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2. Cid Corman
3. Preface to Famous Blue Aerogrammes
6. Lyle Glazier
10.Clive Faust
11. M. J. Bender
12. Gael Turnbull
13. Carol Berge
15. Thomas A. Clark
16. Jonathan Greene
17. Sappho - Versions by Cid Corman
19. Janos Pilinszky, translated by Cid Corman
20. Laurent Grisel
21. Sengai, translations by Cid Corman
22. Michael Corr
23. Philippe Denis, translated by Cid Corman
24. Eugenio Montale, translated by Cid Corman
25. Barbara Moraff
26. John Martone
28. Shizumi Corman
29. 
The complete Origin Sixth Series now on CD
Please link for ordering information
CID CORMAN ~ THE NEXT ONE THOUSAND YEARS for Shizumi Corman
A friend of mine, a close associate of Cid Corman, and I were talking the other day about how it just may take another one thousand years, or maybe a thousand more - what's another thousand years in poetry? - for Cid Corman to come back around and be seen for what he was. I don't worry about the young poets. The young poets were always drawn to Cid, and they will be forever more. It's that liberty thing about Cid, and the young eat it like fruit from a tree. The problem is all of us just have to die off - get rid of the straggle-toothed old blood venom that festers like a virus in the professional poetry camps. Cid disliked camps, even though he couldn't help but tribe one of his own through his magazine and press Origin. It just happens.
Cid was the first, or one of the first, to publish extensively Louis Zukofsky, William Bronk, Charles Olson, Robert Creeley, Denise Levertov and the list is just endless with today's poets he found, or those who went to find him either in the nest of his Boston restaurant parlor, or at the Kyoto headwaters. Cid's essence was that he spanned generations and poetries unlike anyone in postWW2 world literature: as publisher of Origin netting poetry no matter where it was, into his own translations sweeping old and new Europe, through the vastness that is Asia, and then returning to his homeland budding new generations of poets, translators, editors, readers who virtually bowed to him.
Cid's acclaim for Lorine Niedecker is like a one-man Jesse Fuller band.
His allegiance to the tiniest lost thread of a poet is legendary. How many saplings in the forest did he personally slog out to after a storm and patiently tie back up? Try all of them. Did he infuriate people? Yes, and most missed out how that was his greatest gift. He told the truth. Cid expected the same truth to be returned to him. When in his darkest moments he shared with me - somehow humbled and a little delirious at once - that the Nobel Prize committee should be calling him soon; after he championed down to a boxer's worn mouth guard legions of poets work - now it was his turn. I advised Cid that he best stop sitting by the phone. There were more poems to write!
Cid had the genius to be able to speak to anyone. He wrote JFK a very serious letter, and I watched him once upon a time take that same seriousness and speak to a parrot on a post in a Central Park zoo. As a basic out-of-shape desk servant who liked to walk his pathways, there are no poets that quite understood the wilderness like Cid Corman. He had a grip on Gary Snyder, Ted Enslin and other earthly ones long before anyone. His poems can be plunked down into any setting from New Formalism to Language Poets; and by the way, Hallmark Cards missed a golden opportunity with Cid. Go ahead and laugh! But just imagine the possibilities.
Like John Coltrane at the moment he split from Miles Davis in the early 60s leaving jazz for something altogether spiritual, everlasting, not of this earth and will be heard forever and ever and ever. No, Cid isn't Coltrane. That's only the first layer. Cid is John Gilmore - the scintillating horn player deep behind the leaves Coltrane bushwhacked into and learned some things from. Cid Corman did everything his more famous brethren accomplished, and thensome - he stayed in the unknown.
I believe it's time to begin an anthology for Cid. Something I will edit and keep ongoing until kingdom come. We will start off with Cid's own work from The Famous Blue Aerogrammes, and then oar the Longhouse backwaters for many other poets from our pages and walks of life over the last 35 years - given to us as gifts, meteoric, meant to share. Let the sharing begin.
For Cid Corman books & publications go to this Room in our Bookshop
Has it ever
occurred to you
you're what is oc-
curring to you?
FOR
CARSON
There are stories and
there is poetry and some
times even music.Alive or dead
I'm in it for
the poetry.Everything
helps decipher
what nothing means.
THE
CAUTION
If you dont
give a shit -
you are sure
going to
find yourself
full of it.Always that shudder
when the third eye winks
between the others.Only a bunch of
swallows over and over
the darkening stream.
How can a poem
be so simple and
be a poem? Dont
ask me or even
yourself or others -
let the poem say.You are here - just as
I had imagined -
imagining me.Nothing ends with you -
every leaf on the ground
remembers the root.The kitten
holds you in
your hand — that
mew — that purr —
that rag of
life — that home.Everything is
coming to a head — meaning
blossoms yet to fall.In the shadow of
the mountain the shadow of
any bird is lost.The jasmine
holds its bud
all winter
only to
surprise the
springtime quick.Life only
means to live.
