Sunday, December 30, 2012

Charles Bukowski / Somebody

File:Charles Bukowski 916.JPG
Charles Bukowski,
Graffiti, Rue d'Alsace im 10, Arrondissement von Paris
by 
GFreihalter
SOMEBODY
by Charles Bukowski

god I got the sad blue blues,
this woman sat there and she
said
are you really Charles

Bukowski?

and I said

forget that

I do not feel good
I've got the sad sads
all I want to do is
fuck you
and she laughed
she thought I was being
clever
and O I just looked up her long slim legs of heaven
I saw her liver and her quivering intestine
I saw Christ in there
jumping to a folk-rock
all the long lines of starvation within me
rose
and I walked over
and grabbed her on the couch
ripped her dress up around her face
and I didn't care
rape or the end of the earth
one more time
to be there
anywhere
real
yes
her panties were on the 
floor
and my cock went in
my cock my god my cock went in
I was Charles 
Somebody.








Tuesday, December 25, 2012

Carl Sandburg / Fog


Fog 
by Carl Sandburg 
The fog comes
on little cat feet. 

It sits looking
over harbor and city
on silent haunches
and then moves on.


Read also
BIOGRAPHY OF CARL SANBURG

Wednesday, December 19, 2012

Homero Aridjis / The ways to see and be an angel III

Angels Above Feathery White

The ways to see and be an angel III
by Homero Aridjis
English version by George McWhirter

An angel went by, people say
when a hush falls between us,
joined apparently into one body:
while these angels of ours take their rest,
examine themselves in the mirror
or gaze through the window
at the long yellow afternoon.

Homero Adrijis
MANERAS DE VER Y DE TENER ÁNGEL III

Pasó un ángel, dicen las gentes
cuando se hace el silencio en medio de nosotros,
en apariencia unidos en un cuerpo:
mientras nuestros ángeles descansan,
se observan en el espejo,
o miran por la ventana
la larga tarde amarilla.


Homero Adridjis
Tiempo de ángeles
A time of angels
México, Fondo de Cultura Económica, 2012, p. 23



Thursday, December 13, 2012

Matsuo Basho and others / Haikus


HAIKUS
Haiku 1
Miura Chora 

Get out of my road
and allow me to plant these
bamboos, Mr. Toad.

Haiku 2
Chiyo 

A morning glory
Twined round the bucket:
I will ask my neighbor
    for water.

Haiku 3
Matsuo Basho 

The old pond;
A frog jumps in:
Sound of water.

Haiku 4
Kobayashi Issa 
A dragonfly!
The distant hills
Reflected in his eyes.



Sunday, December 9, 2012

Martine Bellen / Two Poems


TWO POEMS
by Martine Bellen

Hey Diddle, Diddle

And the cat jumped over the Milk Moon, the Spoon Moon, the Sleepy
                             Mean Moon. Not the Flying Fish Moon. Or the Tiger Shark
            Moon. Moon of the Terrible. Moon of the Raccoon.

   Not the moon that swung atop the arboretum: the Peach Moon. Peony
Moon. The Moon When Trees Pop. The Lotus Moon, Mum Moon.
       Raspberry, Blackberry, or Sassafras Moon. It was the pelican that
                   perched on the Crane Moon.

The cat never jumped over the secret moon peeping out of swift, high cloud:
          The Bony Moon, the Windy Moon. The Hungry Moon. Moon of Ice.
                 Singing Moon, o Mulberry Moon
                                                     With a full-moon’s might.

The maroon-colored cat jumped over the magnificent Moon of Horses.
          The Moon When Geese Return in Scattered Formation. Moon When
the Calves Grow Hair. The Moon When Leaves Are Green. The Moon
                                When Leaves Are Gone.

          Never the dreaded Dragon Moon. The Panther Moon. The Moon When
                 Horns Are Broken Off. Never the Twelfth Moon when a million
                       brilliant eyes light dense bramble
                                                          Below that most hallowed one:
          The Moon When Eyes Are Sore From Staring at Bright Moon-Lit Snow.



