sun






Ponder this a second she mutters
as the alphabet of her grave greets
her on the Plains of her solemn festival





Cries justice seeking none
flatters out of date milkmen waiting for paste
and tears and Bibles with heavy rivers of moth






Peace and predators.





One year a room for rent
he`s daddy dead men hench-men




the death of a person
sweeping the room
their absence
not a verse
but a reprieve





knowing it`s real


.








Faun frightened by the real
stench of the
body




lowered sky
lowered the body




hurricaned rifted by the shy goodbye




tough mellow moment at the wasting sheet.






Over a dead prose she walks the salts of her menu nude as her back before eyes, the eyes of others, her name, her mother. A muck heap, and a pretender tending his harvest .






wait then, the bark the canoe. One year, a room for rent.





Room for rent one year
ghost effigy plunders the sky
missing the parabola of unity
mouth trapped in the bye sign


An arm for rent one tear to displace



_________________________________________________________










A narrator to displease her sense of honour .










___________________________________________










2009/07/19

___________Paris Art ______________




______________________________________

Nacera Belaza
Le Cri
19 juil. - 21 juil. 2009
Avignon. Chapelle des Pénitents blancs

Dans cette pièce de Nacera Belaza, il s'agit de donner une orientation intérieure : quitter le corps, libérer son énergie, accélérer, tout en maintenant la conscience à un endroit fixe — sans céder, sans tomber dans la transe.

ok this









_____________________________________________________
__________________________________
okay we're working on a couple of new books. say something to print.
and how many bad poems. over the years! decades. well, ya know... it goes like when it's alife ya cant expect them all to be ok. or digabble. if thats the word. once it was expected. theresa form for that. bad poets anonymous. thousands! its all good. even bad poetry adds to the heap!
the tawdry heapof dustdown pages.


__________________ then think of the recordings you did _ the shows. the radio show as well, and the printed thing s her and there. I maen what the _ its a lot. a life : stretched over " centuries" and the decades ... well say an artistic cv. is not the same a s the regular thing.

in deed. kiss kiss.

________________________ as raw diamonds to wheels    ~..______________________________________________________

2009/07/18

I'd rather be

all these professors of poetry.resigning . quiting. steppin down. their stanzas pants hang down. their panties in midarse air. cutthroats and spin backs. with their pussies in prise and pricks on penance! O you professors,I'drather be a doctor. Doctor dada
deeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee deeeeeeeeeeeeeee

all dumb pathetic accusation __ petty whatever.s I dont know the details. but all these chairs and professors and resignations and the bad faith of the whole thing. well,

well,
( poets gossip and blathering against and for an pro an con)
well.________________>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>> yes well, ya know,a little scandal (or a big onetwo)
always gets zzzzzzz mor e readersssssssssssssssssssss

------------ ox ford Poetry Professor

___________________________ We need a Dada Doctor --------------------------

"But Walcott is the real thing, and the Oxford debacle is a tragedy for that rarest of things, great poetry."

So sez this lover of Walcott's verse .

____________________________________better with the hip & 'cuttin' edge' wherever it may be the razor's line of the fine degreed poetry when it creates a s pace for itself in whatever form ~





what a fantastic

What a fantastic party: and it was from midday till late tonight ~ _ many people I had not seen in years. Some in over ten and 15 and I think one person Id not seen in about
20 _____________ les années life year fly and yaryar me sailors And
_________________________I went on the lake, canoing _ three times . Second time got pushed about in a rough up gale__- beached the canoe down shore came back up _ some people at the party were a bit worried as they were unable to see which direction I d gone canoing in ___ anyhow, I beached it, and stood off out of the rain while the wind blew down and then walked back up the beach around the pier __ no shoes! them rocks one had to be careful _____ and back up to the House, __ then a couple of hours later near to 7:30pm quite dark on the lake and beach went back down got it and canoed back up _ I love canoing and I had not in a quite a while. And a friend lent me a novel by Pat Barker, one i am sure i've not read previous _ Another World, which has this quote of Brodsky's as its epigram . A strong and wonderful thought inhabits its secrets.

