1 | "Ensconced in tangles" [ballade]

By now I know the newsprint
with its inkled smudges
I know night's darkled starglint
and Sunday's drugstore fudges
how the critique curmudges
peering through theory's hole
one thing still never budges
I do not know my soul

I know they claim by sheer dint
of love and will one trudges
through timely victory's end-sprint
with spacious winks and nudges
in briny waves one plunges
compelled by adventure's role
one mountain never budges
I do not know my soul

I know the Mojito's fresh mint
how snowwhite ends in sludges
I've spied the friendy-faced saint
confronted frightening cudgels
cut milk teeth in urban jungles
madly grasped at riverine shoals
tiptoed through classy bungles
alas   I don't know my soul

William I've heard of angels
floridly lauding source and goal
still I'm ensconced in tangles
candidly knowing not my soul



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This is my first attempt at, essaying of, and enjoyment of writing in the ballade form. As may be easily recognized, it's based on the earlier-discussed ballade of Villon's and tips its hat to Merwin's superb poem as well. I note that Villon addresses the Prince in his Envoy. I don't know what prince that might be. Mine anyway is addressed to W.S.

Happy birthday.



I've stumbled on a likeable interview with WSM here (from April 2004, conducted as "an informal colloquium" at Stanford -- courtesy of Peter Y. Chou).

p.s.: now (after having written the above), I've managed to wrest from google another, rhymed translation of Villon's antecedent poem (translator not indicated, but first published in 1906). If the English rhyming properly follows the original, this suggests my analysis of the ballade rhyme-scheme may have been too simplistic. Ah, but G.K. Chesterton's ballade (offered as exemplary of the form in the Wikipedia) appears to confirm I have the pattern aright (even if [separate topic] I play slow yet a tad loose with some rhyme vowels toward poem's end).

W.S. Merwin's Search Party [Merwin's ballade]

Search Party

By now I know most of the faces
that will appear beside me as
long as there are still images
I know at last what I would choose
the next time if there ever was
a time again I know the days
that open in the dark like this
I do not know where Maoli is

I know the summer surfaces
of bodies and the tips of voices
like stars out of their distances
and where the music turns to noise
I know the bargains in the news
rules whole languages formulas
wisdom that I will never use
I do not know where Maoli is

I know whatever one may lose
somebody will be there who says
what it will be all right to miss
and what is verging on excess
I know the shadows of the house
routes that lead out to no traces
many of his empty places
I do not know where Maoli is

You that see now with your own eyes
all that there is as you suppose
though I could stare through broken glass
and show you where the morning goes
though I could follow to their close
the sparks of an exploding species
and see where the world ends in ice
I would not know where Maoli is

  — W. S. Merwin



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Tomorrow is the poet's birthday. I begin the blogo-celebration with this particularly beloved poem. Regarding the poem, one blogger amusingly remarks,

Maybe I’m a sentimental fool, but after he read “Search Party,” a poem about the disappearance and reappearance of his dog, I found myself trying to pretend that the tears in my eyes were from allergies.

Merwin's poem is interestingly modelled on a ballade of François Villon's. The latter finds this English version thanks to Galway Kinnell:

I know flies in milk
I know the man by his clothes
I know fair weather from foul
I know the apple by the tree
I know the tree when I see the sap
I know when all is one
I know who labors and who loafs
I know everything but myself.

I know the coat by the collar
I know the monk by the cowl
I know the master by the servant
I know the nun by the veil
I know when a hustler rattles on
I know fools raised on whipped cream
I know the wine by the barrel
I know everything but myself.

I know the horse and the mule
I know their loads and their limits
I know Beatrice and Belle
I know the beads that count and add
I know nightmare and sleep
I know the Bohemians' error
I know the power of Rome
I know everything but myself.

Prince I know all things
I know the rosy-cheeked and the pale
I know death who devours all
I know everything but myself.

Trans. by Galway Kinnell
François Villon

It is said that among English poets, Algernon Charles Swinburne (1837-1909) was one who followed the French model in such old forms as the villanelle and the ballade. The villanelle subsequently caught on in English (on & off & on, but it's certainly practiced these days), whereas very few poets in English (so far as I've noted) have opted to practice the ballade. I'd like to see what Swinburne did. A poem like this of Villon's is formidable. I'm somewhat hankering to learn the form myself (including the rhyme structure found in the French -- not evident in Galway's translation). (But perhaps I was thinking of the sestina and the ballade? Well, the point stands: sestinas are essayed in English; ballades, it seems, are not. Which naturally lends the form further interest.)