Cat

The cat belongs to 
Me. The cat belongs 
To the house. The cat belongs to 
The other cat. The cat 
Belongs to itself. The cat 
Belongs to the forest. The 
Cat belongs to the bird and mouse. 
The cat belongs to the mountain lion. 
The cat belongs to no one. The cat 
Belongs to nothing. The cat belongs
To everyone, everything.

The cat has a name 
That I gave it. Everyone knows the cat’s name 
Is not its name. It is my name for the cat. 
Sometimes the cat refuses to acknowledge 
This name and sometimes the cat 
Plays along with the life I’ve created for the cat. 
Sometimes the cat pretends that it doesn’t live in a realm 
Different from the one that the cat and I 
Live in together. The cat has needs that must be met 
For the cat to live in my house, though most of the cat’s time 
Is spent elsewhere. I invite the cat to live with me 
So I can perceive some of the “elsewhere” 
In which the cat spends much cat time. 
The cat shares what I can’t see by maintaining 
An existence in my house and by responding to 
The name I gave the cat.

I know there will be a moment 
In the circuitry of space-time in which the cat will discard 
The name and forsake my house for good 
And will exist only in the fields 
I cannot see without the cat living in my house. On that day, 
I might say, “The cat has moved full-time into the wild.” 
Or I might say, “Miau-miau has run away.” 



The most recent books by Martine Bellen are GHOSTS! (Spuyten Duyvil) and2X2 (BlazeVOX). 



Wednesday, December 5, 2012

John Ashbery / How to Continue



How to Continue
by John Ashbery

Oh there once was a woman
and she kept a shop
selling trinkets to tourists
not far from a dock
who came to see what life could be
far back on the island.

And it was always a party there
always different but very nice
New friends to give you advice
or fall in love with you which is nice
and each grew so perfectly from the other
it was a marvel of poetry
and irony

And in this unsafe quarter
much was scary and dirty
but no one seemed to mind
very much
the parties went on from house to house
There were friends and lovers galore
all around the store
There was moonshine in winter
and starshine in summer
and everybody was happy to have discovered
what they discovered

And then one day the ship sailed away
There were no more dreamers just sleepers
in heavy attitudes on the dock
moving as if they knew how
among the trinkets and the souvenirs
the random shops of modern furniture
and a gale came and said
it is time to take all of you away
from the tops of the trees to the little houses
on little paths so startled

And when it became time to go
they none of them would leave without the other
for they said we are all one here
and if one of us goes the other will not go
and the wind whispered it to the stars
the people all got up to go
and looked back on love




Friday, November 30, 2012

Clark Coolidge / Five Poems



Five Poems 
by Clark Coolidge
CONJUNCTIONS:47, Fall 2006

LEGACY OF THE PLUG
The pup is gone    want an amoeba?
or an orange thing?    a “schizophrenic”?
it’s marginal but we’ll play along
the same vocabulary only fun this time
I saw the roaring rush past the clock towers
not even the starlings tried to hold on
a breach of flying objects just the same
to end it all you drop    understand?
Tape ripped from the sides of scrapers with resounding smack
they developed special lamps from the building fund
after supper we made a little model to help us
think it’s all vanilla or nougat at this point?
These light boxes kept on strafing our neighborhood
father came out all struck dumb from the bushes
he was a replacement we realized after
the habitual bulks had been hauled away at last
We made our peace with the director of the piece
a professional masochist named Rama Lama Dingdong
then the credits caught fire lighting the beach
goodbye to anything within reach

THE NORMAL IS
She’s like talking to a plate of lemon ice
leads to nothing but sheared streets and Shetland sweaters
the eyes won’t track properly    there’s
something happening over there too    Jay Gatsby
hung on a pier    I’d rather go to Peru
get my heart broke in Cuzco for the elevation
as if I somehow just popped up    I knew it
raised a monster but didn’t turn out right
all you do is shove somebody    go away
screw your head on right reason for example
oodles of confusion and addled high times
usually parks her car on my dime    why
do you think of stripes here?    there’s no point
talking off the top of this nation of mistakes
whole hills of burlap and beaverboard plus other
tons of so far unlabeled whatever    all the shades of vitriol
witness to the fall of youth and its dumbass regularity
the worst part of growing up is the rest of your life

