My usual lunch hangouts were closed today so I tried a Thai place I haven’t eaten in in years. That turned out fine. The sun is out but a cold wind gets to blowing. When windy around here our front yard gathers scraps of debris – candy wrappers, tissue from the supermarket deli, plastic bags.
Kent was home when I got back from eating. If I’d known he was going to be off work so early I would have waited lunch till he came home. He zapped a frozen onion soup portion for himself.
I’ve been telling Sundy (the cat) I’m going to make a documentary about him. Just follow him around with a camera. He’s totally telegenic! The project requires a camera, of course.
Happy New Year!
Monday, December 31, 2007
Friday, December 28, 2007
puzzling
Back in October I commented on Ron Silliman’s blog, responding, as one does now & then, both to what Ron had said and to one of the earlier commenters. The result, I find upon rereading (I copied the comments to a Word file), continues to bother me. Ron will grump about how the poetry world’s awards tend to be heaped at the feet of those he considers tiresome reactionaries, at least in style if not in wider world politics.
A commenter took Ron to task, “[Y]our posts on this issue exercise us into sputtering rage. 90% of poetry these days is gossip. I was just at a SoQ reading in Chicago (sponsored by Poetry Magazine and the ALSC.) The post-reading drinking was dominated by discussion about publishers, names -- it might as well have been about music, or archetecture [sic], or Romance novels as about poetry. … At some point you grow up as a poet and as a reader, and you grow to regard this with disgust. You grow to hate talk about the National Book Award, who's getting published by Knopf, and so on. It just seems incredibly remote from what you yourself are doing, and what your friends are doing, and if you have a good bookstore in town, what you think the best writers are doing. … [W]e feel that complete abdication from the gossip world -- which involves thinking of ourselves and our friends as ‘poets’, not ‘poets of a certain type’ -- has been a necessary step. … I don't want a place at the table, and being told to demand one seems a bit bullying.”
SoQ is an acronym of “School of Quietude,” the term Ron Silliman has applied to those I called in my first paragraph “tiresome reactionaries.”
This was what I posted: “All human endeavors include at least a dash of politics (even religion; the Zen master or the Pope got where HE is unsullied by the temporal world?). I'm puzzled that [the commenter above] puts discussion/analysis of it off limits -- because we're poets and politics is irrelevant to poetry? Politics (gossip?) is part of the program. One can certainly ignore something bulky in the room ... Still, that I tire of it and wish it would step outside for a smoke and let me talk about ... what? ... stanza breaks? my next book (first book)? ... doesn't make it leave the party. It's one more thing to talk about. Ron, for one, talks about many other things, too.
“Far's labeling myself is concerned: I write poetry and I define ‘poetry’ loosely, and because I write poetry & rather a lot of it (my pile of notebooks from the last 20 years is about 3 feet high; yes, they got knocked cattywampus & I did pile them on the floor) ... so I call myself a poet. I don't write the same thing over & over. I suppose the preponderance of my influences (& my art) would slouch under Ron's ‘post avant’ banner, though there's SoQish stuff, too. When asked what kind of poet I am I hesitantly offer ‘experimental’ because that's what I do. Experiment a lot. [ellipses in original, indicating pause rather than excision]”
The earlier commenter came back with: “What I said was so unobjectionable and true that it's internet-axiomatic that someone has to come along and disagree.”
He quotes a few sentences from my comment before continuing to protest:
“I never put discussion of it off limits. I never said that ‘politics’ (who gets published, and by whom) doesn't matter. I never said that mention of poetry gossip would make me leave the room. I never said that Ron was bad because this is all he talks about. For my actual beliefs, do read my comment, which expresses them well.”
I was startled by the commenter’s protest. “I never said … I never said … I never said … I never said.” Then he sneers, “For my actual beliefs, do read my comment, which expresses them well.”
Should someone tell me that a topic reduces him to a “sputtering rage” it would seem not only reasonable but essential to read that as a demand the topic be off limits. What, I want to experience his “sputtering rage”?
He says, “90% of poetry these days is gossip. [At a recent reading] the post-reading drinking was dominated by discussion about publishers, names … At some point you grow up as a poet and as a reader, and you grow to regard this with disgust. You grow to hate talk about the National Book Award, who's getting published by Knopf, and so on.” Yet the commenter’s “disgust” should “never” indicate that to talk awards gossip is “bad”? How odd. Disgust – hate – rage – a necessity for complete abdication [sic] from gossip.
