... I had no idea this existed ... I am not worthy of seeing or hearing this ... Basil Bunting ladies and gentlemen ...

... LISH ... CAPTAIN FICTION! ...

Gordon Lish - Bookworm on KCRW Part One

Gordon Lish - Bookworm on KCRW Part Two

... ANNE CARSON ...

Anne Carson - Bookworm on KCRW

... Perloff and the quote that made my heart sing ...

“Now that you have this proliferation of eco-criticism, which is the one I like least. Eco-criticism just makes me what to go back to some of the good old things we used to have... I just think it is so peripheral, it’s not very literary in a way...”

... God a.k.a. Robert Creeley ...

... from Ezra Pound's Hugh Selwyn Mauberly ... yes, and yes and very much so: yes ...

II.

The age demanded an image
Of its accelerated grimace,
Something for the modern stage,
Not, at any rate, an Attic grace;

Not, not certainly, the obscure reveries
Of the inward gaze;
Better mendacities
Than the classics in paraphrase!

The "age demanded" chiefly a mould in plaster,
Made with no loss of time,
A prose kinema, not, not assuredly, alabaster
Or the "sculpture" of rhyme.

... marjorie perloff continues to be my hero ... old-school avant-garde fool! ...

Vent Symp

With an understanding
That our ideal state
The daily live bummed cubic
Comfort in our environment
Maybe because of ordinary
Heading in direction
Ourselves towards
A gulp of the
But we are brave & smart
And now because of the
Just as
As the rest of us

... images from David Berman's illustrations ... LINK ...

DAVID BERMAN
THE PORTABLE FEBRUARY
Hardcover Book

Released on June 23, 2009

... jorie ... Overlord ...

... poetry ...

I believe, with a fair amount of confidence, that Brenda Hillman is one of the finest poets living today. Her work, if not bordering on the infinite, is part of the infinite.

(It must be said: I still have questions and problems have, certainly, arisen.)

... gay pride reminded me of: HART CRANE ... Shakespearean Crane! ...

Voyages II
--And yet this great wink of eternity, Of rimless floods, unfettered leewardings, Samite sheeted and processioned where Her undinal vast belly moonward bends, Laughing the wrapt inflections of our love; Take this Sea, whose diapason knells On scrolls of silver snowy sentences, The sceptred terror of whose sessions rends As her demeanors motion well or ill, All but the pieties of lovers' hands. And onward, as bells off San Salvador Salute the crocus lustres of the stars, In these poinsettia meadows of her tides,-- Adagios of islands, O my Prodigal, Complete the dark confessions her veins spell. Mark how her turning shoulders wind the hours, And hasten while her penniless rich palms Pass superscription of bent foam and wave,-- Hasten, while they are true,--sleep, death, desire, Close round one instant in one floating flower. Bind us in time, O Seasons clear, and awe. O minstrel galleons of Carib fire, Bequeath us to no earthly shore until Is answered in the vortex of our grave The seal's wide spindrift gaze toward paradise.

... ron padgett on joe brainard ...

... denise levertov ... yes, and yes, and yes ...

The Gypsy's Window


It seems a stage
backed by imaginations of velvet,
cotton, satin, loops and stripes--

A lovely unconcern
scattered the trivial plates, the rosaries
and centered
a narrownecked dark vase,
unopened yellow and pink
paper roses, a luxury of open red
paper roses--

Watching the trucks go by, from stiff chairs
behind the window show, an old
bandanna'd brutal dignified
woman, a young beautiful woman
her mouth a huge contemptuous rose--

The courage
of natural rhetoric tosses to dusty
Hudson St. the chance of poetry, a chance
poetry gives passion to the roses,
the roses in the gypsy's window in a blue
vase, look real, as unreal
as real roses.

... Rest In Peace ...

... rae armantrout ... versed ...

... this is a link to silliman's views on this hybrid BOOK ... and below is my opinion ...

...

NONSENSE!

BUT: I AM SURE THEY ARE MAKING MONEY...

"When I speak here of Truth, I do not mean a 'true' concept. No concept is truth, even the ones I use to attempt to distinguish between them! The true 'I,' or Self beyond ego, knows itself and all of life as its own movement, but this is not a knowing with the intellect. Rather, it can be experienced only by consciously being the Mystery, being the totality of What we are, without conceptualizing about what that is. None of these words are IT. Truth remains when thought disappears."

