The teapot emptied stonecrops poured tea leaves read with no ardour climbing blaze tied to arbor the blue flower hard seed in juicy flesh
while underneath distant in a wild bush something lacks a certain sense the blue flower spreads and blooms
shoots a scent no lazy drone can deny waiting for the garden to deadhead the gardener does no work but watch the yard gone to seed but once multiple times the blue flower bloomed impossible to say with surety will it ever come again in this drought just this and nothing more caught between predicaments and interruptions.
Past the railroad tracks around the tents, tarps bags closed to noses metal poles drip wet gravel tar oiled wood fences chain-link flowered concertina wire dancing waltzing in the dust barbed hooks, tons of massive steel box cars ringing of crossing bells corner of Woody Road and Bob Boulevard tall walls with no windows crows coming down for the night.
Waterbeds for the dead heads smoke on and rhyme on a dime ocean lapping at the door under trestle down to the beach creature returns to the shore from the fires the smoky land strongest survive in water adapt quickly or not at all the tortoise and the trickster.
When spirit wants loose fury shoots craps with angel for scraps of your soul passing over buried treasure the X intersection of forward and backward slashes of dashes you can’t recall the night spent in blackout in a swell that’s travelled a long ways to this wave.
Intelligence might mean an ability to exercise choice, even if the options seem limited or nil. A couple of weeks ago, meeting for a beer with fish and chips at a local English styled pub where soccer from the real England was playing on hanging television sets to an audience of rapt fans sipping beers, an old friend asked me if I thought there exists intelligent life elsewhere in the universe. At once I had to consider the definitions of intelligence and life and universe. I also had to consider that at first he said simply life, then qualified the question by adding intelligent, as if other kinds of life were assumed to exist but even if so had already failed some test of life.
In the midst of this morning’s freshly updated global warming news, walking with a cup of coffee in ye olde Americana backyard, I stopped to consider again why the Dogwood tree now refuses to flower. About 25 years old, flowering reliably every spring until seeming to lose interest in recent years, full of healthy green leaves, not a touch of pink blossom does it this year yield. I would blame last year’s torching hot summer, when the temperature one day in July hit an unprecedented 116 degrees F, easily the hottest ever locally, or this April’s absurdly late snow storm, which piled a few feet of heavy wet snow on branches already leafing out, bending them all the way to the ground under the weight of the late snow, but elsewhere around the neighborhood all the other Dogwoods are blooming to beat the band, a bumper year.
Maybe this Dogwood has simply chosen not to bloom this year. The reason may be nothing more than a desire to exercise its ability to choose. But where would this desire, seemingly baneful to its existence, come from? Or maybe the energy required to produce blossoms is being used to correct some deficit in the soil or water or location – but again, similar conditions around the area are at the same time thrilling all the other Dogwoods into fully blessed vibrant pink blossoms.
What have I done to offend this Dogwood such that it refuses to bloom? At worst, I’ve ignored it, but the other plants in my yard seem to appreciate being mostly left alone to their own devices.
Nature, left to its own devices, continually overseeds. It has always done so, blasting and piping surely enough that somewhere somehow something takes hold roots and spreads. But never alone, always sewn from a diverse bag of seeds, some seemingly smarter than others, whatever that means. And it means nothing. The same intelligence that informs me informs the Dogwood. Thus as I sit here in my attic room from where I can watch through the window the Dogwood willfully refusing to bloom, I choose to write.
These days, there is no bugle call. I don’t have to set the alarm for 4 am across the room to ensure I get out of bed now and hat up for a drive north to Seattle rather than hit the snooze button evermore. And these days, days will pass without my getting a single legitimate call. When I do get a call, the ringtone plays a bit of Dvorak’s “Songs My Mother Taught Me,” and I’m inclined not to pick up but to dwell in the sound of the violin reminding me my mother’s tears no longer flow.
These days, I’m not sure why I still bother to maintain a phone, one that no longer rings till the cows come home. The cows don’t leave home anymore. Indeed, like Hamlet, “I could be bounded in a nutshell and count myself king of infinite space” were it not that I get text messages.
These days, the text messages I get are usually automatic. For example, my phone provider will text my bill, usually at an absurdly early hour on a weekend morning, as if a dozen or more cows were restlessly mooing to be milked. Or there’s an urgent message from some pollster who can’t take another breath until he has my opinion on who should be the next President. Or the local pharmacy is alerting me that once again my doctor is in denial.
Yet this morning, deep in some recurring dream reconstituting an old commute and the reasons whyfor, at not, it might be argued, an unreasonable hour for someone departing the docks for an adventure, but arguably still a bit early for someone who has no call to wake up let alone get out of bed for a walk along some deserted slipway, I received the following headline-worthy news item of personal note from an old friend who I might add has I think never before texted me any message whatsoever and who indeed calls less frequently than my poor mother used to:
“We are on our way to Texas. I am enjoying the book you sent: Three Men in a Boat. Thanks.”