Ah, well here is Swinburne's translation of one Villon ballade -- a more verbose form of it (with 10-line rather than 8-line stanzas). I'm more interested in the 8-line form.

Ah well, here is a(n 8-lines-per-stanza) ballade of Villon's in the original -- which may suffice to instruct in the proper form. "But where are the snows of yesteryear?" asks the refrain. Ah but I barely can make my way through the presumed sound of the French (leave aside the question of meaning) -- so parsing the rhyme structure is a bit harder than I'd thought. Here's a try.

Dictes moy ou, n'en quel pays, [A]
Est Flora la belle Rommaine, [B]
Archipiades ne Thaïs, [A]
Qui fut sa cousine germaine, [B]
Echo parlant quant bruyt on maine [B]
Dessus riviere ou sus estan, [C]
Qui beaulté ot trop plus q'humaine. [B]
Mais ou sont les neiges d'antan? [C]

Ou est la tres sage Helloïs, [A]
Pour qui chastré fut et puis moyne [B]
Pierre Esbaillart a Saint Denis? [A]
Pour son amour ot ceste essoyne. [B]
Semblablement, ou est la royne [B]
Qui commanda que Buridan [C]
Fust geté en ung sac en Saine? [B]
Mais ou sont les neiges d'antan? [C]

La royne Blanche comme lis [A]
Qui chantoit a voix de seraine, [B]
Berte au grand pié, Beatris, Alis, [A]
Haremburgis qui tint le Maine, [B]
Et Jehanne la bonne Lorraine [B]
Qu'Englois brulerent a Rouan; [C]
Ou sont ilz, ou, Vierge souvraine? [B]
Mais ou sont les neiges d'antan? [C]

Prince, n'enquerez de sepmaine [B]
Ou elles sont, ne de cest an, [C]
Qu'a ce reffrain ne vous remaine: [B]
Mais ou sont les neiges d'antan? [C]

Ah, so it seems to be:
ABAB BCBC
ABAB BCBC
ABAB BCBC
BCBC
good!

The hint of rhyming in Merwin's poem is subtle, but it appears to follow the same pattern. He opts for 4 stanzas of 8 lines (rather than the truncated "envoy" of the conventional ballade). But it's interesting to note the light rhyming, thus:

By now I know most of the faces [A]
that will appear beside me as [B]
long as there are still images [A]
I know at last what I would choose [B]
the next time if there ever was [B]
a time again I know the days [C]
that open in the dark like this [B]
I do not know where Maoli is [C]

(though what I'm presuming to call A, B and C rhymes are so similar, we really end with a couplet).

I know the summer surfaces [A]
of bodies and the tips of voices [B]
like stars out of their distances [A]
and where the music turns to noise [B]
I know the bargains in the news [B]
rules whole languages formulas [A]
wisdom that I will never use [B]
I do not know where Maoli is [A]

Again, this is not precise. Now he varies the pattern a bit --

I know whatever one may lose [B]
somebody will be there who says [A]
what it will be all right to miss [B]
and what is verging on excess [A]
I know the shadows of the house [A]
routes that lead out to no traces [B]
many of his empty places [B]
I do not know where Maoli is [A]

You that see now with your own eyes [A]
all that there is as you suppose [B]
though I could stare through broken glass [A]
and show you where the morning goes [B]
though I could follow to their close [B]
the sparks of an exploding species [A]
and see where the world ends in ice [A]
I would not know where Maoli is [A]

(at least approximately!)

See also my recent, earlier rumination on Merwin.

33 | "American shame" [pantoum]

This is a day and time of American shame
the monster we decry we must not mimic
when fast and loose you play in such a game
the gun of fear is no mere nasty gimmick

the monster we decry we must not mimic
this is a basic principle for the civilized
the gun of fear is no mere nasty gimmick
who'd dream the Magna Carta would be trivialized?

this is a basic principle for the civilized
brutality contradicts our human aim
who'd dream the Magna Carta would be trivialized?
this is a day and time of American shame



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Responsive to the headline "Senate Passes Detainee Bill Sought by President Bush" (in the New York Times online)

By KATE ZERNIKE 31 minutes ago
The bill, approved 65 to 34, establishes far-reaching new rules on the treatment of terrorism suspects and is expected to go to the president by week’s end.