What else do
you ask of
a flower
but flower?BOTTOM
LINE
You can see
just how far
you’ve got by
how well you’re
balancing
your shadow.I wear the mask of
myself and very nearly
get away with it.The cry
of all cry —
silence.Something has
to be done
about this.
How can you
imagine
just leaving
it alone?Touched by weeds
passing along
a narrow
sidewalk.I’m here
to let
poetry
be. Not one
moment
without.The light
of the leaves
blossoms
This is
what comes of
a day.How to learn to be
ignorant? Any scholar
provides example.The rain stops
or has it
just begun?So that
when
was
now
will beSweeping the garden
a rock striking bamboo and
everything clicks.There are so
many ways
of saying
nothing and
we’ve got them
all down pat.WOMAN
She waters
the plants downstairs
from upstairs —
so does the rain.Your shadow
on the page
the poem.SHIMOGAMO
In the river skeins
of sunlight and sky fastened
to the moment’s dye.The sparrow
frets. The crumbs
are clearly
there but so —
sadly — is
my shadow.Learning to die —
every moment
seems to help.Can any moment
ever be equal to this?
Wind shaking the pane.I look at the sky
I look at the earth and sea —
what is it I want
and you want and all want and
what is it we all dont have?AREAS OF INTEREST
the telephone keeps ringing
the clouds hardly moveDaybreak reminds us —
the hills have arrived just in
time to celebrate.How far back
do we go
to this? To
see the light
through the glaze
of autumn’s
maple leaves.Any
moment
now it
will have
been it.You’ll never get to
the end of me — I doubt if
I’ll get there either.No crying
over stars —
understand?
They are there
just to help
you appre-
ciate night.The key to life is
life — there’s nothing to get
you into into.What’s the point
of a sky?
Only a
star answersAnd if you
had never
been? Am I
speaking to
an ant or
Jesus Christ?
And is there
any real
difference?THE
KIDS
The last day at last —
everything they brought to
school coming home now.
Why should I
think of her
now? But then
she was my
mother. She
thought of me.
THE
old pond
frog leaping
splashAnd if Li Po had
got the moon in his mitts what
would he have done with it?
TO
LET
I am dead and
I have them buried in me
and they me in them.In the mirror for
a moment it almost all
seems just possible.The faint trilling of
a cricket keeps the meaning
of all time time time.An old twisted stick
but sturdy - red oak -
just what I wouldve
expected from Ted.So many black flies
getting into the house and
making us killers.A pine branch fallen
and resting now upon a
cherry budding yet.
Like trying to
imagine a
butterfly
trying to
imagine being
a butterfly.
Silence talks
too much or
havent you
been listening?
I wouldve
sworn there was
nothing but
here you are.You can be sure of
nothing — can depend upon
it — as nothing else.The sunlight seems to
be snowing — as if there were
these points to be made.CASE
To ascend
and come down
through the dance
to this earth.Moon under the rain —
everywhere anywhere
a sort of glimmer
( 17th c/Japan)Fire under the ash
and written on the wall the
shadow of a friend
— BashoOMENKIND
The weight of
a falling
leaf upon
your shoulder.Nothing to look at
and everything to see —
the way a rock stares.ETHNICITY
If we dont kill each
other — who will? We know our
duty — seeing it.Looking for
signs of time
Maybe a
cloud passingFIREFLY
I wonder. Is it
mere curiosity or
just a quiet glow?NEST
I’ve pulled so many
hairs out of my nose and if
I hadnt done so?The idea of
an idea — so like us
had to become us.Who could do
you better
than you did
anyhow?PRESENT
TENSE
When a tiger looks
at you — you know beyond doubt
you are being seen.MURPHY
Each leaf as it fell
new life — contact with the earth —
before it lay down.It’s about
a thousand
letters we’ve
each written
each other
since we last
met goodbye.Is it always
this — this way? Yes.
Yea. Though it walk
like a shadow
and is just that
you tag along.
THE
VESSEL
Needing the dark to
steer by - a glint or glimmer
of where we're headed.
The echo
of silence
getting to
us get us.Eden was only
Eden only as long as
Adam within Eve.
If ever we
awaken
we come to find
all life (and
all is life
including
death) is one. We have only each
other to care for and that’s
what all’s all about.Say it — be it — let
it be — we are the end of
all beginning now.The sun is
my shadow
I shall not
want — it
leadeth me
If there were
an answer —
this would be
the answer.
