Tag: Writing

  • Oblique Obligato

    1. Moon fresh ribbon
      smooth platen
      ball dust sea
    2. Fastened to fish
      risk bamboo
      water chills
    3. Homespun shark
      teeth reek bark
      oil tea tree
    4. Screeched scrounge scrawn
      crested pinch
      ear reach thrills
    5. Stringing brew broils
      cooking pot
      catch read bin
    6. Critical swarm
      goat bearded
      bee attack
    7. Smoked fuzz moss
      yucky hot
      sunder skin
    8. Feet faintly sweet
      & ditties
      sour retract
    9. Poised hipster red
      shower cap &
      surf sandals
    10. Now turns one last
      again then
      salt pearls
    11. Ask brack weed meme
      vandal cleaned
      type taste twirl
    12. Spring Selene not
      bald booby
      care fool horse
    13. Trifurcation
      from dear morph
      solo bliss
    14. Under deep stays
      curling waves
      allusiveOblique Moon
  • Not one but two needs relish sweet sorrow

    Not one but two needs relish sweet sorrow.
    Wooden shoe wish new saga song bonnet?
    Purple flower here now gone tomorrow.
    One knows not lief, and if hair be sonnet,
    Wold eat polka dotted cotton culotte.
    Back seats escape too simple bounded rules,
    Schemes where at smart turn deer quickly departs,
    Shirking away from linked coupling rope pulls.
    Gears thrown greased ball bearings plop soft thudded,
    Rustling rough yon fat fig leaf yellowed grass
    Into well palms of gleeful looped poet,
    Frogs Voila! in deep wide throated bass:
    Now twanged by gee sang plus web danced for thee,
    Not two but three may now exclaim in glee.

    Theory

  • Optotype

    Line 15 currently detours across the Hawthorne Bridge due to a temporary weight restriction on the Morrison Bridge, which is under repair. I hopped off the bus at the west end of the Hawthorne Bridge, passed the Salmon Street Springs Fountain, and walked south along the Willamette to the eye clinic, just over a mile upriver. I saw some strange markings on the sidewalk, as if math really is fun. A gaggle of signs befouled the views, whispering orders, dangers, and cautions. I noticed there were no warning signs near the mooring bollards, and wondered how many people walking along ogling the view have tripped over them. Rarely do I have to yield to slower traffic.

    Just south of the Hawthorne Bridge, I noticed an interesting, kind of improvised, lean-to-dock moored just off the west bank between the bridge and the park beach, downriver from the yacht harbor. The boat and dock set-up reminded me of Anais Nin’s “Houseboat,” and of Penelope Fitzgerald’s “Offshore.” And the usual gaggle of geese casually befouled the park beach area. I don’t mind the geese, though the city has been taking precautions to minimize the goose poop problem. But I was wearing the new Fila walking shoes Susan recently scored for me, and I wasn’t sure the goose path was how I wanted to break them in. Portland is called the City of Roses. You would think the roses wouldn’t mind the geese.

    Modern accommodations for travel, appurtenances for getting around – what a mess! Just north of the Ross Island Bridge, workers were just about finished dismantling the Project Pabst Festival. It was a little early to be thinking of a cold PBR Tall Boy. I walked along “River Place,” above the small harbor, and passed by the “River Walk Cafe,” enjoying the cliches, and at the corner of Meade and Moody thought, how about “Mead Place,” or the “Moody Walk Cafe”?

    A rowing crew rounded the pilings of the Marquam Bridge (a concrete brouhaha that spans and expands the definition of bridge), the submarine moored behind them on the east bank, below OMSI and the Portland Opera. The Pabst Horse trotted off on a trailer. The Portland Aerial Tram (constructed at a cost of $57 million), juxtaposed with the old Ross Island Bridge, reminded me of the 20th Century: “Turn! Turn! Turn! (To Everything There Is a Season)”.