--Dorothy S. Hunt, "Mystery, Mind, and Meaning," from Listening from the Heart of Silence: Nondual Wisdom & Psychotherapy: Volume 2, edited by John J. Prendergast, Ph.D. and G. Kenneth Bradford, Ph.D.

... ashbery ... pierre martory ... translation ...

... martin luther king jr. and martin buber ...

from Letter from a Birmingham Jail

"Segregation, to use the terminology of the Jewish philosopher Martin Buber, substitutes an "I-it" relationship for an "I-Thou" relationship and ends up relegating persons to the status of things. Hence segregation is not only politically, economically and sociologically unsound, it is morally wrong and sinful."

... recently found and in need of investigation ...

... I was thinking about pop culture and this came to mind: I LOVE PETER BLAKE! ...

... louis khan ... good advice for poets ...

"A great building must begin with the unmeasurable, must go through measurable means when it is being designed and in the end must be unmeasurable."

... first installment: THE MASTER AND MARGARITA ... with English Subtitles ...

... bloom & mccarthy ... LINK ...

Harold Bloom on

Blood Meridian

AVC: The violence in Blood Meridian is uncharacteristic. It’s not used as a cheap metaphor or a means of catharsis or transformation.

HB: Oh, no, no. The violence is the book. The Judge is the book, and the Judge is, short of Moby Dick, the most monstrous apparition in all of American literature. The Judge is violence incarnate. The Judge stands for incessant warfare for its own sake.

... genesis ...

The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock

S'io credesse che mia risposta fosse
A persona che mai tornasse al mondo,
Questa fiamma staria senza piu scosse.
Ma perciocche giammai di questo fondo
Non torno vivo alcun, s'i'odo il vero,
Senza tema d'infamia ti rispondo. (1)


Let us go then, you and I,

When the evening is spread out against the sky

Like a patient etherized (2) upon a table;

Let us go, through certain half-deserted streets,

The muttering retreats

Of restless nights in one-night cheap hotels

And sawdust (3) restaurants with oyster-shells:

Streets that follow like a tedious argument

Of insidious intent

To lead you to an overwhelming question . . .

Oh, do not ask, "What is it?"

Let us go and make our visit.



In the room the women come and go

Talking of Michelangelo. (4)



The yellow fog that rubs its back upon the window-panes,

The yellow smoke that rubs its muzzle on the window-panes

Licked its tongue into the corners of the evening,

Lingered upon the pools that stand in drains,

Let fall upon its back the soot that falls from chimneys,

Slipped by the terrace, made a sudden leap,

And seeing that it was a soft October night,

Curled once about the house, and fell asleep.



And indeed there will be time

For the yellow smoke that slides along the street,

Rubbing its back upon the window-panes;

There will be time, there will be time

To prepare a face to meet the faces that you meet;

There will be time to murder and create,

And time for all the works and days of hands

That lift and drop a question on your plate;

Time for you and time for me,

And time yet for a hundred indecisions,

And for a hundred visions and revisions,

Before the taking of a toast and tea.



In the room the women come and go

Talking of Michelangelo.



And indeed there will be time

To wonder, "Do I dare?" and, "Do I dare?"

Time to turn back and descend the stair,

With a bald spot in the middle of my hair--

[They will say: "How his hair is growing thin!"]

My morning coat, my collar mounting firmly to the chin,

My necktie rich and modest, but asserted by a simple pin--

[They will say: "But how his arms and legs are thin!"]

Do I dare

Disturb the universe?

In a minute there is time

For decisions and revisions which a minute will reverse.



For I have known them all already, known them all:--

Have known the evenings, mornings, afternoons,

I have measured out my life with coffee spoons;

I know the voices dying with a dying fall

Beneath the music from a farther room.

So how should I presume?



And I have known the eyes already, known them all--

The eyes that fix you in a formulated phrase,

And when I am formulated, sprawling on a pin,

When I am pinned and wriggling on the wall,

Then how should I begin

To spit out all the butt-ends of my days and ways?

And how should I presume?



And I have known the arms already, known them all--

Arms that are braceleted and white and bare

[But in the lamplight, downed with light brown hair!]

