I've Been "Meme'd"

Sam Rasnake asks me to list:

"My ten favorite films... about as close to an order as I can get them today."

1. Casablanca (1942)
2. Shichinin no samurai (1954)
3. Apocalypse Now (1979)
4. To Kill a Mockingbird (1962)
5. The Maltese Falcon (1941)
6. Nuovo cinema Paradiso (1988)
7. Ladri di biciclette (1948)
8. 8½ (1963)
9. Nosferatu, eine Symphonie des Grauens (1922)
10. A Streetcar Named Desire (1951)

Honorable Mention - or Movies That I'd Pick on Another Day

1. Rear Window (1954)
2. Cidade de Deus (2002)
3. Dr. Strangelove or: How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love the Bomb (1964)
4. North by Northwest (1959)
5. Sunset Blvd. (1950)
6. The Third Man (1949)
7. Untergang, Der (2004)
8. A Clockwork Orange (1971)
9. Sjunde inseglet, Det (1957)
10. Duck Soup (1933)
11. Dog Day Afternoon (1975)
12. The Day the Earth Stood Still (1951)
13. In the Heat of the Night (1967)
14. Rosemary's Baby (1968)
15. Buono, il brutto, il cattivo, Il (1966)
16. Arsenic and Old Lace (1944)
17. Kumonosu jô (1957)
18. Doctor Zhivago (1965)
19. Brazil (1985)
20. Inherit the Wind (1960)

Something Devoutly to be Wished

CLOSURE

Atrium voices bleed over threshold,
enter salon 6, linger with the wreaths
of dead husks of color that nod to eye,
their vivid dirge resonating - beneath
the canopy, he lies sheathed in vestment.

The conversation filters in like jabberwocky
lies, lacks girth or conviction: incantations
muttered to ward off the lack thereof.
Three deaths in three days: three rooms full
of the necessity of natural progression.

We are trespassers in this house with death's
hands pounding the walls into acoustic purity
so that all is heard - no word escaping
the debate - a silent and futile discourse.


------------------------------------------------
Originally published in March, 2003 - Poetry Super Highway

Accessibility and "Real Sofistikashun"

Excerpts from Real Sofistikashun - by Tony Hoagland - Graywolf Press - 2006

Self-Consciousness

• The gradual intrusion of self-consciousness is one inevitable side effect of an education in art. To read ten poems, or a hundred, is one thing. To read ten thousand is another. As we internalize more of the tradition and become progressively less shielded by our ignorance, we realize how local our upbringing has been, how much there might be to know, and perhaps even, sigh, how limited our talent.
• When a person takes the step toward learning more of craft and its history, more of artifice—when, for example, a person crosses the threshold of an MFA program—she chooses to end a childhood in artlessness. She gives up some of their innocent infatuation, the naïveté, the adolescent grandiosity, maybe even some of the natural grace of the beginner.
• This initiation into knowledge will infect the learner with the virus of self-consciousness. As a consequence of learning of the existence of the poems of W.H. Auden, or Marianne Moore, or Louise Glück, your writing may suddenly seem horribly simplistic, crude as crayon drawings on Masonite. Now the poem, even as your are making it, seems stiff, clumsy, and obvious. Now your work may become, in compensation, coy and encoded. ...Yet that very knowledge, which can inhibit and choke, can also inspire and challenge. Self-consciousness is the necessary border crossing of craft, skill, and even of poetic ambition.
• Self-consciousness in writing, as it does in life, opens up a kind of delay between impulse and action, between thought and word. That pause—as these examples show—offers the opportunity for calculated intensifications and angularities that would never occur in “natural,” uninformed speech.
• Self-consciousness in art is a little like the use of radiation in laboratory experiments; while it can produce truly valuable genetic variants, it can just as easily lead to frightening mutations. Getting the dosage right is tricky. Holding a microscope up to language, to meaning itself, there is the danger of falling through, down into the infinite space between words.
• Self-consciousness often provokes an overexertion of cleverness. But intelligence, when used well in a poem, never makes the reader feel less smart than the writer, or left behind. Rather, it gives the reader the exhilarating pleasure of being smart in concert with the speaker.
• The goal of the healthy artist is not to be crippled by the weight of literacy, not intimidated into a kind of aesthetic conservatism, not to be engorged with fancy self-protective mannerisms, but to be selectively informed and empowered by knowledge. This development of sensibility could be called the acquisition and use of taste.
• To learn what a poet needs to know is to become an initiate; that initiation imposes burdens as well as powers. We have the obligation to make real poems, to contribute to the living, evolving heritage of poetry. To make that contribution requires not just skill and desire, but a kind of discriminating insight into the deep structures of poetry. This resourcefulness surely must spring from the union of learning and bold inventiveness.