  • Packsaddle Off

    what is this sound sprinkling glow
    yellow doilies weaving thru blue
    fescue glass chandelier worm atrium
    air city surf gas soup & jazz salad

    sitting under dwarf apple waiting,
    waiting, wanting nothing save
    green this wait as Thoreau’s
    Wangle Dangle backyard rhetoric

    drinking can of Okanagan
    Spring: “natural, simple, & pure”
    pale ale & all bronze
    gone Henry’s lawn

    this dog’s lair
    cut once a year
    then go to seed
    rampant & wild
    tainted ear

    so much depends upon so little
    take this green garden wagon
    for example
    go on, take it, really take it
    grab the handle and pull
    you’ll see the wagon is full
    of ripe red tomatoes
    kids’ toys
    bucket of finished garlic
    bowl of basil & cilantro
    some zinnias to dry inside

    there’s no one in that pink
    ceramic bird house hanging
    from the golden rain
    tree imagine living
    there your nest
    waiting for your mate
    come home yr turn
    go to store & supper

    you call the kids
    Caw! Caw!
    & they call back
    Not Yet! Not Yet!
    Summer! Summer!

    a cloud like a clown down
    pillow on clean blue sheet
    perhaps it will drop a load
    somewhere near soon &
    sweep weep sleep deep

  • A Fourth of a Poem

    Grand Ave Beach

    All around us,
    the plants whisper
    in dry brittle voices,
    “water us, water us.”

    Sotto voce,
    there is no water,
    and what falls is not wet
    or gentle,

    but drops of chthonic fireworks,
    urban, rural, coastal infernos.
    The plants dig and pray to Hades,
    and cooler there

    than here in this air.

  • Notes on Youssef Rakha’s “The Crocodiles”