FAR OUT MIDWEST
I had a red outfit too one time
then the aliens appeared    they showed me
some miraculous products    artistic
bath appliances    bare spots on bedroom walls
where something once    don’t need to knock to enter
the edge of a piece of paper not empty    I could
go on...why doesn’t anyone?    meanwhile
out at the source of the circus tent
I burned my suit    after that the world
smelled of velvet right to the cheek
the closet    the settee    a photo of nothing
we all should have been bred better and now
there’s always something wrong    insects    well
what do you want?    insects    in a blue moon
someplace jazz is being made    beds rented
I have news    buttons to push    which is which?
eyeballs to fiddle with    knocks that sound like laughs
they’re coming and you mustn’t mention me!
these things mean to be taken seriously
in a yellow cab back to Illinois I suppose
all right let’s have it
pumpkin rises in deserted pond

A STORY CALLED MISTY
Do you promise to laugh?    the one about
the five thousand priests and the nine hundred dolls
probably have that one on the wall of your office
up all night with the realization    Tumbling Dice
world without price    born a double palomino
see you in the headlines probably the breadlines
I can hardly see at all    the minutes seem to crawl
most of our cereals come from Virginia the Piedmont
the Delta some bishopric or other    are you
my mother?    this is an homage to Williams to Stevens
to Doodad    Nimrod    Abracadabra and the Cooties
we met down on the farm    the foggy road to
speleogenesis    not good enough?    Elaine May
will save it in rewrite    secretly the snail
is in the mail    I recognized your name on the weapon
what no one else has dared to say: the sun sucks
the drill cores have been misplaced    never saw the results
we’ll gather later at Trees Lounge for the music
alone    I feel Dizzy was almost removed from the show
replaced by Cool Jerk    by the next in line by
the scoopful    an expensive leather tetherball
as a rule    tape your want list here
drop a dime on no one    topspin is permissible
always write your name in the center of the page

A FEW WINDOWS PAST HARVARD
I remember when the world was three
the persons were not quite inhabitants yet
but they were sad    chortles in short supply
you’d think they’d learned to bend already
I watched them carry out some very clear operations
questions?    the morning when no different than
usual was invented    play me some Schumann
nothing was canceled due to rain
golf ball or even slaughter    no homes to go to
a slurry of a match useful at any rate
the Godz were out of town    someday they will find
a fossil with a serial number    forget the DNA
comes in tubes with a gravity drive
the Paleozoic starts with an overwrought thriller
ends as one too    what a universe    all details
determined by chance or necessity    one body
gets away and we have nothing    whatever
it will be found to be made of Ridiculum

http://www.conjunctions.com/preview.htm



Monday, November 26, 2012

Wilfred Owen / Anthem for Doomed Youth




Anthem for Doomed Youth


by Wilfred Owen
(1893 - 1918)

What passing bells for these who die as cattle?
- Only the monstrous anger of the guns.
Only the stuttering rifles' rapid rattle
Can patter out their hasty orisons.
No mockeries now for them; no prayers nor bells;
Nor any voice of mourning save the choirs,-
The shrill, demented choirs of wailing shells;
And bugles calling for them from sad shires.

What candles may be held to speed them all?
Not in the hands of boys, but in their eyes
Shall shine the holy glimmers of goodbyes.
The pallor of girls' brows shall be their pall;
Their flowers the tenderness of patient minds,
And each slow dusk a drawing-down of blinds.