Vincenzo Bruno (1926-2007)

Farewell
Emily Dickinson

Tie the Strings to my Life, My Lord,
Then I am ready to go!
Just a look at the Horses --
Rapid! That will do!

Put me in on the firmest side --
So I shall never fall --
For we must ride to the Judgment --
And it's partly down Hill --

But never I mind the steepest --
And never I mind the Sea --
Held fast in Everlasting Race --
By my own Choice and Thee --

Goodbye to the Life I used to live --
And the World I used to know --
And kiss the Hills for me, just once --
Then - I am ready to go!


.

What's Up?

Mary Biddinger has a debut book of poetry out with a stunning cover. It's published by Steel Toe Books . Check it out.

Waiting

John Everett Millais

(June 8, 1829 – August 13, 1896)

"Waiting"

1854. Oil on canvas.

City of Birmingham Museum and Art Gallery,

Birmingham, UK.

Not Another Anti - "Narrative Arc" Rant

Lately there has been talk of the "narrative arc" of chapbooks & poetry collections. Some eschew this tendency on the part of other poets while others laud the benefits of the poems in a manuscript to "hold together". I'm not sure that any poem written by the same author can be anything but a part of a "narrative arc". After all whatever one writes is but a facet of the mindset of that author. If we "see things as we are" can anything that is produced by our cognitive mindset be that different from whatever else we wrote say in the last few years that it took for us to put a MS together (barring some life-changing occurrence)?

Yes cognitive mindsets do evolve and change as life's experiences change, but certain socio-cultural variables (which inevitably define us) will always be constant in our lives. These variables are unique in each and every person. That is why one voice can never fully echo another. This is also why I must reluctantly side with the school of thought that thinks that deliberately manipulating a manuscript to more closely appear that it follows a "narrative arc" is redundant. There already is a "narrative arc" in place and that is the narrative of the poet's existence that is transmitted to us via the objectification of their poems.

Robert Hass

Heroic Simile


When the swordsman fell in Kurosawa's Seven Samurai
in the gray rain,
in Cinemascope and the Tokugawa dynasty,
he fell straight as a pine, he fell
as Ajax fell in Homer
in chanted dactyls and the tree was so huge
the woodsman returned for two days
to that lucky place before he was done with the sawing
and on the third day he brought his uncle.

They stacked logs in the resinous air,
hacking the small limbs off,
tying those bundles separately.
The slabs near the root
were quartered and still they were awkwardly large;
the logs from midtree they halved:
ten bundles and four great piles of fragrant wood,
moons and quarter moons and half moons
ridged by the saw's tooth.

The woodsman and the old man his uncle
are standing in midforest
on a floor of pine silt and spring mud.
They have stopped working
because they are tired and because
I have imagined no pack animal
or primitive wagon. They are too canny
to call in neighbors and come home
with a few logs after three days' work.
They are waiting for me to do something
or for the overseer of the Great Lord
to come and arrest them.