I picked up the phone, read said message with interest, got out of bed, made some coffee, bringing a cup to Susan and taking mine out for a yard walkabout where I decided I really should cut at least the back grass today, came back in for a second cup, and sat down to put up this post, thinking, I hope he’s not texting while driving. I hesitate however to discourage text messages from, say, a reststop. I remember Kerouac’s general advice not to use the phone, because, he argued, people are never ready to talk, and he advised using poetry instead. And, indeed, “We are on our way” is a perfect poem written evermuch in the Kerouac style.
I’ve been reading Edward Hirsch’s new book, The Heart of American Poetry. It’s very good, and I’m glad I decided to splurge for it, though I continue to think the industry’s continued use of “hardbacks” is wasteful, overly costly, but mainly, the hardback with paper cover is not as pleasant to hold and read as, say, the Penguin Classics, quality paperbacks not nearly as costly as the hardback with its really useless Victorian-like jacket cover. The size of the Hirsch book though is conducive to poetry lines, and the Library of America copy is a sound book production. Anyway, Hirsch makes a comment about Theodore Roethke, essentially that Rothke thought each line of a poem should stand alone, work as if a poem on its own; thus Roethke’s sparing use of enjambment.
As an exercise, I’ve reproduced the last post, a poem titled War On, to eliminate enjambments in favor of the possibility of stand alone lines (a few other changes too, one might discover):
War On (later)
Somewhere usually a war on near or far I’m on watch in an audience of silence in a theatre or church reminded darkly sacrifice need not be so bloody violent those preoccupied by their own war know the maps the open fields the rivers and farms i remember watching one of the wars on TV donald rumsfeld mumbled something known his Iraq he said the first war of the new century and unknown from the announcer’s booth a new statistic the fans could not deny his hysterical perspective born in me between WWII and Korea boom destined in line for boot camp for the Vietnam Error at 18 already sick of this phony war business how quickly young boys on a beach bathing become old men in dress greens that drab color pollutes the wettest shades of nature’s grasses leaves ferns of fields and waves of oceans.
The murderer attends Mass fills the pew the fakery has achieved so much so little frivolity yet the beauty of this war seems no one remains who believes in war the reasons for not the hand that signs the paper not that hand covered in oil and blood does not cry like the hands of a working man tears seeping over the banks of blue rivers coursing through a field of skin.
War is the natural order of things human authority comes down as heavy as a tank made with human hands made to crawl along tracks of its own making through the green fields somebody’s home tornado torn the outdoor clothesline scatters the chickens and dogs bark the baby barely crawling sees the tanks for what they are inhuman monsters driven by human machines men made to march made to doom demented torches lighting one step ahead sinking into the dulce earth the metallico wheels slogging over the homeland where the pitter patter of the patria played on accordion in the rain waiting for the flood of time to wash a new century’s wars away.
Somewhere usually a war on near or far but most of the world watches war as audience in a theatre or in a church reminded darkly sacrifice need not be so bloody violent some of course preoccupied by their own war know the maps the open fields the rivers and farms i remember watching one of the wars on TV donald rumsfeld mumbled something about Iraq being the first war of the new century as if announcing a baseball game turned in a new statistic i couldn’t deny his hysterical perspective myself having been born quickly between WWII and Korea boom destined to get in line for boot camp for the Vietnam Error at 18 already sick of this phony war business how quickly young boys on a beach in bathing suits become old men in dress greens that color they use so pollutes the wettest shades of nature of grasses and leaves of fields and ocean waves.
The murderer attends Mass fills the pew the fakery has achieved that much frivolity yet the beauty of this war seems to be no one left who believes in war the reasons for not the hand that signs the paper not that hand covered in oil and blood but does not cry like the hands of a working man tears seeping over the banks of blue rivers coursing through a field of skin.
In the natural order of things human when some authority comes down heavy as a tank made with human hands made to crawl along tracks of its own making through the green fields of somebody’s home tearing through the outdoor clothesline scattering the chickens and dogs barking and babies barely crawling who see the tanks for what they are inhuman monsters driven by human machines men made to march made to doom demented torches lighting but one step ahead sinking into the dulce earth the metallico wheels slogging over the homeland where the pitter patter of the patria played on an accordion in the rain waiting for a flood to wash this war away.
Still working (leisurely) on cataloging the books into Libib (pronounced, btw, from Libib’s FAQs: “luh-bib. For you IPA people, relish the schwa: ləbib.” At first I thought they were talking about India Pale Ale.