Friday, November 23, 2012

Harold Pinter / A selection of his poetry



Pinter in verse

A selection of his poetry

Though his reputation was built on his work as a playwright, towards the end of his life, Harold Pinter turned again and again to poetry - a cleaner, clearer medium through which to express his growing political outrage.
While his output was not held in universal regard within the poetry community (Don Paterson famously dismissed his "big sweary outburst[s] about how crap the war in Iraq is" in his 2004 TS Eliot lecture, with a withering "anyone can do that"), he was nevertheless awarded the Wilfred Owen award for poetry, bestowed biennially on a writer seen as continuing Owen's tradition, for his 2003 pamphlet, WAR. Michael Grayer, chairman of the Wilfred Owen Association, described his poems as "hard-hitting and uncompromising, written with lucidity, clarity and economy".
Several of Pinter's poems first appeared in the Guardian. Read a selection, dating back to 1995, below.
Poem (17 January, 1995)
Don't look.
The world's about to break.
Don't look.
The world's about to chuck out all its light
And stuff us in the chokepit of its dark,
That black and fat and suffocated place
Where we will kill or die or dance or weep
Or scream or whine or squeak like mice
To renegotiate our starting price.
Cricket at Night (3 June, 1995)
They are still playing cricket at night
They are playing the game in the dark
They're on guard for a backlash of light
They are losing the ball at long leg
They are trying to learn how the dark
Helps the yorker knock back the off-peg
They are trying to find a new trick
Where the ball moves to darkness from light
They're determined to paint the scene black
But a blackness compounded by white
They are dying to pass a new law
Where blindness is deemed to be sight
They are still playing cricket at night
Order (12 September, 1996)
Are you ready to order?
No there is nothing to order
No I'm unable to order
No I'm a long way from order
And while there is everything,
And nothing, to order,
Order remains a tall order
And disorder feeds on the belly of order
And order requires the blood of disorder
And 'freedom' and ordure and other disordures
Need the odour of order to sweeten their murders
Disorder a beggar in a darkened room
Order a banker in a castiron womb
Disorder an infant in a frozen home
Order a soldier in a poisoned tomb

Cancer cells (28 August, 2002)
"Cancer cells are those which have forgotten how to die" - nurse, Royal Marsden hospital
They have forgotten how to die
And so extend their killing life.
I and my tumour dearly fight.
Let's hope a double death is out.
I need to see my tumour dead
A tumour which forgets to die
But plans to murder me instead.
But I remember how to die
Though all my witnesses are dead.
But I remember what they said
Of tumours which would render them
As blind and dumb as they had been
Before the birth of that disease
Which brought the tumour into play.
The black cells will dry up and die
Or sing with joy and have their way.
They breed so quietly night and day,
You never know, they never say.
God bless America (22 January, 2003)
Here they go again,
The Yanks in their armoured parade
Chanting their ballads of joy
As they gallop across the big world
Praising America's God.
The gutters are clogged with the dead
The ones who couldn't join in
The others refusing to sing
The ones who are losing their voice
The ones who've forgotten the tune.
The riders have whips which cut.
Your head rolls onto the sand
Your head is a pool in the dirt
Your head is a stain in the dust
Your eyes have gone out and your nose
Sniffs only the pong of the dead
And all the dead air is alive
With the smell of America's God.
Lust (26 January, 2006)
There is a dark sound
Which grows on the hill
You turn from the light
Which lights the black wall.
Black shadows are running
Across the pink hill
They grin as they sweat
They beat the black bell.
You suck the wet light
Flooding the cell
And smell the lust of the lusty
Flicking its tail.
For the lust of the lusty
Throws a dark sound on the wall
And the lust of the lusty
- its sweet black will -
Is caressing you still.

The Watcher (9 April, 2007)
A window closes and a blind comes down
The night is black and he is deadly still
There is a sudden burst of moonlight in the room
It lights his face - a face I cannot see
I know he's blind
But he is watching me


Tuesday, November 20, 2012

Lyn / Ten Books




TEN BOOKS
by Lyn

Simon from Stuck in a book tagged me for this meme earlier this week. The idea is to close your eyes, choose 10 books at random from your shelves & write about them – where they came from, what they say about you. Well, I cheated a little. As my blog is new, I thought I would deliberately choose 10 books with my eyes open to describe my reading life over the past 30 years so that visitors have a better idea of who I am & what this blog is going to be about. The other point is that these are only the books I’ve kept. I’ve weeded hundreds of books from my collection over the years. So, there’s now no evidence of my passion for historical fiction – all those Jean Plaidys & Victoria Holts have long gone. All my school & university textbooks have gone unless I really enjoyed reading them, so only a few classic novels made the cut. So, here’s the list from the books I own now.