It’s hard to believe the commenter expects to be taken seriously saying one thing then, in a wounded howl, renouncing what he’d said as though he had “never said” such a thing.
My own comments I’d thought “so unobjectionable and true that” I was merely making conversation, of a bland, even tired sort. Politics, it’s part of the world of Art (and Poetry), too.
You can read the unedited comments on Ron’s blog here.
A commenter took Ron to task, “[Y]our posts on this issue exercise us into sputtering rage. 90% of poetry these days is gossip. I was just at a SoQ reading in Chicago (sponsored by Poetry Magazine and the ALSC.) The post-reading drinking was dominated by discussion about publishers, names -- it might as well have been about music, or archetecture [sic], or Romance novels as about poetry. … At some point you grow up as a poet and as a reader, and you grow to regard this with disgust. You grow to hate talk about the National Book Award, who's getting published by Knopf, and so on. It just seems incredibly remote from what you yourself are doing, and what your friends are doing, and if you have a good bookstore in town, what you think the best writers are doing. … [W]e feel that complete abdication from the gossip world -- which involves thinking of ourselves and our friends as ‘poets’, not ‘poets of a certain type’ -- has been a necessary step. … I don't want a place at the table, and being told to demand one seems a bit bullying.”
SoQ is an acronym of “School of Quietude,” the term Ron Silliman has applied to those I called in my first paragraph “tiresome reactionaries.”
This was what I posted: “All human endeavors include at least a dash of politics (even religion; the Zen master or the Pope got where HE is unsullied by the temporal world?). I'm puzzled that [the commenter above] puts discussion/analysis of it off limits -- because we're poets and politics is irrelevant to poetry? Politics (gossip?) is part of the program. One can certainly ignore something bulky in the room ... Still, that I tire of it and wish it would step outside for a smoke and let me talk about ... what? ... stanza breaks? my next book (first book)? ... doesn't make it leave the party. It's one more thing to talk about. Ron, for one, talks about many other things, too.
“Far's labeling myself is concerned: I write poetry and I define ‘poetry’ loosely, and because I write poetry & rather a lot of it (my pile of notebooks from the last 20 years is about 3 feet high; yes, they got knocked cattywampus & I did pile them on the floor) ... so I call myself a poet. I don't write the same thing over & over. I suppose the preponderance of my influences (& my art) would slouch under Ron's ‘post avant’ banner, though there's SoQish stuff, too. When asked what kind of poet I am I hesitantly offer ‘experimental’ because that's what I do. Experiment a lot. [ellipses in original, indicating pause rather than excision]”
The earlier commenter came back with: “What I said was so unobjectionable and true that it's internet-axiomatic that someone has to come along and disagree.”
He quotes a few sentences from my comment before continuing to protest:
“I never put discussion of it off limits. I never said that ‘politics’ (who gets published, and by whom) doesn't matter. I never said that mention of poetry gossip would make me leave the room. I never said that Ron was bad because this is all he talks about. For my actual beliefs, do read my comment, which expresses them well.”
I was startled by the commenter’s protest. “I never said … I never said … I never said … I never said.” Then he sneers, “For my actual beliefs, do read my comment, which expresses them well.”
Should someone tell me that a topic reduces him to a “sputtering rage” it would seem not only reasonable but essential to read that as a demand the topic be off limits. What, I want to experience his “sputtering rage”?
He says, “90% of poetry these days is gossip. [At a recent reading] the post-reading drinking was dominated by discussion about publishers, names … At some point you grow up as a poet and as a reader, and you grow to regard this with disgust. You grow to hate talk about the National Book Award, who's getting published by Knopf, and so on.” Yet the commenter’s “disgust” should “never” indicate that to talk awards gossip is “bad”? How odd. Disgust – hate – rage – a necessity for complete abdication [sic] from gossip.
It’s hard to believe the commenter expects to be taken seriously saying one thing then, in a wounded howl, renouncing what he’d said as though he had “never said” such a thing.
My own comments I’d thought “so unobjectionable and true that” I was merely making conversation, of a bland, even tired sort. Politics, it’s part of the world of Art (and Poetry), too.
You can read the unedited comments on Ron’s blog here.
Wednesday, December 26, 2007
Fame killed him
I recently joined Facebook. I’ve had a couple reconnections that have been good. One was with a colleague on the staff of Berkeley Poetry Review. Patricia Johnson went on to Yale Business School, I learned. Of all of us I’d have guessed she’d be best at that. Poets, remember? She’s been working at New American Media the last few years and when I asked she shared links to some of what she’s written.