How patient they are!
The old man smokes a pipe and spits.
The young man is thinking he would be rich
if he were already rich and had a mule.
Ten days of hauling
and on the seventh day they'll probably
be caught, go home empty-handed
or worse. I don't know
whether they're Japanese or Mycenaean
and there's nothing I can do.
The path from here to that village
is not translated. A hero, dying,
gives off stillness to the air.
A man and a woman walk from the movies
to the house in the silence of separate fidelities.
There are limits to imagination.


-----------------------------------------------------
From Praise by Robert Hass, published by the Ecco Press. 1978.
HarperCollins Publishers.

Is There Balm in Gilead?...or Bukowski?

so you want to be a writer?

Charles Bukowski


if it doesn't come bursting out of you
in spite of everything,
don't do it.
unless it comes unasked out of your
heart and your mind and your mouth
and your gut,
don't do it.
if you have to sit for hours
staring at your computer screen
or hunched over your
typewriter
searching for words,
don't do it.
if you're doing it for money or
fame,
don't do it.
if you're doing it because you want
women in your bed,
don't do it.
if you have to sit there and
rewrite it again and again,
don't do it.
if it's hard work just thinking about doing it,
don't do it.
if you're trying to write like somebody
else,
forget about it.

if you have to wait for it to roar out of
you,
then wait patiently.
if it never does roar out of you,
do something else.

if you first have to read it to your wife
or your girlfriend or your boyfriend
or your parents or to anybody at all,
you're not ready.

don't be like so many writers,
don't be like so many thousands of
people who call themselves writers,
don't be dull and boring and
pretentious, don't be consumed with self-
love.
the libraries of the world have
yawned themselves to
sleep
over your kind.
don't add to that.
don't do it.
unless it comes out of
your soul like a rocket,
unless being still would
drive you to madness or
suicide or murder,
don't do it.
unless the sun inside you is
burning your gut,
don't do it.

when it is truly time,
and if you have been chosen,
it will do it by
itself and it will keep on doing it
until you die or it dies in you.

there is no other way.

and there never was.


------------------------------------------------------
From sifting through the madness for the Word, the line, the way by Charles Bukowski. © 2003 - Harper Collins

Burnt Pier - Brighton

On Intent, Occasion & Poetic Handicaps

I haven’t been writing much poetry lately. Yes there have been distractions – plenty of them actually. But that hasn’t stopped me before from waxing poetic or at the very least trying to. At times in the past, I’ve even been a furtive poet - when I couldn’t for the life of me find the time to sit down and write. It’s sort of like having sex with one’s partner when the children are constantly around – you’ve got to be an opportunist if you’re going to get anything done. So what’s different this time?

Well this is one of the first times that I haven’t been involved in a poetry workshop. This activity in and of itself usually was conducive to the conditions that I needed to write poetry. I guess I thrive on the camaraderie and competitiveness that we associate with these venues. Blogging has taken its toll on whatever poetic predisposition that I can muster at any one point in time. You see I suffer from a poetic handicap. I do not work well in a vacuum. I should and I know that many of you seem to flourish on your own, but I don’t.

There’s no one for me to measure myself to. There is no benchmark to reach or supercede. My problem entirely – I know. Which leads me to the following question: Why is it that intent and occasion seem to be negatively correlated? When intent is present – occasion does not present itself; and conversely when you’ve got nothing better to do you couldn’t write a real poem even if your life depended on it.

Tammy Armstrong

Rogersville: Garage Man's Daughter Back From the City

Exhaustion wraps you like brilliant wrenches
in the too orderly garage
where your uncle who'd fallen asleep at the wheel
in the 70's off the old highway
won't work on blue cars
anything resembling sky, sea, bruise.

I waited past midnight on a milk crate
re-reading outdated Popular Mechanics
staving off your apologies
for the carburetor, the dirt road
without street lamps
my marooning
in a darkness
that cramped and hemorrhaged
cast shadows on the shells of cars--
cumbersome, bovine.

