After weeks working on the Wilson project, finally, time ...

From Issa



evening--
in a big sake cup
moon and a flea

Monday kind of poem ...

From friend Issa:


Writing shit about new snow
for the rich
is not art.

Poetry project ...

For April's CMU class, possibly use two Dickinson poems together.

"Hope" is the thing with feathers--
That perches in the soul--
And sings the tune without the words--
And never stops - at all--

And sweetest - in the Gale - is heard--
And sore must be the storm--
That could abash the little Bird--
That kept so many warm--

I've heard it in the chillest land--
And on the strangest Sea--
Yet, never, in Extremity--
It asked a crumb - of Me.
----------------------------
Theres a certain Slant of light,
Winter Afternoons--
That oppresse, like the Heft
Of Cathedral Tunes--

Heavenly Hurt, it gives us--
We can find no scar,
But internal difference,
Where the Meanings, are--

None may teach it - Any--
'Tis the Seal Despair--
An imperial affliction
Sent us of the Air--

When it comes, the Landscape listens--
Shadow - hold their breath--
When it goes, 'tis like the Distance
On the look of Death--

Issa and all

In honor of the poet from whose work this journal is named:

Even with insects
--some can sing, some can't.

Two Tuesday poems for Wednesday ....

First

I reckon, when I count at all,
First Poets - then the Sun -
then Summer - then the Heaven of God -
And then the list is done.
But looking back - the first so seems
To comprehend the whole -
the others look a needless show,
So I write Poets - All.
this summer lasts a solid year,
They can afford a sun
The East would deem extravagant,
And if the final Heaven
Be beautiful as they disclose
To those who trust in them,
It is too difficult a grace
To justify a dream. Emily Dickinson

Wulf and Eadwacer

The men of my tribe would treat him as game:
if he comes to the camp they will kill him outright.

----------------- Our fate is forked.

Wulf is on one island, I on another.
Mine is a fastness: the fens girdle it
and it is defended by the fiercest men.
If he comes to the camp they will kill him for sure.

-----------------Our fate is forked.

It was rainy weather, and I wept by the hearth,
thinking of my Wulf's wanderings;
one of the captains caught me in his arms.
It gladdened me then; but it grieved me, too.

Wulf, my Wulf, it was wanting you
that made me sick, your seldom coming,
the hollowness at heart; not the hunger I spoke of.

Do you hear me, Eadwacer? Our whelp
------------------Wulf shall take to the wood.
What was never bound is broken easily,
our song together: Anonymous, 10th century

How to read a poem ...

I've begun Molly Peacock's How to Read a Poem ... and fine it quite excellent. More lyrical, slightly more simplistic, it does speak to the heart of the poem. Tremendous medieval poem, "Wulf and Eadwacer" discovered in this volume. More on this later.

The gate opens ...

Saturday morning heavily overcast, walking to the lecture series to do the box office suddenly all the morning glories everywhere were full open. And the gate opened and the poems came - one of those complete awareness moments, lasting for 5 of so minutes, reminiscent for me of a time out on a boat in San Francisco Bay where everything seemed to come together as one, the weft of the fabric readily apparent.

How's that for blessed?

Morning med ...

Needing to be taken care of, needing to take care of someone. A nice match. A good meditation.

We are lucky ... all of us.

Rain day ...

Rain pretty much all day, uncharacteristically I walked because of the new post office hours. Finished up the Kenneth Koch book, Make Your Own Days. On to a book on poetry by Mary Peacock. Meantime, reading a collection of Dickinson entitled Poems for Youth. Here's a gem from there.

To make a prairie it takes a clover and one bee, -
And revery.
The revery alone will do
if bees are few.

Morning clouds ...

Leaving the house this morning, two-thirds of the sky was blue and a third cloudy from an oncoming front. It was first light and the clouds were lit lightly from beneath, dark on the far side. They had an "italianate" feel, mauve and roseate, but ever so briefly. As quickly as the sun came up the colors and feel were gone and a third of the sky was again the coming front.

Some morning glory haikus did evince themselves ...

And this morning, from Dickinson, a poem for possible use in the CMU lifelong learning class

Hope is a thing with feathers
That perches in the soul,
And sings the tune without the words,
And never stops at all,

And sweetest in the gale is heard;
And sore must be the storm
That could abash the little bird
That kept so many warm.

I've heard it in the chillest land,
And on the strangest sea;
Yet, never, in extremity,
It asked a crumb of me.

Williams & Pound

From the anthology section of the Koch book, in WCW's poem Della Primavera Trasportata al Morale


---she
opened the door! nearly
six feet tall, and I ...
wanted to found a new country---



And Pound's entire Pound Alba

As cool as the pale wet leaves
of lily-of-the-valley
She lay beside me in the dawn.

The second line should indent but doesn't with this program ....

Gold finch ...

During this morning's walk, I happened to look up and see pale golden autumn morning light on the underside of a banking finch. A moment. All too much to fit into a haiku .... .

More Sonny Sharrock this morning, this time Seize the Rainbow. Full band, rock-fusion overtones, excellent drumming. Top notch work.

Rilke - The First Elegy

From Rilke's "First Elegy", part of Duino Elegies. In Kenneth Koch's book on poetry with accompanying anthology entitled Making Your Own Days.

"Ah, whom can we ever turn to
in our need? Not Angels, not humans,
and already the knowing animals are aware
that we are not really at home in
our interpreted world."


Knowing, indeed.

Walking cd's

Yesterday's walking cds were Sonny Sharrock's Faith Moves and Dylan's Oh Mercy. Sharrock's themes are grand, epical as with Hendrix's extended pieces such as 1983 ... . Oh Mercy was a focal point of Dylan's excellent Chronicles Vol. 1, which I read last winter. Though not a great walking cd, "What Good Am I" stands out as representative of the period. Some interesting work.

Issa's cherry blossoms

"Beneath cherry blossoms, there are no utter strangers." Issa's words and they are as good a way to start as finish. Books, poetry and life ... a sort of commonplace book will be what happens here, though perhaps not.

Yesterday, during a hike through Beechwood Farms, Laurie and I encountered some deer, a bluejay and some wild turkeys. Quite unusual since all the times we've been there before we've heard a few birds but little else. Laurie spotted the deer off the path and we stopped. They watched us and we watched them and neither of us was frightened away. Quite unusual and wonderful. The wild turkeys were skittish, backing slowly away. One presented its full wing span and we moved on and let them be. The bluejay was rather large and defiant, flying down from a tree and standing in the middle of the path daring us to go on. A snapped twig chased it off but for a few moments it seemed to be a showdown with some other possible results.

Currently reading the poetry of Jack Gilbert and a book on poetry by Kenneth Koch.