In one article she remembers Andrew Martinez, the UC Berkeley student who became (reluctantly) famous as “The Naked Guy.” They lived at the same student co-op. She remembers a sweet man, not some defiant radical but almost an innocent; he wanted to live his life peacefully, not stage a confrontation or exemplify a controversy. I could identify with that. Being a gay man I’m familiar with my boring ordinary life being a “controversial subject,” and totally without my permission.
Was I embarrassed by Andrew’s public nudity? Sure, a bit. I wasn’t going to strip in solidarity (some did), but philosophically I sympathized. I had no classes with Andrew, but I saw him around a few times. As Patricia says in her essay, “He wasn't hard to look at. He was a tall, lean man with lovely brown skin.”
What killed him? Patricia fingers fame. “He lost himself in it. By naming him The Naked Guy, we all drove him crazy. I heard he eventually wanted to take it all back. … If Andrew had been ugly, he might be alive today, because fame wouldn't have wanted him so badly -- certainly Playgirl wouldn't have wanted him.
“Being in the headlines is the worst kind of fame, because there's no paycheck, no royalties. They take your picture, interview you, get the ratings and spit you out.”
Patricia’s most vivid memory: Andrew “walking naked into the co-op dining room for breakfast with a plate of toast. He set the plate on the table, and his backpack on the floor. He pulled a small towel out of the backpack and placed it on the chair, with a dignified snap like a four-star restaurant waiter. Then he sat down to read the paper.”
Read the rest here.
May of ’06 I posted a link to an article about the death of Andrew Martinez.
In one article she remembers Andrew Martinez, the UC Berkeley student who became (reluctantly) famous as “The Naked Guy.” They lived at the same student co-op. She remembers a sweet man, not some defiant radical but almost an innocent; he wanted to live his life peacefully, not stage a confrontation or exemplify a controversy. I could identify with that. Being a gay man I’m familiar with my boring ordinary life being a “controversial subject,” and totally without my permission.
Was I embarrassed by Andrew’s public nudity? Sure, a bit. I wasn’t going to strip in solidarity (some did), but philosophically I sympathized. I had no classes with Andrew, but I saw him around a few times. As Patricia says in her essay, “He wasn't hard to look at. He was a tall, lean man with lovely brown skin.”
What killed him? Patricia fingers fame. “He lost himself in it. By naming him The Naked Guy, we all drove him crazy. I heard he eventually wanted to take it all back. … If Andrew had been ugly, he might be alive today, because fame wouldn't have wanted him so badly -- certainly Playgirl wouldn't have wanted him.
“Being in the headlines is the worst kind of fame, because there's no paycheck, no royalties. They take your picture, interview you, get the ratings and spit you out.”
Patricia’s most vivid memory: Andrew “walking naked into the co-op dining room for breakfast with a plate of toast. He set the plate on the table, and his backpack on the floor. He pulled a small towel out of the backpack and placed it on the chair, with a dignified snap like a four-star restaurant waiter. Then he sat down to read the paper.”
Read the rest here.
May of ’06 I posted a link to an article about the death of Andrew Martinez.
Tuesday, December 25, 2007
comments on “Hell it is, Pop” version 4
Christmasy? The versions of this poem were all written before I posted the first one. I haven’t done that before. No one had a chance to comment so there was no taking comments into account. (Little joke there.)
Hope your holidays are going sweetly, peacefully, and warmly.
Hope your holidays are going sweetly, peacefully, and warmly.
“Hell it is, Pop” version 4
Ever more beautiful wounds
the diamond burns.
But the stitchers thread
a cure for this gap.
The river wavers
because the viewer wobbles?
The head’s its own snake.
Let her climb letters, shine down
feathers light-fingered ladies
lift. On older wings men drift
three many thousand falls,
eight ending hundred feints.
Across a range of lines,
the plots families draw,
knots overlap ridges, acres in grudges.
Good road but cracked with green.
Earth girded by goodbyes.
the diamond burns.
But the stitchers thread
a cure for this gap.
The river wavers
because the viewer wobbles?
The head’s its own snake.
Let her climb letters, shine down
feathers light-fingered ladies
lift. On older wings men drift
three many thousand falls,
eight ending hundred feints.
Across a range of lines,
the plots families draw,
knots overlap ridges, acres in grudges.
Good road but cracked with green.
Earth girded by goodbyes.