Far from the city
with its unending dog mouth hues
I'm still the daughter of garage men
oil and dust muted in my veins
affection for your grease-stamped knuckles
how you angle your arms away
to keep me clean, unoriented--
your hesitation to bring me back
rural, small town cluttered.

On the drive home
two bucks will run across the line
I'll think stallions, a broken fence
my percolating fear:
just brush fire eyes in high beams
all of it fish tailing the ditches:
your hand on my knee
cupping what I'd forgotten to expect:
how foreign we seem
after ten years in the city.


---------------------------------------------------
Excerpt from 'the Dublin Quarterly' : Issue No. 10. Feb. '07-May. '07

Tammy Armstrong's work has appeared in literary journals in Canada, US, UK and Europe. She is the author of Translations: Aistreann (novel), Unravel (poetry) and Bogman's Music (poetry), which was nominated for a Governor General's Award.

John William Waterhouse - (1849-1917)

Miranda - The Tempest (1916)
oil on Canvas - Actual Size: 136cm x 96cm

The Lady of Shalott - Looking at Lancelot (1894)
oil on canvass - actual size: 86cm x 142cm

She left the web, she left the loom,

She made three paces thro' the room,
She saw the water-lily bloom,

She saw the helmet and the plume,
She look'd down to Camelot.

Out flew the web and floated wide;

The mirror crack'd from side to side;
"The curse is come upon me," cried

The Lady of Shalott.

excerpt from: The Lady of Shalott (1842) - Alfred Lord Tennyson

Call For Submissions - NōD Magazine

Hello all,

This is the official call for submissions for Issue 6 of the magazine. This issue will be our second non-English language issue. We are seeking work in any other language but English, even if those languages are "fictional" or respond to language in an innovative way. Please send a maximum of 8 pages of work; screenplay and prose writers, we will consider work up to 1500 words as a general rule. Having said this, we are flexible, so if you have a special piece that operates outside these strictures, let us know; we'll be glad to take a look at it. Graphic artists, please note that we publish any visual work in black and white on a 5 1/2 x 8 1/2 page. When submitting work, please include a short bio introducing yourself and/or your work and an English language translation with any written work: we will not publish anything that has not been translated. Anyone whose work is accepted for publication in NōD will receive a free copy of the issue they are published in. Our commitment to publishing beginning artists alongside veteran practitioners has thus far resulted in an excellent publication.

Finally, because we are a small magazine, we would be delighted if all of you forwarded this announcement to anyone you know who might be interested in submitting work to us or who might just want to know more about what we do. If you have any questions or comments, We'd love to hear them and answer them if we can. We can always be contacted at nodmagazine@gmail.com

Thanks
Jane Thompson
assistant editor, NōD


Addendum:

In our previous email we forgot to include that the deadline for submissions to the non-English language issue of NōD is February 28th, 2007.

Thanks,
Felicia Pacentrilli
NoD Editor

Poems in Vitro - Vol. 2, No. 3

En Passant


I

It drifts limply, being pulled
into the eddies of the filtered pump.
Suddenly twitching into life,
its caudal tail steers the goldfish
from the filter’s vortex,
only to resume its dormant state.

The other fish stop by to nudge
its shimmering body with their snouts,
taking nibbles out of its dorsal fin.
Part of its left eye has been scooped out:
the result of a late night cannibalistic raid.

Still it hangs immobile, its body folded
onto itself – the gills slow to react.
The remaining eye bulging out,
lidless against its own expiration.



II

Her mind floats between dilated pupils
and aqueous humor. Sputum drops
from her chin: a web-like filament,
untended and unheeded by those eyes.

She is strapped down into a mobile chair.
Her hands unable to ferry her across
the room; the hem of her nightdress lifted,
stuck between the grip of thumb and index.

Still, they come to poke her with their thoughts
and their fingers; testing the flaccidity of flesh;
gauging bone loss; weighing her longevity.