SOLOMON
Is awareness of
vanity wisdom or is
wisdom vanity?WONDER
BREAD
Behold the
spectacle
to which we
contribute.THE
CALL
Life is poetry
and poetry is life — O
awaken — people!We wear out
but the sky
looks as new
as everHammering away
even after sundown - the
darkened hills’ echoes.GUEST
You’ll find me out
visiting you.Don’t worry —
you’ll make it
Life is your
guarantee.You’re not the
only one
nor am I —
we find out.How would
you know -
you’re on
ly here.The cricket asking
asking all night long at last
gets at what it is.I listen to the
poem letting me know how
it is to happen.Standing in
the doorway
nobodyShhh. I’m trying to
hear what I’m trying to say —
what I’m telling me.Do you ever get
used to dying? Or ever
to have to have lived?The only reason
I could possibly have for
being here is you.When am I going
to lose my leaves and find I
am the poetry?THE
MEASURE
We always
have
this
to go by.BY
HEART
If we had only
listened to the silence we
might have learned nothing.REMEMBER
At this
very
moment
you can
feel how
lucky
you are.Every
thing matters
and that will
include you.
Life without
a question
is the only
answer.
~ Cid Corman
I have had this little book in mind and in the making for some years now. Cid and I often talked about it and it had his blessings, and in some ways it may be the perfect gift to be given now with his passing. This is Cid at his ever best, informally presenting his poems typed outside on mail aerogrammes to all his friends and correspondence - no matter how long he had known you - complete strangers became friendship as any friend. I imagine the post office might have had one reader in its ranks between Kyoto & Vermont. The poems suddenly appeared on the aerogrammes at the start of the '90s and continued right up to his last letter to me at the end of December 2003. All others who had letters from Cid experienced similar poems-as-gift. He mined poems from his already published books, new work, poems that were coming to him as he wrote a letter to a particular friend; even other poets' poems. Everything was game. I know he drew poems to me right out of my letters or the subject of those letters - so a poem to my young son Carson, another about Ted Enslin, laying stone in my work as a builder - the matter at the moment. Few poets reached the very moment like Cid. He meant poetry to be the absolute headache for any archivist or scholar of the future: the insistence on poetry being of the now. What's the point, afterwards? Cid seems to be saying to us all. I've selected over fifteen years of the poems-on-aerogrammes period and of course before then, poetry was always Cid's letters. Mail-call. One more reason why we miss him every day. ~
B o b A r n o l d, 2004 First Published by Longhouse in 2004. Cid Corman. The Famous Blue Aerogrammes. Available from Longhouse Bookshop
A FEELING
However far
I'd gone,
it was still
where it had all begun.
What stayed
was a feeling of difference,
the imagination
of adamant distance.
Some time,
place,
some other way it was,
the turned face
one loved,
remembered,
had looked for
wherever,
it was all now
outside
and in
was oneself again
except there too
seemed nowhere,
no air,
nothing left clear.First published by Longhouse 1995. Robert Creeley. A Feeling. Available from Longhouse Bookshop
Six Music Lessons
1st
All in good time what shall we add
except that it comes without a bidding
crisis hardly matters pnor the accents
crusis/anacrusis A Bach chorale
as good example he would have said
“Gottes Zeit ist die alle best”
and did so many times in various ways
as the night blooming cereus at dusk
in dawn surrounded by its wreckage
its perfume gone not lost it was
a good time for it that is all.
2nd
In heat of the measure
I have swallowed fire
naught but the flame to leave
the place of burning some
would have called it Gehenna
place to purify that which is unclean
turn cold again no measure left
nor bone in ash remaining
yet from the heat remembrance
what is as what is not
on verge of being was and is
3rd
Old age not winter reaches something
of a clarity of a voice to say what reaches
many keys the modulations one or two
still left a surety not in cadence quite
the motion in reverse not a mirror
much to negate yet to repeat a melody
one not known was always known remains
a ground where on to build no haste
the signature of many times that left us
what are few to come once more and so
the last of it a wild surprise.
4th
Remembering the maze of sound how
one moves within it lost not troubled
losing is a mere reflection of the light
how one to such another signpost wavering
the light is dim uncertain carried in a lamp
is midway of the night no entrance more
entreaty to begin again what has been learned
a great unlearning spelled in tablature
as stretti sounding lead us on wherever
the form is of itself led on a rising falls
one moves and moves again is forever lost.
5th
Und mich verlassen cry of the ungrateful
unknowing what was is around a sounding
a tuning offer grass and leaves the supple
and the brittle of a tone intoned hollow
or of registers above the glass to cut
the knife is air alone verlassen ist geburt
bright pain bright joy in brightness leaves
a timbre mich verlassen not ungrateful
read in register dun wood to grass blade
its gloss the sheen of water let it be
so as magic intercedes with logic.
