Night before last resumed my silent presence at Vanderbilt's Front Porch reading series. Jeff Hardin read to us, he being more southern than us, us being a packed room. Mr. Hardin's swallows, lilac stems, morning dew, grass blade, dusks, ease was some thing: during the reading I had written, "HE IS A SOUTH," followed by, "tender as a tenderer describing a tender night in the tender South." The peach, that Georgian lilt, of his speech matched perfectly to his poetry. "...Ain't laff the swaytess thang..."
The two swimmers in Nashville's ( tepid ) poetry pool are Dino's PoetrySucks! reading series ( which apparently had a reading that very same night as if to illustrate the point ) and Vanderbilt's Front Porch series. The two are more than contrary: one coursing in the ruthless, cursing, confessionalist vein. I've seen whoops, shatters, a ( mock? ) break-up because the details of a poem were bonkers. Energetic, alcohol-cigarette-fueled, blaring, zesty, PoetrySucks! is a slick joint to get your poetry on. Vanderbilt's Front Porch is perhaps too easy, too James Taylor. ( This whole thing is about the two of James Taylor. This one and this one. ) The readers are usually extracted from Vanderbilt's faculty list ( which usually means they have health, dental, vision, 401k, security, stasis ). and present a more aged, patient, tucked-in, somber/subtle, reflective/introspective character. / Yowzah. So and Sohas their new one, #7, out and about. Thank Chris Tonellifor manhandling the entire affair & take your peek at the last of the "I'm Sorry , About Baseball" poems from before Nashville.
Marked a finish line with the Desert Poem "( Kiln )" and that is that ( deserted ):
... series the
fingertips, evictions, of months
of projections / of
everyone chipped scalds
off the car, out
in this repeating
mar / I stay noise ...
/ From SF Moma lingering: Leon Golub's "Mercenaries"
David Park's "The Figure":
/ Been into the Oppen. His certainty, the detailing, Poundian appreciation of the bucolic ( stripped of the Japanese and re-set into the urbans of America ), the omnitemporal ( yet/thus elegiac ) quality of the poet's treatment of objects and processes, a comprehension that is itself poetic, with little assumed or illegitimate prolificacy, things are just this important. "...The distinction of what one does And what is done to him blurrs Bodies dream selves For themselves From the substance Of the cold..." "...How forget that? How talk Distantly of 'the People'? Who are the people? that they are That force within the walls Of cities... Possible To use Words provided one treat them As enemies --Ghosts Which have run mad In the subways And of course the institutions And the banks... And not only victims, and they may have come to the end Of all that, and if they have They may have come to the end of it..." "Parallel lines do not meet And the compass does not spin, this is the interval In which they do not... In which things explain each other. Not themselves..." "...More in it Or seem to, It is our home. Wolves may hunt With wolves, but we will lose Humanity in the cities And the suburbs, stores And offices In simple Enterprise.... It is a place. Nothing has entered it. Nothing has left it. People are born From those who are there. How have I forgotten... How have we forgotten That which is clear, we Dwindle, but that I have forgotten Tortures me..."
Holy smokes my soul, been in grand states these last weeks, the trip, the return, the weathers, hunterer-gatherer friendzos, meteor gazer grid of good bodies updark, keg, mosquites can have all they please ( they, ah, usurp spiders to belong now to the hard undersides of bridges and me), phone broke and better, diving the Ed Roberson, Aase Berg, Zach Savich.
Still intrigued by desert. What do you know about them? Werner Herzog, man of men, filmed them ( "Fata Morgana" ), and grafted atop poetries amazingly from the Popul Vuh, and, I think, his own mental brains ( ps. I hope you can read Spanish subtitles, and adore Leonard Cohen )
Arrived 'ol Nashville, unslept weary after a maniac drive push across country, Salt Lake City, Wyoming, Omaha, St. Louis. Formed emerge, are a smell in this space, animal thin, like this land was this vast chopped up land, loose mound of dissolving weathers, smell of, startled isolated objects, the convincing echo material, percussive sketch that proves finally now exist, and insists the area, usher a process disland.
The return of a type of heat, Olympics and nation-states, arrays of review enacted about the last month, here is one of materials brought back, most are, bummer, d e a d: Ed Roberson ( Voices Cast Out ) Djuna Barnes ( Nightwood ) Aime Cesaire ( Notebook Of a Return ) Duncan ( Bow, Ground Work II ) H.D. ( Trilogy ) Gertrude ( Writings and Lectures 1909-1945 ) Ted Pearson ( Songs Aside ) George Oppen ( Selected Poems ) Alexei Kruchenykh ( Suicide Circus ) Heidegger ( Poetry, Language, Thought ) Carl Sandburg ( Harvest Poems, 1910-1960 ) Kandinsky ( Sounds ) Thomas Merton ( Selected Poems ) Stephen Ratcliffe ( Distance ) /
Plus,< killauthor's editor is now a revealed thing where before he did his work behind an emerald green curtain doing the slot machines. August, in the month for Octopus. Grand conversation con grand artist Brett Goodroad at the Marin Headlands Open House art thing whilst in the city. DieAntwoord. A Desert ( Kiln ) under way, rifling through notes.