Sunday, December 16, 2007
Saturday, December 15, 2007
Thursday, November 29, 2007
“Hell it is, Pop” version 3
Ever more beautiful wounds
the diamond burns.
But the stitchers thread
a cure across the gap.
The river wavers?
Because the viewer wobbles,
the head in its own way to see
snakes, to climb letters.
Over light-fingered ladies
shine me. By old wings lifted
these men turn.
How many thousand feints,
hundred dead falls,
range acre lines,
the plots families draw,
knot by knot, overlapping thin grudges.
Good road not yet cracked with green,
earth girded by goodbyes.
the diamond burns.
But the stitchers thread
a cure across the gap.
The river wavers?
Because the viewer wobbles,
the head in its own way to see
snakes, to climb letters.
Over light-fingered ladies
shine me. By old wings lifted
these men turn.
How many thousand feints,
hundred dead falls,
range acre lines,
the plots families draw,
knot by knot, overlapping thin grudges.
Good road not yet cracked with green,
earth girded by goodbyes.
Wednesday, November 28, 2007
another postcard
Beverly Backstrom was another of Mom's old buddies. I like this one because it is just a nicely written dispatch from travel. You don't have to know anything about Beverly or Mom to find it interesting.
Tuesday, November 27, 2007
comments on "Hell it is, Pop!" version 2
Most of the poems I’ve versioned on LuvSet have been old old poems. The first version of this one is quite new. Usually I do a new version just before I post it. Version 2 is not that fresh. In fact, I already have versions 3 & 4.
"Hell it is, Pop!" version 2
From above, the diamond burns
ever more beautiful wounds, the stitcher's thread
a cure for the bright act.
The river wavers because the viewer wobbles,
the head its own way to see
snakes and letters.
Shine me on over light-fingered
ladies, their gentlemen lifted by old wings
a toe’s-breadth above turbid currents
below which blind muck-lurkers
poke feet of claw.
How many thousand feints,
hundred dead falls,
range cheek by elbow, acre lines
overlapping plots families draw,
knot by knot, among their grudges.
Cities bright as sousaphones in winter
greet dawn’s new filament
with an oomph and an oomph and
an oom pah pah. Good time! Good news!
Good road not yet cracked with green,
earth girded by meets,
loosened for goodbye.
ever more beautiful wounds, the stitcher's thread
a cure for the bright act.
The river wavers because the viewer wobbles,
the head its own way to see
snakes and letters.
Shine me on over light-fingered
ladies, their gentlemen lifted by old wings
a toe’s-breadth above turbid currents
below which blind muck-lurkers
poke feet of claw.
How many thousand feints,
hundred dead falls,
range cheek by elbow, acre lines
overlapping plots families draw,
knot by knot, among their grudges.
Cities bright as sousaphones in winter
greet dawn’s new filament
with an oomph and an oomph and
an oom pah pah. Good time! Good news!
Good road not yet cracked with green,
earth girded by meets,
loosened for goodbye.
Monday, November 26, 2007
Sunday, November 25, 2007
comments on “Hell it is, Pop” version 1
“Hell it is, Pop” is a piece written on top of "Elegy, Father's Day"
By Kevin Young, which appeared at Slate.
By Kevin Young, which appeared at Slate.
“Hell it is, Pop” version 1
From above, the diamond burns its look
into ever more beautiful wounds, the stitcher's thread
curing the bright act.
The river wavers because the viewer wobbles,
the head its own way to see
snakes and letters.
Shine me on over light-fingered
ladies, their gentlemen lifted by old wings
just above the turbid currents
below which blind muck-wanderers
poke clawed feet.
How many thousands of feints
and hundreds of falls,
ranged cheek by elbow, line the acres,
overlap like plots families draw,
knot by knot, among their grievances.
Cities bright as sousaphones in winter
greet dawn’s new sight
with an oomph and an oomph and
an oompah pah. Good time!
Good road not yet cracked
with green,
the earth girded by meets,
loosened with goodbyes.
into ever more beautiful wounds, the stitcher's thread
curing the bright act.
The river wavers because the viewer wobbles,
the head its own way to see
snakes and letters.
Shine me on over light-fingered
ladies, their gentlemen lifted by old wings
just above the turbid currents
below which blind muck-wanderers
poke clawed feet.
How many thousands of feints
and hundreds of falls,
ranged cheek by elbow, line the acres,
overlap like plots families draw,
knot by knot, among their grievances.
Cities bright as sousaphones in winter
greet dawn’s new sight
with an oomph and an oomph and
an oompah pah. Good time!