6th
Magic not a memory one does not
remembering is other magic in itself
is and it is not clap of water rising
cup of water wave of one upon another
(in the dark light of one and then the other)
what do we know? why do we want to know it?
magic what is except the obvious
whereon there’s some of it let it stand
one reads the notes and understands them
clap of sound of water what is given
all a sounding Die Alle Best Zeit
Play on.First published by Longhouse 2000 ~ Theodore Enslin. Six Music Lessons. Available from Longhouse Bookshop
RECALLS — LYLE GLAZIER
Running home for lunch
crossing the little bridge
beyond Frank Howe's
visualizing, on the rise,
Mom's eyes at the window jog
facing northeast along the barn door —
she's be looking under
the double joint
between top and bottom sashes
b
Stove top toast
fried on the hot lid
cambric tea: hot
water, sugar, milk
c
Sick headaches kept her
from gathering
of the Forthnightly Club
at the Library
d
Practice for Mel
from the time I was five
catching without a mitt
chasing wild pitches
down the dirt road
to the culvert
and expected, on the way back,
to throw out my arm
e
into a clearing
in blackberry country
looks back, whistles,
strips and sprawls on a ledge
soaking sunstrength,
cannot control
the freshening
calls his dog
reaches under
both streaming,
dog, hind legs spread, squirting
on leaves
boy watching
watched by the sun
hides among trees,
they run in a team through the woods
f
after school
under a cornshock
funnels his hand
lingers
Mom
calling dinner
brothers at table
FOLK FRAGMENTS
What's yer name?
Pudd'n tane
What's yer natur?
Pudd'n tater
b
My mother has a Japanese fan
this is the way it opens
this is the way it fans
c
I'm in the millpond
I can't swim
how kin I git out agin?
You git out
as you got in
I got in and out agin
d
The cat couldn't kit
the pup couldn't pup
the Old Man couldn't
git his rhubarb up
e
"You be Harry Glazier's boy, bean't ye?"
from Recalls by Lyle Glazier published as "Scout, winter 1986" by Longhouse in 150 numbers of which only a handful were signed.
Available from Longhouse Bookshop
Fort Atkinson, Wisconsin
Nov. 23, 1959
Dear Charles Reznikoff:
Reading Inscriptions: 1944-1956 I often feel
a kinship between us in the short poem. And if
you are my brother-in-poetry then we have Chinese
and Japanese brothers. But I have a a great deal of
practicing to do - of quiet insight - before I can
enter such a good family.
I like best if I can narrow down "The Indian
of Peru, I think", "One of my sentinels, a tree"
and "Hardly a breath of wind" with "the little
purposes are lost", the color of those abstract
words relating to the falling leaves. Among the
longer poems I felt the roll of "From Jehuda Halevi's
Songs to Zion."
Hard to write and then get it printed. I try to
along with scrubbing floors in a hospital. Every
now and again, tho, there's a chink where a poem
comes thru. Altogether life is not really too hard -
I gather this what you say too.
Mrs. Carlson's book will have a few of mine of
which I am enclosing two.
Thank you for your book, "this added kindness."
Yours
and my best holiday wishes
Lorine Niedecker
First appeared for Autumnal Equinox 1998
Longhouse, Publishers & Booksellers
This letter has been transcribed line for line from the
holograph text. — Cid Corman, Executor of the Lorine Niedecker Estate
Available from Longhouse Bookshop
THE NEW HEAVEN NOW
the in our love
the out our lightthe new heaven now
heavenly in communion
pro vobis et pro multis~
looking to the garden
hearing the bell
from the windand a ways
out
ear to eye
a great treehair to sea
~
returning coming quemadmodum
cloud is number not conversely
draco seven seven (ten)
bestia mare seven (ten ten)
bestia terra (two) (n)
~
where did I sit?
what window?
when?a bird a sole drop of rain
on a branch
of a bushyou keeping me in view
my hand at rest on
yours~
aperto ore suo
in the dark
I sitin the light
I am~
since I see thru a veil
the old
see
medark
ly~
bird dropping effortlessly
tree or sky
hard to say
blades of grassfluttering
as well
(from The Repulsion)
~
widening endlessly
the meadow
the crown the wood
the lone seagull
analogically
depth
twilight
the revealerFirst published by Longhouse 2002 ~ Frank Samperi. The New Heaven Now. Available from Longhouse Bookshop
from I TEND TO SIMPLIFY EVERYTHING
| LUXEMBOURG
21/V/87 POSTCARD ?white clouds through blue sky or blue clouds through white sky? |
|
| ZEITSCHRIFT
FUR ALLES N. 10 TODAY”S VERSION OF IT for Dieter Roth (what is this noise? (let’s call it music (sometimes I say to myself do I have a name for the thing? (have I seen that movie and where and when and what was it called? (the beginning was the end (when I answered the telephone I knew right away that she had the wrong number (god lives in a fridge handing out words of wisdom (beware of German philosophy I say to those girls that take over my dreams in Oklahoma 24-24/IX/87 |
|
“We are on E4 250 km south of Stockholm what should we do?” ANSWER: “Drive carefully.” 27/XI/87 |
|
I tend to simplify everything: if he likes to pour his tea in the pinball machine why worry? 25/XII/87 |
|
the same thing when it’s almost but not exactly the same thing 15/VI/88 |
|
6000 feet above the lake its cliffs buddha faces its trees dakini hair in sky blue lights the way to the white clouds repeat towers on rocky heads nothing but emptiness is what they say 3/III/90 |
THE REVENANT
I went down
to the beach
in winter. Made phone calls
from a booth twisting dial holes
on a jerk - marriage/divorces needing
legal contract, signed now,
with the settlement. Cars passing
attract eyes like animal
movement - too sealed in
for animals: people strapped in
indistinguishable from headrests
upright to safety belts
on their seats. But people
are all around here, crouch down finding
hideouts in the wind or at
shelter sheds from its access off
the harbour. Cars don't
cruise in it - chassis
too heavy, move rudderless through
vacuum pockets, at radials against
the curve. Ocean troughs
swell themselves up out
further onto crests, sharpen
where swollen, foams chopped off
at flurries. Whistlings
along telegraph wires, hummings rolled
tumbling out of reach. Over
cut lawns to amusement
park. Opening time
of Dodgem cars under poles, sparks
at electric net. Bump themselves
through openings, squeezed out
from in traffic, jam-shocked
onto buffers. Attendant slews
apart to clear, Pursuit rumble
and ram-jarred into flinch-laughs, swivelled
back-jerked against arms askew
on their seats.