________________________________________________________________________
Remember : the past won't fit
into memory without something left over;
it must have a future Brodsky ~


________________________
Now isn't that something
to ponder?





where do you turn - draft re draft

lets try this out Mister Duffy. A draft to draft re draft. a poem becoming other than it-was self. we've already heard it (without music) so now let's see how it sounds.




__________________________

Simple phrase of marry and rain it hearts the swollen womb
bests marriage to children of happy
swelling the untold ages of your near pages close rhyme
to the eye of intent closer still the mask the heart rainbow is this how it speaks



your name





Where do you turn when these words don't
come a letter dangling
in the air
marks your fate
tests your time and
making you wait
how to decide when time hastes you and
haste is time
hasted by time in its dozens cousins
the collage
won't take the text
hangs still the frozen word
frozen worded
turn to the bed of mingle
where the masturbatory sheets sing your song
crying lover lover Mama Mama
and shout her name
as you come in your crying
Come Come and spill
the fallen seed bearing necessity born of it
its name
away fall
word
peeling
body
reeled
reeling
spurn its almighty dollar
which calls each necessary force







what is the word you speak with hate and

love stilled against gesture and germ weed wheat
Not like that he says finding the word down there
the whirled up above in her upheld palm writing
the same song years later the transformation of matter
the fusion of Christ the conversation of peers in the water she tonight me getting aroused and the friendly
laughter of voices not aggressive in the street
and the speaking sing voice
singing this so not it is not nothing

Antioedipus that makes you sing in your old fashioned song and yes, I was roused by the way your lips moved your fucked up mouth and your ugliness is my desire scrolled by your by her lips and eyes wanting to see thee again hold ing you Kissing you in the way of the wave world hand against your back back me into the filled me of the now and multiplied by your selves forwarding and aftering me around almost by the sail of your love the heel of your palm and the starch of your skirt and all your amateurs thinking you're as smart as me in the whirled of the writing and she dreamt of my words down her bathing body as I stood there planted feet and and legs into the ground but she has abandoned me not a good enough lover but only to fight me sending her books not of a any used to me and the Him who speaked out in the accent of the mouth and she the Black woman had a hungry Mouth









Other Throng



is he the ugly one he wonders dashed by night
fell down
refused into the shining cloud
along edges
Hephaestus

shrunk at the curling feet of Aphrodite
or is Diana and her woods
his ugliness a satyr's hump
(is it the Diorama
her spinning garbs
the forest muse
pastoral to her paid muscles)

a growl in the scream of nights
woods clumping along over forest
green of grass around her hair
his body an ornament to a drag in the sky
what a word
drag in the sky
some idiom of adolescence
he fears not its tumescent rock

(in the midst
miracle wishes
sunshine of beaches
redwood)

hum of broke and sound electric
hydro dams of middle ranking pieces
over his mouth her imagined lips
climbing her giant's forest
to rest there in the seizure of her hips
up they rise on hers the ceiling of desire
the delivery of life

betimes at the request of self and other the word is napped kidnapped wrought muted deaf dumb a Sauling of waxed failure yet the strong words lie behind
camouflaged


there where stares meet milk
her breast a strange delta he climbs
Lilliputian to her Gulliveress
A lady lay down her forest for the imp
his smallness his cry
across what he thinks of as his outreness
his outsidedness
alone the body long
buries itself
over svelte ruins



Now the spirit comes along the Great one love's father and mother hipping him up he is Indian and trader sailor and buccaneer fearless to the word's strong well bound for thigh roof and lip throng his bellows her taking to her selves the wish to bear take the thing up to her holiness

words after are a lost tribe a sentinel of their bodies mark
in the sheets
o restless wind of their speakable sighs that wear the taste of day and rivers fly
between the counting words her laugh then a warm round place her voice enveloping eloped across the care of hand held

2


Not the ugly one he thinks not ugly handsome with the burnt sienna

why ugly he would ponder over the whacks and hill
never that
never ugly mother
mother were there stares across the page of your death