Senator Barack Obama (Democrat of Illinois) expressed the central issue succinctly, when he said, "I think most Americans would agree that if somebody is held they should at least be able to respond to the charges. The fact we don’t have that is something that, over time, Americans are going to be embarrassed about."

Cross-posted to DesiCritics.

This is no. 33 in a sequence, Early Autumn Pantoums

32 | "About words" [pantoum]

No more poems about words!
no more lines about lines!
birds can sing about birds
poems sing about minds
no more lines about lines!
draw a box around that
poems sing about minds
using minds to ground that

draw a box around that
place it on a table
using minds to ground that
make the substance stable
place it on a table
microscope its matter
make the substance stable
store it on a platter

microscope its matter
where is mind in utterance?
store it on a platter
bring the bread its butterance
where is mind in utterance?
must it always shout words?
bring the bread its butterance
no more poems about words!



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This is no. 32 in a sequence, Early Autumn Pantoums

31 | "Buzz-tools" [pantoum]

If in words we must speak
these symbols that sound
if thoughts we must seek
as we curl on the ground
these symbols that sound
buzz-tools with soft edges
as we curl on the ground
by meaningful hedges

buzz-tools with soft edges
in tones grown congenial
by meaningful hedges
or meaningless finial
in tones grown congenial
or stifling for sameness
or meaningless finial
or popular lameness

or stifling for sameness
or peppered with feints
or popular lameness
or out-of-style ain'ts
or peppered with feints
shall we salt it with Greek
or out-of-style ain'ts
if in words we must speak?



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This is no. 31 in a sequence, Early Autumn Pantoums

30 | "The sonata as a boat" [pantoum]

This would be a good day to go sailing
this would be a fine time to tune fiddles
there's little wind   I wouldn't call it galing
there's questions   in the form of cozy riddles
this would be a fine time to tune fiddles
if only one were schooled in how to play
there's questions   in the form of cozy riddles
they need small answers or petite dismay

if only one were schooled in how to play
concertos and sonatas would be beckoning
they need small answers or petite dismay
a smile or yawn   a sense of idle reckoning
concertos and sonatas would be beckoning
the audience all hushed up in the rafters
a smile or yawn   a sense of idle reckoning
at every phrase   a promise of hereafters

the audience all hushed up in the rafters
the sonata as a boat amid its blueness
at every phrase   a promise of hereafters
the schertzo fills with tales of olden newness
the sonata as a boat amid its blueness
mightn't the painting finally find unveiling?
the schertzo fills with tales of olden newness
this would be a good day to go sailing



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This poem's first line is borrowed the following passage of Ann Lauterbach's poem "Tangled Reliquary":

This would be a good day to go sailing
Or to wash the car, but I have
Neither boat nor car. There's a plotless web
In the air like a banner pulling us along
Into something to look back on. . . .

from Clamor (1991)

This is no. 30 in a sequence, Early Autumn Pantoums

29 | "The source is underwater" [pantoum]

We are what seas have made us
longingly immense
if trees may come to shade us
it seems a sweet defense
longingly immense
dimension proves pelagic
it seems a sweet defense
though oceans can be tragic

dimension proves pelagic
existence acts oneiric
though oceans can be tragic
I'm not a fusty cleric
existence acts oneiric
the source is underwater
I'm not a fusty cleric
I'd wed the merman's daughter

the source is underwater
yet on the land we live
I'd wed the merman's daughter
but have no shells to give
yet on the land we live
the roadways now parade us
but have no shells to give
we are what seas have made us



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This poem's first two lines are borrowed from a poem by Lorraine Nedecker (the words appearing as three lines in her short poem). The source poem (as net-published) is evidently drawn from Lorine Niedecker: Collected Works (2002).