WORK AT THE SAWMILL AND AFTER
Backed logs in
through shed
from area adjacent to where they'd been
felled, trunks shoved off
from open end of gable onto
saw to be split up
along lengths into half-moon
cross-sections, dense down onto
depths of logs from cutting edge,
in sounds of tin and wood vibrating
corrugated iron roof's rust
on rafter, Workmen -
'subcontractors'? - dark singlets,
felt hats, brims dinged down
on S bends, croens knuckled-in
to split open at corners
of the dinge, bodies thick, im-
mune to paid we would see it
as crabs, arms trunks sur-
prised if nicked not flesh feeling
an agony. Their grubbiness
is our 'structure or design'
though. I turn
on sunset unrecorded had
I had myself
no use for it - black storm
but horizon opening turquoise
to a slash. As un-
affected by a record
as I would be later, setting
paper alight from a match, puffing
flame up on handbellows used
so bark and kindling near it could
catch fire.
I head west
to dusk at hill wood's
under-ridge, inadvertently
circling the town and missing the local
pub. Backtracked
in mulch of autumn leaves, crispness
through damp. The town
has not got much but has got it
now. Cold smorgasbord - add
salad, tinned bean mix, buttered
roll on a plate to go with grilled
fish. Some money for it. Black
coffee sweet in glass of cherry
brandy - at television screen's
reflector blurring images off
to the corners on side view. Turn
to thump cannon-thud on clicks
as the locals play pool.
Climb
up wood staircase. Untuck stiff
sheets. Work the creaking old
bed springs. Join closing time
in the house sounds under sleep.
AFTER THE EQUINOX
The bells full
of rain through the air above
the cathedral. Lack of
solidity in the time past and
of now. I walk the sparse
grass to mud boundary by
the playing fields onto whatever times
there are, into the temporariness
of the past, slither, no
foothold. And call the days
back - onto moment
from forwards - and watch the dark
set, noonday on, no
wind, lit mist hangs
in twilight - fog bodies
wet ground. Clearing. Hum
of stars rung on far
off from earshot. I watch the night
crystallize out of resonance
in bells.
from Longhouse 1989-1990 edited by Bob Arnold / 1 of 250 numbers. Available from Longhouse Bookshop
from Longhouse 1989-1990 edited by Bob Arnold / 1 of 250 numbers. Available from Longhouse Bookshop
from VERSUS I
Bett Paradee (1930-1974)
point
at the edge
the next row
where
again of
unhallowed
ground she turns
down the
field
year
depends
on rites of
planting
yield
of cleared land
to plow
between
the barn
and back fence
~
(1785-1872)
Sam
Hodgkins
hayward
stayed
where house
and trees
heap
of stones
stood
to farm
the lot fence
bends
~
Black Ash
corn
borders
Northern White
Flint
barbwire
bends around
mound of stones
~
(1785-1872)
till
head furrow
tends
horizon
loose earth
graves
his rough farm
labor is a rite
unleashing
turns
ancestral
~
(1803-1879) (11/30/87)
sweepings I
place at the stone
where the words
on your grave
from the house
you raised
frame posts
floor beams
wide pine boards
remain unreadable
~
rites of the threshing
floor
ground
of ice and sea
horizon of the field
shifts
~
Cups
pull
of the moon
bends the field
I walk the bulge
~
February 16
I will dig
the trench Sea of
Cold
at your grave
before the sowing
let you
wash your flesh
I will pour
the water wait
like snow
bound fields who
know you are
to die or marry
~
(1930-1974)
she circled the field
behind the 1020
pulled
hard
around the bulge
flux around the stones
mouth
eye
headstone
swell of
plowland she withstands
~
(1949 -)
allow the pain
ground
and skin of air
your touch
cold I smear
pitch
on the door
of my house
passions of earth
body and mouth
~
Bruce Paradee (1940 -)
lifting
fieldstones
till
feel
the touch
pull
in your
chest
ice
scoured
edge
you turn
back
to the mound
~
before the
rain
bloom
timothy
and bromegrass
dew
finished
in the window
MORE AMOROUS GREETINGS
IN TERMS OF
POLARITIES
No fret about "Negative"
or "Neutral", even "Earth" -
when the connection's alive
between two positives.