    1. Instead of page numbers, “The Crocodiles,” a novel by the Egyptian writer Youssef Rakha, is marked by 405 numbered, block paragraphs, the whole symmetrically framed by references to Allen Ginsberg, the US Beat poet, to his “The Lion for Real,” signed “Paris, March, 1958.”
    1. Opening Rakha’s book, one finds a hand drawn map labeled “The Crocodiles’ Cairo,” which includes a drawing of the head of a lion, which might somewhat resemble, in caricature, the photo portrait of Youssef Rakha that appears on the inside back cover of the book, at least the seemingly ironic smile of both suggests they know something one or the other or the reader may not.
    1. Napoleon’s March to Moscow, 1812: Description. Lineal novel. Variables. How to tell the story? What happened along the way, and back? They were marching through snow, in below freezing temperatures, and you want to know the exact temperature at daily geographical interval locations? Body counts alone won’t tell the story. How to present data and information? Multivariate analysis in a single photograph. How to revision history? On the way back, there were no ramparts, just fields of snow and a sea of time. Napoleon may well have dreamed of warmer days, when he lived in Egypt, of unlocking a language, and of a code that would provide protection for all against the cold. A wise leader rules with allowances, and instead of burning books, gets everyone reading.
    1. In Astra Taylor’s “Examined Life,” Michael Hardt sets out in a rowboat in a privileged pond to argue the meaning of revolution. What does it mean to make revolution? What is the relationship between freezing temperatures, direction, and a line of march that grows thinner with each step each man takes? “Carte Figurative.” Data flow, “one ruling elite replaced with another” (Hardt), credits and discredits following, merits and demerits, kudos and kicks upside the head. Note: Hardt rows backwards – he can’t see where he’s going – at one point “…running aground, shipwrecked.” Figurative language, the hyperbole of revolution.
    1. “Carte Figurative.” Figurative language. Not to be taken literally. And don’t confuse Minard the author (cartographer) with Napoleon the character. Regression analysis becomes necessary. What is the relationship between the author and the narrator? Perhaps none, except that one sees what the other does not. Irony. “The Crocodiles” is a figurative map of multiple variables that attempts a regression analysis to explain past events and predict future probabilities. Note that Rakha is also journalist and photographer; each paragraph of the novel may be taken as a still photograph, a variable, part of a portfolio.
    1. “On the Road” with Kerouac (para. 248) and Bonaparte. My kingdom for a 1949 Pontiac Chieftain. Interactive notes: what was the cost of a 1949 Hudson new using the value of today’s poem to that of a muscle car driven by a youthful single male in 1964? Sal knew to take a southern route on his winter trip: The novel as map of a trip.
    1. Custom as costume. Napoleon as grammarian, his Code a multivariate blending of revolution, revelation, and reform. The novel as procedure that everyone can follow, the interaction of nouns with verbs. Custom as vernacular, empire as formal attire. Due process as drug.
    1. The Beatnik as attitude, beatitude. Jazz as revolution, the novel of improvisation. Notes out of context. Bonaparte’s men dropping (like) seeds (para. 256). Napoleon as lion.
    1. At times, reading “The Crocodiles” is like watching a foreign film with subtitles, because while all the common characteristics of the novel are included (plot; narration; characters – major, minor, dynamic, static, protagonist, antagonist, foil; dialog – though sparse, and blended with the prose, the paragraphs all block formatted; setting – places, times, seasons, dwellings, streets; diction that creates style; irony, satire, and sarcasm), something strange appears, and that strangeness is what the Crocodiles’ group calls poetry: “self-sufficiency…desire…intention” (para. 316).
    1. Like Minard’s “Carte Figurative” of Napoleon’s march to and from Russia (1812-1813), Rakha’s “The Crocodiles” is a figurative coming of age graphic that plots multiple comings and ages (decades, variables) packed into a single view.
    1. The juxtapositions of disparate subjects and actions (of real Lions with Visions of Lions; of Beats with Crocodiles; of poetry with prose; of people with bridges – para. 80) connote something new, new views: the flower children having dropped their petals now sticks of thorns (“just ask the nearest hippie,” Scalia).
    1. Transparency does not necessarily lead to transcendence. Neither honor nor shame stand alone as values, but they are the crossroads at which people gossip, tell stories, barter and eat and drink.
    1. Affinities, themes, motifs: the Beats, poetry, revolution, change, maturation, growth, body, sex, predicament, society, margins (paragraphing, units of composition, sentences), ambiguity, protest, independence, exploitation, reflection, writing, file, premature, people, obstacles, brain, chemicals, women, work, matrix, publishing, poverty and ignorance, position in group, generations (lost, beat, hippie, next), translation, drugs (real and imagined), neighbors, values, wants, needs, humor, music, violence, aggression, excuses, decadence, pop culture, misinformation, criticism, destruction, suicide, sacrifice, counter-culture, lion (cat), crocodile, logic, argument, howl, pain, Ginsberg (Howl and Moloch), dissolution, analysis, invasiveness, love, ambition, relationships, disdain, synchronicity, human nature, signifiers.
    1. There is something too of the noir to “The Crocodiles,” a mystery, with the narrator, “Gear Knob,” whose nickname suggests some 1950’s hard-boiled detective story character, assuming the role of the detective as corrective if not moral force. But noir is cartoon. Or “The Crocodiles” might have been a graphic novel. Instead, it is a poetic novel that breaks with genre convention and creates formal purpose and revisions value, what people want.

    “The Crocodiles,” by Youssef Rakha, 2013. English translation 2014 by Robin Moger, Seven Stories Press, New York, November 2014.

  • Retro Surf Trip

    At their usual spot,
    the point at Refugio,
    the surf was flat,
    so they boogied down
    in the cove,

    the fronds of the palms
    fat and glassy green,
    the rocks at the edge
    smooth with rust moss hair,
    the nose of his board

    thrust up and curling
    and curling in the blue
    air of smiling swells,
    but still the waves
    would not break

    into hysterical laughter:
    “There are no trees
    on the sea,” she said,
    holding a cream white
    pink mophead hydrangea.