This is no. 29 in a sequence, Early Autumn Pantoums

28 | "Death and birth" [pantoum]

The lessons of reincarnation are virtually infinite
it seems at once astonishing and alarming
the meanings one may deduce are far from definite
the myriad things endure elaborate harming
it seems at once astonishing and alarming
it's so difficult to grow used to death and birth!
the myriad things endure elaborate harming
as we're winnowing good from bad or bad from worse

it's so difficult to grow used to death and birth!
and the merry-go-round's revolution is compulsory
as we're winnowing good from bad or bad from worse
the grain remains particulate and elementary
and the merry-go-round's revolution is compulsory
some grouse   while others enjoy the spirit of the thing
the grain remains particulate and elementary
if delusion rules   confusion reigns as king

some grouse   while others enjoy the spirit of the thing
but the whole production is steeped in basic mercy
if delusion rules   confusion reigns as king
on your radio now   they're exploring the controversy
but the whole production is steeped in basic mercy
will you fetch an unguent from the meditation cabinet?
on your radio now   they're exploring the controversy
the lessons of reincarnation are virtually infinite



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This is no. 28 in a sequence, Early Autumn Pantoums

27 | "Ceremonious" [pantoum]

Departures are so ceremonious
antiquity brims to the skin
the single note isn't melodious
till change lets the sequence begin
antiquity brims to the skin
in jewels and fretwork and chintz
till change lets the sequence begin
with jaspers and poplars and flints

in jewels and fretwork and chintz
the qualities of beings are featured
with jaspers and poplars and flints
till soon all the meadows are creatured
the qualities of beings are featured
the movie is shown through your eyes
till soon all the meadows are creatured
and birds make their homes in the skies

the movie is shown through your eyes
its start although lost to the world
and birds make their homes in the skies
fish spring in the waves freshly curled
its start although lost to the world
its mid becomes vast and commodious
fish spring in the waves freshly curled
departures are so ceremonious



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This is no. 27 in a sequence, Early Autumn Pantoums

26 | "In the shade of the shawl" [pantoum]

The flower is closing its petals
the urge to engage is withdrawn
Milarepa subsisted on nettles
meditating from dusk until dawn
the urge to engage is withdrawn
the move toward the outward gets closed
meditating from dusk until dawn
and dawn until dusk one supposed

the move toward the outward gets closed
it's seasonal one might presume
and from dawn until dusk one supposed
all the world were as still as a tomb
it's seasonal one might presume
the feeling of inward withdrawal
all the world were as still as a tomb
as one hid in the shade of the shawl

the feeling of inward withdrawal
preparing for futures perhaps
as one hid in the shade of the shawl
with the trumpeter sounding forth taps
preparing for futures perhaps
a blackness sans pots and no kettles
with the trumpeter sounding forth taps
The flower is closing its petals



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This is no. 26 in a sequence, Early Autumn Pantoums

"Of the morning sun" [rubai / occasional poem]

Of the happiness of the morning sun   at September's end
with sufficient words from antiquity   having not been penned
where the taxicab moves along the street   on my way to meet
Vasudev   I jot celebration's thought   as I southward wend



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Penned in cab en route, and recited to bloggers Vasudev Murthy and Phantasmagoria in post-Metro car yesterday, in transit to our cafe poetry-meeting near Vienna, Virginia.

I'm particularly pleased with the slightly complex grammar of the quatrain. Indeed, it makes me wish to try for more such dependent=clause-rife verses on this model.

The Goodnight Show with Luc reading a Pantoum of mine

powered by ODEO

Click above and enjoy; or you can see (and hear, and/or download for your ambulatory convenience) here: Episode 15 of The Countdown
[from MiPO's Cafe' Cafe' Poetry Community]

poetry podcast runtime: 32 minutes 51 seconds

Poems Featured In This Episode:

1.   (02:14)   Allen Ginsberg, "A Supermarket in California" [Berkeley 1955]

2.   (07:38)   Christine Klocek-Lim, "Tonight I Walked Into the Sunset" (November Sky Poetry)

3.   (09:38)   Erica W. Adams, "panegyrize" (42 Opus)

4.   (11:17)   Simeon Berry, "Chemotherapy Omnibus" (Riley Dog)

5.   (15:48)   David Raphael Israel, "One Side of the Heart" (Kirwani)

6.   (18:28)   Jill Chan, "The Eye" (Navel Orange)

7.   (19:52)   Laurel K. Dodge, "The Bough Has Broken" (Do it again; this time with feeling)

8.   (22:06)   Amy King, "Causes for Celebration" (amy king.org)

9.   (25:54)   Alison Stine, "After Meat" (No Tell Motel)

10.   (28:12)   Mark Young, untitled ("so maybe there") (gamma ways)


For the past couple months, I've been contributing now and again to the group poetry blog Cafe' Cafe', hosted by Didi Menendez, and taking note of the rather prodigious productive activity of Didi -- involved as she is in blogo-publishing, running a net-based poetry magazine, physical publishing (including a new chapbook series, OCHO -- a recent issue of which includes a sonnet of mine), plus notable poetry podcast projects. The latter has been particularly notable on Cafe' Cafe' since a few weeks ago -- in the sense that when you access that blog, the embedded radio player automatically starts blaring at you (visitors, consider yourselves warned. A hit of the PAUSE control-button on the radio interface at right, suffices to shut down the gratis -- though sometimes likable -- randomly-selected broadcast.)