IN TERMS OF
AN EXTENDED METAPHOR
As when
after hours in the fields,
dust and chaff in my throat,
I draw the bucket up from the well
and feel water against my lips
so it is
after days here alone
when I hear footsteps on the stair
and the door opens and there is
that first assurance that it's you.
IN TERMS OF
NOT FORGETTING AN ANNIVERSARY
No chance of getting it wrong
when every greeting's a celebration.
IN TERMS OF
THAT OLD FAMILIAR MAGIC
Don't believe them when they say
the paranormal isn't normal -
when you've only to walk into the room
and it happens every time.
IN TERMS OF
BEING ASKED WHAT I'D LIKE FOR MY BIRTHDAY
To go somewhere
or do something
I've never before
just provided
it's with you
as ever once more.
IN TERMS OF
AN AVANT-GARDE MANIFESTO
"Tout bouge!" declared Tinguely
"Nothing's static. . . welcome change!"
- but what startles most
is how surprise doesn't fade.first published by Longhouse 1999. Available from Longhouse Bookshop
unfinished poem
to go out
to the world
this time dressed as a
japanese printmaker,
not the eye of
epicanthus, but
yes,
perspective
as that of an island:
out, out into a world,
to find it earth! and
more simple, complex
than it seemed:
reducible
to a few lines with
shadings, the wood
to its grain
rather than to the
external form.
what
part of earth are you!
and after that, to
go out,
perhaps dressed as a
haida shaman,
finding it
all ocean! and
strewn with cowry: lines
across sand.
once,
the land bridged.
let it
be an earth color:
orange of hematite or
dark as vital loam
where rivers are,
or blue
of roots from
the parched mesas,
saved
distillate of rain
toward one hand.
but always
as this rug:
woven
of wool from a real sheep,
alive, shorn with shears
and dyed
perhaps with berries
until brilliant, or
left so:
the soft natural.
but always
fashioned with
eyes, with hands,
as friends’ faces, worn or
young: with the
nature of it
evident,
brought
out.
first published by Longhouse 2006. Available from Longhouse Bookshop
from SOME THINGS
C ompact
R ectinlear
A romatic
T ouching
E phemeral
~
D reaming
O f
O pen-plan
R ooms
~
H eaven
O rders
E arth first published by Longhouse 1995. Available from Longhouse Bookshop
String
ropes of heather
weighted with stones
to anchor a thatch
of rushes and heather
a white plastic bag
flapping in the wind
to scare the birds
from a string of fish
drying in the sun
a string plucked to leave
a line of yellow chalk
for clematis
and vine
green twist
two ply
garden twine
the ampersand is a knot
tying two parts of a discourse
sea & land, adventure & homecoming
subject & object
if you pull on it
everything that is
attached to it
will come with it
when you are hopeful
you are still the boy
who stood by the burn
hopefully, a hook
at the end of a string
saxifrage & campion
rock & torrent
loss & consolidation
with reef knots
with draw knots
tied to you
tied to you
with slip knots
with clove hitch
every tug on the rope
only tightens the splice
whatever is wrapped
in paper and string
may be unwrapped
from string and paper
blackbirds have stolen
the coloured twine
you tied round
the rowan saplings
first published by Longhouse 2006. Available from Longhouse Bookshop
from Hummingbird's Water Trough
The butterfly camouflaged
in the flowers —
a flower with wings
flying off.
~
SO MANY
So many thaws,
so many freezes,
until this flowering
~
We have paid off
the mortgage
on this life.
Now it is just
food & taxes
& the high cost of art.of the human heart.
~
WHAT THE TREETOPS WHISPER
For a second
or two
the rain on the
hillside
murmuring its message
through the leaves
before
it rains on us.
~
Dew on the
morning glory —
a hummingbird’s
water trough.
first published by Longhouse 2003. Available from Longhouse Bookshop
from The Death Of A Kentucky Coffee-Tree
& Other Poems
Soft honeysuckle wind —
almost has a taste to it....
~
Groomed from when it was a sprout,
the river sycamore —
ospreys’ dwelling.