Good road not yet cracked
with green,
the earth girded by meets,
loosened with goodbyes.
Sunday, November 11, 2007
Living in Berkeley
Rained yesterday & through the night.
Kent wanted to see the new Coen Brothers movie, No Country for Old Men, but it’s not playing in Berkeley. What? With all our movie theaters?
For lunch we walked down to Au Coquelet, a café on University Ave. Sun’s shining now.
Kent wanted to see the new Coen Brothers movie, No Country for Old Men, but it’s not playing in Berkeley. What? With all our movie theaters?
For lunch we walked down to Au Coquelet, a café on University Ave. Sun’s shining now.
Monday, October 29, 2007
all the way
All the way and in the way and thus the way evades the way the way a nay will turn away the daily tray of pales applied to knights and fastened with ribbon to kites and tucked under tights and carried aloft in the bottom of a bite. Whose ruse chose this loose shoot’s fruits? You gotta wonder, maundering, while under the sundered venture, a new purple panders to renderers.
Sunday, October 28, 2007
this gust
Suppose a rough gust tucked into his guts and the roomy tomb, vacated by a spoon, cuts a figure of rust. Suppose what?
Sunday, October 14, 2007
Deadly Nightshade
Today at the Spice of Life Festival (they closed down the street two blocks away) Kent & I watched a cooking demonstration. The chef of Bistro Liaison prepared a butternut squash soup. While the chef was doing something that didn’t require commentary the emcee offered up a giveaway – a one-cup coffee maker (Kent leaned into me and said, “We need that.”) – to the first person who could answer the question, “What popular culinary ingredient belongs to the deadly nightshade family?”
My hand went up. “Tomato?”
Kent made coffee with it soon as we got home.
My hand went up. “Tomato?”
Kent made coffee with it soon as we got home.
Monday, October 08, 2007
on ENDA
ENDA is the Employment Non-Discrimination Act that's before Congress. Its purpose is to outlaw employment discrimination on the basis of sexual orientation. ENDA has been introduced and reintroduced over the years and gradually gathered more cosponsors and better chances of passing. Now that Democrats are in charge of Congress (at least theoretically) Speaker Pelosi was going to put ENDA up for a vote, and it looked like there was a good chance of it passing. But Congressmember Barney Frank, our only out gay male Congressmember, was counting the votes and discovered that many were balking at the protections afforded the transgender. Such protections had been added fairly recently as tg activists organized and made themselves known. But when it looked like their needs would scuttle the legislation altogether Frank proposed separating tg protections into another bill entirely (one with little prospect at this point).
Debate has been going on about the advisability of this. I left the following comment at Michelangelo Signorile's blog:
I admire Barney Frank. One thing that strikes me about him, though, is his inability to perceive the symbolic. He is pragmatic to a fault. It only matters if you can get it done, he seems to think. Frank accepted the so-called compromise of Don't-Ask-Don't-Tell, insisting that the version he agreed to included Don't-Pursue. In practice there's been plenty of pursue.
Republicans are happy to indulge in huge splashy symbolism; witness the repeated introduction of the Anti-Marriage Amendments and such fireworks as the Sciavo bill. There are those who say the Republicans are letting down their strongest supporters because they haven't succeeded in outlawing abortion or inserting an anti-marriage amendment into the Constitution. Maybe. But the country is not virulently anti-abortion and it's getting more pro-gay all the time, yet the the Democrat's attempts have been mired in a sort of anti-symbolism, as though the only way they can get anything good done is if it's possible to sneak it by.
Debate has been going on about the advisability of this. I left the following comment at Michelangelo Signorile's blog:
I admire Barney Frank. One thing that strikes me about him, though, is his inability to perceive the symbolic. He is pragmatic to a fault. It only matters if you can get it done, he seems to think. Frank accepted the so-called compromise of Don't-Ask-Don't-Tell, insisting that the version he agreed to included Don't-Pursue. In practice there's been plenty of pursue.
Republicans are happy to indulge in huge splashy symbolism; witness the repeated introduction of the Anti-Marriage Amendments and such fireworks as the Sciavo bill. There are those who say the Republicans are letting down their strongest supporters because they haven't succeeded in outlawing abortion or inserting an anti-marriage amendment into the Constitution. Maybe. But the country is not virulently anti-abortion and it's getting more pro-gay all the time, yet the the Democrat's attempts have been mired in a sort of anti-symbolism, as though the only way they can get anything good done is if it's possible to sneak it by.
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