Is it perfume from a dress

That makes me so digress?

Arms that lie along a table, or wrap about a shawl.

And should I then presume?

And how should I begin?

.    .    .    .    .

Shall I say, I have gone at dusk through narrow streets

And watched the smoke that rises from the pipes

Of lonely men in shirt-sleeves, leaning out of windows? . . .



I should have been a pair of ragged claws

Scuttling across the floors of silent seas.



.    .    .    .    .



And the afternoon, the evening, sleeps so peacefully!

Smoothed by long fingers,

Asleep . . . tired . . . or it malingers,

Stretched on the floor, here beside you and me.

Should I, after tea and cakes and ices, (5)

Have the strength to force the moment to its crisis?

But though I have wept and fasted, wept and prayed,

Though I have seen my head [grown slightly bald]
brought in upon a platter, (6)

I am no prophet--and here's no great matter;

I have seen the moment of my greatness flicker,

And I have seen the eternal Footman hold my coat, and snicker,

And in short, I was afraid.



And would it have been worth it, after all,

After the cups, the marmalade, the tea,

Among the porcelain, among some talk of you and me,

Would it have been worth while,

To have bitten off the matter with a smile,

To have squeezed the universe into a ball

To roll it toward some overwhelming question,

To say: "I am Lazarus, (7) come from the dead

Come back to tell you all, I shall tell you all"--

If one, settling a pillow by her head,

Should say: "That is not what I meant at all.

That is not it, at all."



And would it have been worth it, after all,

Would it have been worth while,

After the sunsets and the dooryards and the
sprinkled streets,

After the novels, after the teacups, after the
skirts that trail along the

floor--

And this, and so much more?--

It is impossible to say just what I mean!

But as if a magic lantern (8) threw the nerves
in patterns on a screen:

Would it have been worth while

If one, settling a pillow or throwing off a shawl,

And turning toward the window, should say:

"That is not it at all,

That is not what I meant, at all."



.    .    .    .    .



No! I am not Prince Hamlet, (9) nor was meant to be;

Am an attendant lord, one that will do

To swell a progress, start a scene or two,

Advise the prince; no doubt, an easy tool,

Deferential, glad to be of use,

Politic, cautious, and meticulous;

Full of high sentence, but a bit obtuse

At times, indeed, almost ridiculous--

Almost, at times, the Fool.



I grow old . . .I grow old . . .

I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled.



Shall I part my hair behind? Do I dare to eat a peach?

I shall wear white flannel trousers, and walk upon
the beach.

I have heard the mermaids singing, each to each.



I do not think that they will sing to me.



I have seen them riding seaward on the waves

Combing the white hair of the waves blown back

When the wind blows the water white and black.



We have lingered in the chambers of the sea

By sea-girls wreathed with seaweed red and brown

Till human voices wake us, and we drown.

Speech, speech, spe

A Complete Pervert

A complete pervert hangs around internet cafes and carries a wireless hardrive around with him everywhere she goes. He or she sends emails or wipes their butt because they think they should, and are disgusting because they are perverts.

Perverts are perverted when they wipe their butt with news papers. A pervert doesn’t read newspapers but stares at it for an hour and then wipes with it. Perverts are not to be trusted because they will steal your newspaper. They are a nuisance.

A pervert will: @: try to steal your phone so they can max out your credit cards making sex phone calls to god knows who; b) try to sell you drugs so they can do perverted things wherever; c) do perverted things wherever so they can marry your mother for a year before trying to let her die so they can receive your part of the inheritance; d) look at pornographic websites on your computer without your permission and keep on.

The perversions a pervert can impose on a single nonpervert can be costly and dangerous to those outside the pervert community. Some may be sick and need help. It’s important to report pervert sightings.

If you see a pervert or a man or woman who looks perverted, please contact: (478) 424_1_75r.

We’re sorry for posting this where we did but following recent local reports on pervertion in the area, we felt compelled to share this and other information.

... Jorie ... Word! ...

How do you Compose?