~
THE DEATH OF A KENTUCKY COFFEE-TREE
Fallen, the large tree
that owned this domain.
Its root ball — flesh-colored
arthritic spikes
that had dug in for its
goodly time.
Seeing daylight
synonyms death.
Saplings that had stunted
in its shadow sing hallelujahs,
BY THE OCEAN
The wave that knocked you silly
now a small puddle
waiting for high tide
to catch a ride back
into immensity.compete for new light.
KENTUCKY RIVER PALISADES
Water is a sculptor
carving this limestone edifice,
working with haphazard weather,
meticulously searching for weakness
in rock. It will take ten generations
to note the next stroke of genius.
STAYING POWER
July 4th celebrations, 2005
Fireworks
among fireflies.
Fireworks more showy tonight.
Tomorrow night, the fireflies win.
first published by Longhouse 2006. Available from Longhouse Bookshop
WEE ONES
drawn out of Mary Barnard's versions by Cid Corman
1/
You make me think
of a sweet
girl seen once
picking flowers
2/
Spring dusk
Full moon
Girls seem
to be
circling
around
a shrine
3/
As a gust
shakes oak does
love my heart
4/
Come and I'll
have fresh pillows
for your rest
5/
Overjoyed
yes, praying
for such a
night again
6/
No moan
Means the
Muses
richly
endowed
me with
no joke
Death wont
let me
be for
gotten
7/
If you
dont like trouble
dont disturb
sand
8/
Am I to
remind you,
dear
that complaint
aint right where
poetry
lives?
9/
Forget it
But listen -
you will be
thought of yet
first published by Longhouse 2003. Available from Longhouse Bookshop
It is not for me to say whether the hoarse, strident, searching, verse that marks today is merely a young cynicism or an old dejection. There is a music in older voices that cling to men's minds, while now there is a wild order, a chaos of personal images that are lost to the listening reader. There is a suddenness: something spasmodic and brief about our poetry: the print of our time.
Still, there is room for music: poetry that fills with song and meaning, that we have heard before. We may use a new idiom, a new tongue, and new mannerisms, but a poem should still sing and live.
~ Cid Corman, from the preface to his first book Subluna: twelve poems written during 1943-44 when the poet was just turning twenty years old.
JÁNOS PILINSZKY
Translated by Cid Corman
VEIL
There is no sun.
There is no moon.
And no childhood.
And above all no land, no mother-land.
There is no coffin and no homeland.
No cradle and no bed made,
death settled under our heads.
One who lives is on a pin point,
and our peace itself is nothing
but a busted worthless wing,
a bride's veil, off or not,
lost upon a nail.
Dangles.
We dangle.
No graveyard. First published by Longhouse 2003. Available from Longhouse Bookshop
LAURENT GRISEL
MEMORIES ON THE WAY
After Reignac
just above this path
I slept
near some thickets
dreamless
noiseless.
Villedomain
under sheet metal
deprived of stars
near a dog tied up
on hay
I keep an eye out
the night broken.
Near Vayres
not alone
in high grass
I line up my shoes
and passing a treeless night
at daybreak
I am wet through.
for F.H.
lost in the house
the shadows are news
the house rustles up
unknown sounds
it's lovely outside
but we don't want to go out
for everything here is new.
~
so
with all my attention
the cat.
from only 50 numbers printed at Longhouse in the "Just So Happens" series July 1995, translated by Cid Corman. Folded booklet. Available from Longhouse Bookshop
SINGING ALONG WITH SENGAI
Translations by Cid Corman
1/
Crown or grid iron --
there's nothing to think about --
only all to use.
2/
Over Everest
the same old moon shares its light
as clear as ever
but only for eyes ready
to see the darkness clearer.
3/
Moon empty
sky shine
water deepened
darkness
4/
Yes or no --
good or bad --
you have come
to this house.
Here is your
tear -- your cake.
5/
Wind sweeping
the willow
and willow
the wind but
neither can
be brushed off.
6/
Just resting --
letting the breezes make
a thing of
a body --First published by Longhouse 1997. Available from Longhouse Bookshop
UGUISU CALLS
Kyoto
temple sweeping
uguisu calls
Takao
two answering
uguisu calls
Hanasse
through wet grass
uguisu calls
Ashibidani
gorgelost
uguisu calls
Old
gone mad with singing
uguisu calls
uguisu - nightingale
Takao and Hanasse - mountain villages near Kyoto
Ashibidani - "Leg Gorge", north of Hanasse
first published as a broadside by Longhouse February 1976 / newly published 2006. Please inquire as to availability [email protected]
Selections from Nugae
1.
I was present this morning when a
blossoming tree sweetly escaped.For what refusal or acquiescence
was the head of the tree nodding
over my page?
3.
However the wind diminish us, re-
duces us to a thread, to learn in
our deserts, to learn to ride a
grain of sand.
I am banged up against the horizon.