The real condemnation was not to have been ugly but a body borne by death

So then he wheels over the cable trussed stations of the sky a satellite rounding ringing the hips of lovers

of lovers
O breath and pediment of sigh



Not fearful
a glancing Son of the roamer one


his body earth carries


Along come the tusked shovels


Later
he spies her hips facing the dawn
crawls inside of her conch
revery to her delicate hazes
her eyes


Breath
breadth

endings are foot moves in the dance

he lifts her feet up looks under sees up into the astrological dark of her lines and


forages a kiss

finds another way to her sighing hip of wreathed lovers
Kiss her


3



suffering ends
joy flips its tourniquet
triage to desire
their trains bodies
O this blessing of wave and mouth

________________________


it's the blogger space of love creating the chambers you fill in the night speaking warning of its signs, hands of its desire,

tremendous pillow of sacrament and hope desire shaping its peace dilating memories and peace, restoring a sense of smell along the ocean feet hip topping its walk saunter on lore of legend trace of joint melt of speak weak of enchantered hauteur

your eyes into the nave of things

inside the hollow of the cathedral a tremendous summoning and cry

a finking saunter cambering along shading the hand the finial detail of your lips petal hovering over

slow-fret of damping morning mouths


gather the leaves hostages of ospreys of night sprays of the gather

not to make the poem, but the place where it stings, shrieks bellows its name
a love rush over the pavement Antioedipus busting the numerical name an apartment for sale a glad for dreaming, verdigris and the habit
not pausing to make it stay but letting it

a forgetfulness in the sigh over water and bridge the association of Arts a clamber of gatherers half-arc
his orator shells the pea the moment


will each poem then be a spelling bee? a stink garnered in the potatoes a mother willing her sons an infant bearing his father over seas and city a palomino red in the sun a tanned gold bearing the odds by singing his real rage

burring its accent as the terrible I speaks

it's the night like you

syllable latched hanging from the mouth tipping and the music of this piano syllables tom-tommed and

rackered

'by the gates' of your body yearning in the night like its hushands and simple swirl of its nape the powered draw of your thigh and the body tracked to its husbands harvest of pillow and draw the wimple of a covert nun sighing heirloom of verse pieces

verse pieces for your eyes 'my farling' which is a key a combo of farthing and darling clinging two nouns like two eyes lingo-ed into pediments of grace yoked by two senses over the same limb a cloth draping a bear

which roared in the hollow in the billow of the sacred suffering over cities of clatter cities of



a breath then this then here then around then over then in then above then near then there then on then night then reel


whirring memory


creating fippled-flutes where players stand


is this word then a repetition?
is that what it will speak?

scrolled heavens speak
unscrolled book-winder speak

Moonrise at La Silla




__

there is beauty
in the tents of the

sky

its ringing tones
display our love




over colourful cosmos ~
and
(& we all march in)

Other cases
of




space


&


rhyme







La Silla



sill



t

o

u

c

h






__

2009/07/17

Amants éternels :

`


France Vivace ~
Programme musical

Amants éternels : Tristan & Yseult

Par Hélène Nicolai 2009V8830E0001 rediffusion du 30.01.09

  • rediffusion du 30.01.09
  • 07:55

    Frank Martin
    Le vin herbé, d'après 3 chapitres du " Roman de Tristan et Iseut " de Joseph Bédier : Prologue / Première Partie : Le Philtre / Deuxième Partie : La Forêt du Morois / Troisième Partie : La Mort
    Sandrine Piau, soprano, Iseut
    Steve Davislim, ténor, Tristan
    Jutta Bönhert, soprano, Branghien
    Hildegard Wiedemann, alto, Iseut aux Blanches Mains
    Ulrike Bartsch, alto, La Mère d'Iseut
    Jonathan ...

   the unfortunate thing about links dating back a few years is often they don't work anylonger . so the page, this page of a blog post becomes in this instance, a collage . a collection of quotes that no longer work as links but as pastiche

___________________________________________