Readers of my blog may have noted recent, prolific engagement with the pantoum form. (I've blogged some 26 poems in this form in the past 8 days. Tentatively, I've in mind to complete a sequence of 50 of these short formal poems. I've developed the pantoum into a particular version of the form, it may be noted -- mostly with 3 8-line stanzas, though the first was five 8-line stanzas. More typically, pantoums appear in an indeterminate number of quatrains -- though always ultimatly circular.)

Unexpectedly, last Friday, Didi posted a comment on one such blogged pantoum, the 5th in the series -- a poem which begins and ends with the line One side of the heart is dark (a line I've borrowed from -- and with hat-tips to -- W.S. Merwin). She remarked the plan afoot to include this poem in The Goodnight Show [same caveat for that link: watch for the random-broadcast thing]. Pleased and curious, I waited to see how this should reel out.

Meanwhile, the format and process of the said poetry podcast has been evolving. This particular episode (at least) is hosted by none other than Bob Marcacci -- from Beijing! Bob I suspect might not recall that I enjoyed a little bit of email correspondence with him perhaps a year or so ago. I understood (from the Bufallo Poetics list) that he runs an open poetry series at a bookstore in Beijing, and was curious to know about that. My impression is, he somewhat randomly looked at my blog (due to the Cafe'Cafe' connection) -- on a day when, as it happened, this pantoum was the latest blogged.

At any rate, long and short of it is, Luc Simonic has done a credible reading of the pantoum. Bob has prefaced that with observations about the poem and its form that delighted me.

Hearty thanks to Didi, Bob, and Luc for including my work in this pleasant and lively production.

25 | "To continue" [pantoum]

To continue in English   press one
to continue in Spanish   press three
to continue in Sanskrit   press none
to continue in Elvis   Presley
to continue in Spanish   press three
para continuar en español   la prensa tres
to continue in Elvis   Presley
to continue in ichor   press space

para continuar en español   la prensa tres
auf Deutsch fortfahren   Presse fünf
to continue in ichor   press space
to continue in Eros   press rump
auf Deutsch fortfahren   Presse fünf
if you would like to place a call   please hang up
to continue in Eros   press rump
if ya wanna vernacularize   yo slang up

if you would like to place a call   please hang up
if you wish to be silent   why not just try it?
if ya wanna vernacularize   yo slang up
if you seek to be enlightened   please be quiet
if you wish to be silent   why not just try it?
to continue in banter   select fun
if you seek to be enlightened   please be quiet
to continue in English   press one



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This is no. 25 in a sequence, Early Autumn Pantoums

24 | "Counterculture 2.0" [pantoum]

They call it counterculture 2.0
that's what I read in the New York Times online
the internet is where post-hippies go
reportedly flower power's doing fine
that's what I read in the New York Times online
the love-ins have become the logging-ons
reportedly flower power's doing fine
old bygones have not very far by-gone

the love-ins have become the logging-ons
the tangent has been bullseyed to the center
old bygones have not very far by-gone
the rejected stone has become the cornerstone ENTER
the tangent has been bullseyed to the center
the mousie in the housie clacks its CLICK
the rejected stone has become the cornerstone ENTER
but has the cyber-chronometer lost its tick?

the mousie in the housie clacks its CLICK
the blogosphere's a beehive rife with cliques
but has the cyber-chronometer lost its tick?
not yet have I perused online God Speaks
the blogosphere's a beehive rife with cliques
is the info-deluge going with the flow?
not yet have I perused online God Speaks
they call it counterculture 2.0



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Responsive to Edward Rothstein's article in the New York Times (September 25, 2006), reviewing Fred Turner's book From Counterculture to Cyberculture: Stewart Brand, the Whole Earth Network, and the Rise of Digital Utopianism (University of Chicago Press)

Meher Baba's magnum opus, God Speaks: the Theme of Creation and Its Purpose (1955), enjoyed some countercultural currency in the late 1960s (when it was read by figures such as Timothy Leary and Richard Alpert, among others). The text is not available online (though Meher Baba's other key work, Discourses, is).