6.
Oneself in a thousand flashes bursting
the thousand flashes.
To pass in one's life at a gust of wind
then awaken ahead of oneself a point. The
swiftness of such a task lets this sky
be neglected!
8.
The word snow used wildly.
I feel the difficulty of it.
Those mornings when we toss about
on one wing!
9.
To be enchantingly alone. But does
that make any sense?
What we are, we are, most of the time,
thanks to what hasnt completely occurred.
12.
There are pages which more than all
others express us. Some - witness to
our fatigues - will remain blank;
others - witness to our laziness - will
be those where, by negligence, we
shall have triumphed.
Translated by Cid Corman
First published by Longhouse 2001. Available from Longhouse Bookshop
Bring me the sunflower to transplant
in my soil parched by the salt air,
and let it show all day to the mirroring blues
of the sky the yearning of its yellowy face.
Things obscure tend to clarity,
exhaust their bodies in a flowing
of colors: these in musics. To fade
is thus the venture of ventures.
Bring me (dear) the plant that leads to
where blond transparencies arise
and life evaporates as essence;
bring me the sunflower crazed by light.Translated by Cid Corman
First published by Longhouse 2005. Available from Longhouse Bookshop
how women praise
for Lorine Niedecker: 1903-1970
Lorine, would you cut
my stanzas, trim
my fatty nouns,
un-
swamp
black waters
of this riv-
er?
Lorine, Lorine, Lorine...
Wisconsin's
word-heroine
you sang of flood
& pump-valves
you poked through skunk-cabbage
Spring, never denying bitter
edges & cold iron
of empty nights
you also sang of Darwin
& everyman's need to follow
his life through
to the Source
yet your neighbors thought you
only the woman who washed
hospital floors
& they did see one who walked
primly in her black cloth
coat
as if oblivious to the driving
snowflake hordes.
O under pressure
even water thickens
into quartz
thunder,
Lorine, Lorine, Lorine...
I am dazzled
by your
example.
~
for CID
this poem is like the rosebranch's
shaking
after the bird has flown
~
IMAGINE
Townies call me Indian, Jew, Buddha-ist,
No red rock jewel mountain stronghold here.
That's my house...the one snow
is still falling on
though legally it's Spring.
Busted window admits it & warped doorframe
opens the door to wind during night,
an invitation I cannot refuse to attend to.
Rednecks drive up in second gear, whining, on their
6-packs, rifles hung upside down on racks
up rear window of their Dodge RAM. Knock loudly
on the door, it opens, & ask me do I have any
cigarettes to sell. Shuffling inside their
plaids like shy bears.
Midnight.
A change from chanting sutras, to be sure.
I speak very plainly because my terror is cautious.
We all know what really
inside a woman moves for pleasure. I send my
trembling to a moon not visible. A woman must learn
to pull against gravity without obstructing
the flow of her own nature, of space
in which all
things have equal
dominion.
I know their faces, have watched them lurch
at the back of town meeting. I know what
they signify.
But this pain we share I would not.
We want some of your poetry, one from the truck calls.
I say Imagine
and shut the door.
~
found poem no. 2
strut, girl,
you ain't got
no other car.
~
from You've Got Me, Barbara Moraff (edited with an appreciation by Bob Arnold) as "Scout, spring 1987" issued in 125 numbers. Available from Longhouse Bookshop
Polyphony.
None (no one) struggles.
At rest.
~ Theodore Enslin
praying
mantis
faces
sunset
many
sparrows
know
my
secret
street
sparrows
sparrows
sparrows
old man
also
fall
trees
turn
house
stays
feed
pine trees
pot
basil
&
rose
mary
&
later
hang
storm
windows
alone
a shame
to light
furnace
my
hotplate
my
wooden
spoon
& my
2 quart
saucepandreaming
one street over they speak vietnamesebundles of mail at an unopened door
washing
out
flower
pots
on a
fall daywash skillet
turn compost
feed cornbread
to sparrows
in dress pants
& cardigan
carrying
my shovel
my house
full of trees
my tree house from tree house by John Martone, published by Longhouse, 2005. Available from Longhouse Bookshop
Just lean against
cherry blossom trunk
to write this
Wind, voices
blowing
through
blossoms
No bag needed
w/ all these
poetry pockets
Doesn't see me sitting
that's a very big blue,
gold-winged bird
White petals
mark a stripe
on this dirt road
Can't see temple
for the blossoms
Somewhere
down there
water's trickling
Down there
through pines
azalea pinks
Smell's
getting
stronger
all combined
flowers
3 paths
like veins
meeting
your beating
heart
Pumpkin bee
can't get around,
nor can I sits
on arm, "Hey
it's not your flower!''
A petal bridge
acrossfrom Cherry Blossoms by Fred Jeremy Seligson, published by Longhouse, 2004. Available from Longhouse Bookshop
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