Park Somewhere

When you come full circle someone says,
“Go left straight right, again”
Right?
On circle
Right
Go on
To make
The left
Is the right
Go left
Forward, straight
Two more down
But before this

Pass on the left
Here it is, up ahead
Forward, slowly
Not here just yet
Here, ok, right, there
Just there up
Straight right
Left there
Right in here
There slow right
Straight forward, oh
On the left up ahead
Stop, no, go, straight
Go right
North of here
Left up there
Right is east
Left is south now
Turn around

To the straight
South lane again
Straight turn forward
Left now turn back
Forward right
In there
Left just here yet
Straight and here
Great left! Up ahead
Here left straight blvd
Left on the right straight
Back up, left forward
Left up ahead on the right
Left up there is right
Let them pass left

Left forward,
it’s on the right

Straight ahead straight left
Let them pass again
Right ahead
Perhaps veer left, pass
Slow down ahead
In the cul de sac
Straight, but merge
Slow down there
Coming up, pass
On the left, or here
Straight merge
Yield left straight

Northbound curb

Past the east exit
Curve past
The 1st thru st
Speed up past
The bushes left
Slow but merge

Curve veer straight
Towards here, right
45 mph, back
Past the left up ahead
On right block
Go straight and merge

Maybe forward

Wait, back there
U-turn and park
On the right again

Upper level left

Eastern terminal
Right here again

Park just there
Or go around
There it’s not here
Park somewhere

... feeling for the day: Krapp ...

Spiritually a year of profound gloom and indulgence until that memorable night in March at the end of the jetty, in the howling wind, never to be forgotten, when suddenly I saw the whole thing. The vision, at last. This fancy is what I have cheifly to record this evening, against the day when my work will be done and perhaps no place left in my memory, warm or cold, for the miracle that . . . (hesitates) . . . for the fire that set it alight. What I suddenly saw then was this, that the belief I had been going on all my life, namely--(Krapp switches off impatiently, winds tape foreward, switches on again)--great granite rocks the foam flying up in the light of the lighthouse and the wind-gauge spinning like a propeller, clear to me at last that the dark I have always struggled to keep under is in reality--(Krapp curses, switches off, winds tape foreward, switches on again)--unshatterable association until my dissolution of storm and night with the light of the understanding and the fire--(Krapp curses loader, switches off, winds tape foreward, switches on again)--my face in her breasts and my hand on her. We lay there without moving. But under us all moved, and moved us, gently, up and down, and from side to side.

Pause.

Past midnight. Never knew such silence. The earth might be uninhabited.

Pause.

Here I end--

BAD BRITISH ARCHITECTURE

"I hate how noone ever talks about how bad
British architecture really is. I hate the bastards
who make these buildings. So here I am, taking
the piss out of them."

BAD BRITISH ARCHITECTURE

... ...

Can Art Be Taught To The Facebook Generation?

CAN ART BE TAUGHT TO THE FACEBOOK GENERATION?

The Saatchi Gallery / Sunday Telegraph Art Prize for Schools debate,
presented by Intelligence Squared

Speakers:

Camila Batmanghelidjh Advocate for vulnerable children and founder of two children's charities, The Place 2 Be and Kids Company where she currently works with some of the most traumatised young people.

Stephen Bayley Broadcaster and consultant. Founding director of London's Design Museum and outspoken commentator on all matters concerning art in everyday life.

Alain de Botton Writer of a number of bestselling essays including most recently 'The Pleasures and Sorrows of Work'. Co-founder of The School of Life, 'a new social enterprise offering good ideas for everyday living'.

Antony Gormley Artist best known for his large-scale works such as 'Angel of the North' and 'Event Horizon' which explore the collective body and the relationship between self and other. He was awarded the Turner Prize in 1994 and has been a Royal Academician since 2003.

Grayson Perry Winner in 2003 of the Turner Prize which he accepted wearing a purple satin party frock. Best known for his elaborate ceramic vases which at a distance seem classically decorative but on closer inspection are covered with narratives and commentaries dealing with aesthetic, cultural, social and political subjects.

Chair: Joan Bakewell Journalist and broadcaster.

Event Information: The discussion will take place on 1 July 2009 at The Saatchi Gallery
Doors open at 6:15 pm. The discussion starts at 7:00 pm and finishes at 8:15 pm.

Tickets £15 from Intelligence Squared

... maybe there is a benevolent God ...

FANNY HOWE,
JOHN ASHBERY,
AND JAMES TATE!!!!!!!!!!!!