The Penguin Book of First World War Poetry – I’m fascinated by the writers of WWI. Owen, Sassoon, Gurney, Rosenberg. This anthology, edited by Jon Silkin, has a lengthy introduction putting the work & the writers in context.

The Daughter of Time by Josephine Tey – a tribute to my love of history & classic crime fiction. I’ve read this book at least a dozen times. It sparked a passion for Richard III that I’ve modified over the years & led to joining the Richard III Society & reading widely about medieval England.

William : an Englishman by Cicely Hamilton – Well, there had to be a Persephone! This was one of the first Persephones I bought. As I said in a previous post, Persephone has been my most important literary discovery of the last 10 years.

Nicholas & Alexandra by Robert K Massie – I first read this in one of my Dad’s Readers Digest abridged volumes. They came out every month with 4 abridged books in each volume. I read the abridged version over & over again until I came across this copy in a bookshop in the mid 70s. It lead to a fascination with Russian history which was also sparked by a children’s book which I borrowed from the school library & read many times & have never seen since, The Youngest Lady in Waiting by Mara Kay, about a young girl at the court of Nicholas I during the Decembrist revolt.

Selected poems by John Donne – One of my favourite poets. This could have just as easily have been Byron, Keats or Emily Dickinson. This slim Penguin has travelled with me & been read & reread many times. I don’t read as much poetry now as I used to but Donne is a fond memory, especially the songs & sonnets.

Testament of Youth by Vera Brittain – I remember reading this book over Easter, it must have been around 1980 as this copy has a still from the TV series on it. I was totally absorbed in this wonderful book. Vera’s experiences in WWI & the loss of so many of her loved ones made a deep impression on me. It started my love of the writing of the period, not just the war but the between-the-wars period when it was written. I’ve since read Vera’s diaries & some of her fiction. An inspiring woman.

Ladies in Waiting by Dulcie M Ashdown – Another historical book. This is here because it was one of the first books I remember saving up to buy. I had to go into the city several times a year as a child to see an eye specialist. There was a bookshop on Collins St & I would go in each time & look longingly at this book, saving up & always hoping it would still be there. I finally bought it. It cost all of $14.95, but it was the mid-70s & I had to save my pocket money.

South Riding by Winifred Holtby – There also had to be a Virago in the pile. I’ve been reading Viragos since the compaby began & discovered so many favourite writers between the beautiful green covers. Besides Vera & Winifred, there’s Elizabeth Taylor, Elizabeth Von Arnim, Rosamond Lehmann. The list goes on.

Now, the list wouldn’t be complete without a couple of titles from the tbr shelves.

The Diary of a Country Parson by James Woodforde – This is a beautiful Folio Society edition. I’ve been a member of the Folio Society off & on over the years. Their books are always beautifully produced & illustrated. I love journals & letters & I will get to the parson one of these days.

Kristin Lavransdatter by Sigrid Undset – My dear friend Dani at A Work in Progress read this a couple of years ago, wrote about it so persuasively that I bought this gorgeous Penguin edition with every intention of reading it immediately & haven’t started it yet.



So that’s the list. I could have chosen another 10 books quite easily. It would be interesting to do a list just from the tbr shelves. Why did I buy it? Do I have any real intention of ever reading it?? There’s always my retirement, I suppose.

ABOUT ME

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MELBOURNE, VICTORIA, AUSTRALIA
I'm an avid reader who loves middlebrow fiction, 19th century novels, WWI & WWII literature, Golden Age mysteries & history. Other interests include listening to classical music, drinking tea, baking cakes, planning my rose garden & enjoying the antics of my cats, Lucky & Phoebe. Contact me at lynabby16AThotmailDOTcom

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