Categories and Tags – this is where things get swiftly tricky, like getting caught in a riptide. Libib recommends not using genres as categories, but something more personally identifiable, so that I might put one collection into a category called basement books, a collection being a subset of the library, and where to find a book of paramount concern. Or green bookcase. This might make sense for my library, since the books are spread throughout the house with little to no regard for genre or author. Though there is some organization, a row of paperbacks I’ve had since high school, for example. The green bookcase holds primarily poetry and plays. Nevertheless, I’ve decided upon genres as categories. But how many? Is biography considered non-fiction, or should it have its own collection (a collection and category being at this point synonymous)? Most of my books are literary by nature, so a single category of literary would hold them all, which would not be all that helpful in terms of organization and inventory. But less the whole enterprise get subsumed in some sort of biblio neurosis, I’ve decided to go with the following categories of genre: Fiction, Non-fiction, Music, Philosophy, Plays, Poetry. Libib provides a tool to filter: “Not Begun, In Progress, Completed, Abandoned, No Status.” I was thinking I might put all the Samuel Beckett books under Abandoned. In any event, the organization of the library will be in reality only virtual – I’ve no intention of actually physically moving all the books about trying to get them organized by genre or author or whatever. It’s enough to take them down, dust them off, peruse, catalog into Libib, put back – or leave out for further consideration. The library is, after all, not so large that I can’t find something wandering about and searching manually, which is what the hobby, if not the passion, is all about. A library should be a quiet and also unhurried experience.
Tags will be useful and helpful, for example: beat, pocket poets series – which I’ve for the last few days been working on. This morning I came to Robert Bly’s “The Teeth Mother Naked at Last,” Number Twenty-Six in the City Lights Series. Bly, born in 1926, passed away last November at the age of 94. Teeth Mother (hyphenated on the title page but not on the cover) is a single poem, 22 pages in this edition (Library of Congress No. 73-11121), 1970 by City Lights Books. Parts of the poem were printed earlier in the Nation and New American Review magazines. In my copy, which I think is a first edition (original cost $1.00), the pages are as thick as the covers of other Pocket Poems books, thick and unbending. I was struck by several things (historical, foreboding, ironic) in the Kenneth Rexroth quote on the back cover:
“For a good many years now in his magazine The Sixties, and its accompanying book publishing Robert Bly has been struggling manfully to return American poetry to the mainstream of international literature from which it was diverted into the sultry provincial bayous of the Pillowcase Headdress School a generation ago. He started out completely surrounded by enemies . . It’s a wonder he’s alive. When he first started to wean away the puling young of America’s heartland from the seventy-seven tits of ambiguity, I thought he didn’t have a Chinaman’s chance. Robert Bly is today [i.e. 1970] one of the leaders of a poetic revival which has returned American literature to the world community . . A wide grasp of experience, an octave or more in each hand, is not just a sign of energy, it is a cause of responsibility. This is what gives the poems their great moral impact.”
How did the plumber’s son, whose father never read a book in his life, come to have about 3,000 books in his collection? I’m not a hoarder. A book must have some sort of meaning for me, an affinity established, which usually can only come from reading the book, before I keep it. Though of course there’s the stack I have not read. Then again there’s the stack read and loaned out and never returned. And a few, held since high school days, open so crisp and dry the pages break. And most of the books are paperback. And the collection taken as a whole is probably not worth much. Though I do have a few books that might be worth something to collectors of that bent. A first edition of Mark Twain’s Life on the Mississippi, for example, which a lady once offered $100 for at a garage sale back in the early 80’s. I said no, deciding to keep it. That $100 would have been spent on pizza and beer long ago, but I still have the book, somewhere.
With a bit of extra time on my hands these days, those close to me increasingly independent, and the pandemic still on (and off but on again), and with the easy availability and use of the Libib application, which I mentioned yesterday, I’ve decided to catalog the books, which are spread throughout the house in every room on shelves and bookcases and tables. The 3,000 is pretty much a guestimate, arrived at by counting the books on a couple of average looking shelves, measuring the length of those shelves, and then measuring the total length of shelves. Something like that.
Anyway, today I’ve added but one book to my Libib, spending most of my time reading through it rather than simply cataloging it and going on to the next book, and then distracted by writing up this post.
Here is the catalog info. for that book as I manually input into Libib:
First published 1946, copyright by Les Editions du Point du Jour, Paris, 1947. First published in this edition: July 1958, by arrangement with the Librarie Gallimard. My copy is sixth printing February 1968. Number Nine in The Pocket Poets Series published by City Lights Books, 261 Columbus Avenue, San Francisco, California, U.S.A. 94133. Translated with Intro. Note by Lawrence Ferlinghetti (San Francisco, 1964). From the Intro: “I first came upon the poetry of Jacques Prevert written on a paper tablecloth in St. Brieuc in 1944” (3).
Libib has no category or input for how a plumber’s son came to possess the book. So that I will answer here, maybe tomorrow. I think for now I might enter another book, but first, for those who’ve read this far:
From the Prevert poem titled “Inventory,” page 54.
“One stone two houses three ruins four grave-diggers one garden some flowers
a dozen oysters a lemon a loaf of bread a ray of sunlight one groundswell six musicians one door with doormat one Mister decorated with the Legion of Honor