This is no. 24 in a sequence, Early Autumn Pantoums

23 | "The leak" [pantoum]

Intelligence agencies note   the war in Iraq
inspires new generations of Islamist terrorists
administration officials play down the shock
Sister Leonella expires pronouncing "forgiveness"
inspires new generations of Islamist terrorists
isn't this piddling piffle a piss in the ear?
Sister Leonella expires pronouncing "forgiveness"
Vatican announces   victory of love made clear

isn't this piddling piffle a piss in the ear?
sixteen intelligence agencies' secret is leaked
Vatican announces   victory of love made clear
mouse can't explain why cheese in trap hasn't squeaked
sixteen intelligence agencies' secret is leaked
autumn commences   midterm campaigns heat up
mouse can't explain why cheese in trap hasn't squeaked
providence provides a way for all creatures to sup

autumn commences   midterm campaigns heat up
day in   day out   opinions are traded in snippets
providence provides a way for all creatures to sup
cheese is comprised of proteins dispersed in lipids
day in   day out   opinions are traded in snippets
if facts are a hazard   the leak is stab in the back
cheese is comprised of proteins dispersed in lipids
intelligence agencies note the war in Iraq



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The poem's first stanza is primarily constructed (with a few modifications) from sentences heard in a 5:00 a.m. Monday radio news report (not including line 6).
Sister Leonella was a nun in Mogadishu, Somalia, killed, some allege, by members of an Islamist faction (where media reports quote speculation about a possible connection with irate Moslem responses to recent Papal remarks).

This is no. 23 in a sequence, Early Autumn Pantoums

22 | "Carrying a pigskin" [pantoum]

All the huge forms
near-lethal combat
digging up storms
being-in-a-spat
near-lethal combat
carrying a pigskin
being-in-a-spat
earnest they will win

carrying a pigskin
distance-fastidious
earnest they will win
acting invidious
distance-fastidious
trying to suprise guys
acting invidious
creaming the smallfries

trying to suprise guys
brutally charge through
creaming the smallfries
lucky it's not you
brutally charge through
these are the norms
lucky it's not you
all the huge forms



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A brief sports meditation (occasioned by a friend's email remarking, "...am still in the process of calling you. Got distracted this weekend by a wonderful chicken curry and american football.")

This is no. 22 in a sequence, Early Autumn Pantoums

21 | "Poetry is a Mojito!" [pantoum]

Mince the words with mint
meld with mellow rum
mix in lime for tint
ice-shake like a drum
meld with mellow rum
blend with raw cane sugar
ice-shake like a drum
serve in a servile beaker

blend with raw cane sugar
letting the words grow sweet
serve in a servile beaker
nobody serves them neat!
letting the words grow sweet
poetry is a Mojito!
nobody serves them neat!
never declare finito

poetry is a Mojito!
nothing but this is sure
never declare finito
shouldn't the work endure?
nothing but this is sure
hence the starry glint
shouldn't the work endure?
mince the words with mint



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For Priyanka Joseph -- in recollection of the Rumba Cafe.

The Mojito is a popular coctail originating in Cuba. (Caveat: among ingredients, the poem fails to mention club soda. Some recipes recommend powdered sugar; others call for sugar cane juice.) The Wikipedia notes the Mojito as the drink most favored by Ernest Hemingway.

This is no. 21 in a sequence, Early Autumn Pantoums

20 | "Through the sequence" [pantoum]

All of the poets make their effort
all of the poems sound their say
maybe a sentence kindles comfort
others awaken vague dismay
all of the poems sound their say
threading a string of glassy globes
others awaken vague dismay
maybe recalling vanished hopes

threading a string of glassy globes
  could existence be concised?
maybe recalling vanished hopes
  might emotion be deviced?
  could existence be concised?
through every line on breath unfolding
  might emotion be deviced?
as in the hand an object holding

through every line on breath unfolding
lodged in the line a thought is shown
as in the hand an object holding
throughout the sequence run a tone
lodged in the line a thought is shown
hasn't the heart thus loved and suffered?
throughout the sequences run a tone
all of the poets make their effort



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The cadence in this poem is fairly similar to the cadence found in some forms of the Hindustani genre of verse called doha.