    “You look for shade
    under the cool curl,”
    he said, recalling their first
    time – as soon as he stood
    he wiped out,

    his board pushed in
    with the soupy surf,
    he wore no leash,
    paddled out again,
    and she lotioned in the sand.

  • Happy Bloomsday Interview at Queen Mob’s Tea House

    Russell Bennetts, editor extraordinaire (Berfrois, Queen Mob’s Tea House), interviews the Prince of the Toads for his popular series “Poets Online Talking About Coffee.” Head on over for a cup and check it out.

    Below: “The Dance Lesson,” 32 x 64, oil paint and oil pastel over acrylic:

  • Equanimity

    When at last after the long ordeal,
    betrothed to bed, full of ale and meal,
    she knelt and put her face to the must
    of the cedar chest red to her touch,

    she lifted the lid, its hinges oiled true,
    and out came do, I, know, and you.
    She reached for forever which broke apart,
    and with the letters she sewed her heart

    and the lid closed on the squelching words
    help, hero, laugh, and sword.
    “Why me, Lord?” she asked. “Why pick
    me to stick with equanimity? This a trick?”

    Wreath

  • Raspberries and Baseball

    Raspberries

    A bowl of vanilla
    ice cream
    as white as the apple
    of your eye.
    Topped with
    nine
    lost in the wild
    red
    raspberries.
    Game-Time Weather:
    Fresh yellow of daisies, not the father orange of July, nor the old man red-orange of August, or still older bleached-orange of Fall,

    not the infant one of March, but the teeming one of late Spring, teasing practical joker.

    One day your scout
    has your attention
    then disappears
    for a week, sends a postcard
    from the Road.
    “Wish you were here! The sun is a marshmallow on a stick in a fire on the beach, the wave mister going
    ‘Miss you!’”
    The simple
    raspberry
    crumbling nodes.
    Vestigial poem:
    100 drupelets.
    And here’s the pitch –
    Tart fruit!
    Swung on
    and there’s a drive,
    deep left center,
    Davis at a gallop,
    dives,
    one hands it!
    Warm,
    right off
    the green cane.
  • Photograph of Providence Urgent Care Waiting Room at Noon

    Waiting room Center seat Back to window
    Squeeze my fingers Under a bitter blanket Opposite counter
    Vertigo Where? Merry-go-round stops.
    Wall clock running backwards You seem to have crossed some divide, a distance between following expectations and surprising the reference books on shelves marked Must Remain in Reference Room: No Check Outs – For Scholars Only! Those were the days of craves Dizzy and Monk and Bird ears. We never worried ears, blood pressure, what gave rise to touch, an orange scarf, blue waterfall behind bridge.
    Nurse station The nurse walks you to the scale, weighs you, takes yr blood pressure, pulse, and temperature. “The doctor will be with you shortly to hear yr confession,” and she leaves you alone to study the posters of the cross sectioned body pinned to the wall. The doctor knocks and comes in dressed in stole and stethoscope, just like on TV. “I only handle venial issues. Only a specialist can give absolution. But what good is freedom that leads to wild thoughts?”
    Waiting Room Families and individuals. Names called. An ambulance arrives. Para-techs wheel in empty stretcher, disappear into sanctuary. A fire truck appears. Six firemen walk through waiting room like a Rubik’s Cube. Two men in Texas gear waltz across the lobby. A boy plays with the automatic door. His father. His sister figures it out. A yell and a sigh. A woman crumbles at the nurse’s counter, a Beckett ploy that gets her plenty of attention.
    Valet Parking The sign says No Tips. I hand the parking attendant an Ace which he pockets. Good man! The drive home.
    What the Doctor said She wanted to see my pocket notebook. “I knew you were dizzy as soon as I laid eyes on you sitting out in the lobby taking pictures of the patients, word pictures.” In the waiting room waiting continues. Kids run around and play games, laughing. A few people look worried. A couple of folks look hurt, or hurting. A father falls asleep.
     The Clinic Closes for the Day  A husband weeps. A mother changes a dirty diaper.