Louise Glück

The Red Poppy


The great thing
is not having
a mind. Feelings:
oh, I have those; they
govern me. I have
a lord in heaven
called the sun, and open
for him, showing him
the fire of my own heart, fire
like his presence.
What could such glory be
if not a heart? Oh my brothers and sisters,
were you like me once, long ago,
before you were human? Did you
permit yourselves
to open once, who would never
open again? Because in truth
I am speaking now
the way you do. I speak
because I am shattered.


-----------------------------------------
From The Wild Iris, published by The Ecco Press, 1992.

Some of the White Stuff

Daily Dose of Imagery

Edward Byrne's Blog

The highly respected editor of Valparaiso Poetry Review has started up an editor's blog to complement the semi-annual publication of VPR. "The editor's blog has just begun and will contain ongoing personal commentary about notable recent books of poetry. Since VPR receives many more review copies of new books than can possibly be examined within the journal, the complementary blog is intended to allow for ongoing further discussion and promotion of recommended books. I invite you to check out this new venue." It's located at: One Poet's Notes : Recommended Readings of Recent Contemporary Poetry. So far he's reviewed: Lynda Hull’s - Collected Poems, Brian Turner’s - Here, Bullet, Rebecca Dunham’s -The Miniature Room , & Dave Smith's - Little Boats, Unsalvaged.

Don't forget to visit VALPARAISO POETRY REVIEW . I have a poem in the current issue along with literati such as: Mark Conway, Frannie Lindsay, Jared Carter, Beth Simon, Jeff Knorr, Sarah Brownsberger , E.G. Burrows, Helen Ruggieri, Richard O'Connell, Heidi Czerwiec, Thomas Reynolds, Elizabeth Kirschner, Jason Huskey, Jeanine DeRusha, Nick Bruno , Carol Hamilton, Scott Welvaert, Jordan Sanderson, Rane Arroyo, Taylor Graham, J.D. Schraffenberger, Lynn Strongin. There's an interesting review by Ed. Byrne on CLAUDIA EMERSON’S third collection: "LATE WIFE ".

View From the Vatican

daily dose of imagery

Robert Lowell

Sailing Home from Rapallo

[February 1954]

Your nurse could only speak Italian,
but after twenty minutes I could imagine your final week,
and tears ran down my cheeks....

When I embarked from Italy with my Mother’s body,
the whole shoreline of the Golfo di Genova
was breaking into fiery flower.
The crazy yellow and azure sea-sleds
blasting like jack-hammers across
the spumante-bubbling wake of our liner,
recalled the clashing colors of my Ford.
Mother traveled first-class in the hold;
her Risorgimento black and gold casket
was like Napoleon’s at the Invalides....

While the passengers were tanning
on the Mediterranean in deck-chairs,
our family cemetery in Dunbarton
lay under the White Mountains
in the sub-zero weather.
The graveyard’s soil was changing to stone—
so many of its deaths had been midwinter.
Dour and dark against the blinding snowdrifts,
its black brook and fir trunks were as smooth as masts.
A fence of iron spear-hafts
black-bordered its mostly Colonial grave-slates.
The only “unhistoric” soul to come here
was Father, now buried beneath his recent
unweathered pink-veined slice of marble.
Even the Latin of his Lowell motto:
Occasionem cognosce,
seemed too businesslike and pushing here,
where the burning cold illuminated
the hewn inscriptions of Mother’s relatives:
twenty or thirty Winslows and Starks.
Frost had given their names a diamond edge....

In the grandiloquent lettering on Mother’s coffin,
Lowell had been misspelled LOVEL.
The corpse
was wrapped like panettone in Italian tinfoil.



----------------------------------------------
Robert Lowell, “Sailing Home from Rapallo” from Selected Poems. 1976 by Robert Lowell. Farrar, Straus & Giroux, LLC, www.fsgbooks.com.