This is no. 20 in a sequence, Early Autumn Pantoums

19 | "On this ground" [pantoum]

Bend back the bow in dreams as we may
till the end rimes in the taut string
sending the note without the delay
when the friend finds an awakening
till the end rimes in the taut string
the lyre of Orpheus sings pain
when the friend finds an awakening
the flower of knowledge is pure flame

the lyre of Orpheus sings pain
as the raag moves through the notebend
the flower of knowledge is pure flame
where the mode pulls in the moodblend
as the raag moves through the notebend
like Todi whose dignity moves us
where the mode pulls in the moodblend
the way raag Darbari behooves us

like Todi whose dignity moves us
the mornings are open in this sound
the way raag Darbari behooves us
the nights are complicit on this ground
the mornings are open in this sound
pulling the string with formal display
the nights are complicit on this ground
bend back the bow in dreams as we may



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Pantoum borrowing two lines from a poem by Robert Duncan -- the title poem of his Bending the Bow (1968)

As nicely noted in the Wikipedia,

Orpheus was considered one of the chief poets and musicians of antiquity, and the inventor or perfector of the lyre. By dint of his music and singing, he could charm the wild beasts, coax the trees and rocks into dance, even arrest the course of rivers.

Todi is a morning raaga, and Darbari a late-night raaga, in Hindustani classical music. The latter (more properly, Darbari Kanada) is attributed to Tansen (1506–1589); the former may evidently date back even farther. Both of these raags are associated with dhrupad music, sober and diginfied, deep and beautiful. Todi literally means "the deer," and is understood to suggest genteel qualities of that animal; Darbari evokes the refined atmosphere of the royal darbar (audience).

This is no. 19 in a sequence, Early Autumn Pantoums

18 | "The birdlife" [pantoum]

The acorns are falling
and striking the asphalt
a siren is pealing
the wind is by default
and striking the asphalt
the corn shall not grow
the wind is by default
and rain comes in tow

the corn shall not grow
the cricket agrees
and rain comes in tow
acknowledge the trees
the cricket agrees
the car makes its noise
acknowledge the trees
and notice the joys

the car makes its noise
the dog gives its bark
and notice the joys
the sky not yet dark
the dog gives its bark
the birdlife is calling
the sky not yet dark
the acorns are falling



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This is no. 18 in a sequence, Early Autumn Pantoums

17 | "The boat is in the harbor" [pantoum]

What dignified attendants!
what service when we pause
I'm leaving no dependants
I'm owning up to flaws
what service when we pause
the hands all wave farewell
I'm owning up to flaws
and ringing sorrow's bell

the hands all wave farewell
thuogh no one sees the landing
and ringing sorrow's bell
would seem a bit demanding
thuogh no one sees the landing
the boat is in the harbor
would seem a bit demanding
the sympathy of ardor

the boat is in the harbor
the train is in the station
the sympathy of ardor
has glinty information
the train is in the station
the crescent moon's ascendance
has glinty information
what dignified attendants!



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Pantoum borrowing two lines from a poem by Emily Dickinson, "One dignity delays for all"


This is no. 17 in a sequence, Early Autumn Pantoums

16 | "Irony's quaint consolations" [pantoum]

But what does the blind man see in a mirror?
Alice   if blind   would never have entered
swaddlings of habit grorw drearer and drearer
what does it mean when we say   to be centered?
Alice   if blind   would never have entered
singular folk she would scarcely have met
what does it mean when we say   to be centered?
what you don't know you will rarely forget

singular folk she would scarcely have met
where   by the way   are we heading this cycle?
what you don't know you will rarely forget
what you don't feel   at least cannot rankle
where   by the way   are we heading this cycle?
here on the ship of the world in its sea
what you don't feel   at least cannot rankle
what you don't grasp is unlikely to flee

here on the ship of the world in its sea
voyages move through the deep of the night
what you don't grasp is unlikely to flee
irony's quaint consolations are slight
voyages move through the deep of the night
report from the heart becomes dearer and dearer
irony's quaint consolations are slight
but what does the blind man see in a mirror?



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Pantoum beginning and ending with a line borrowed from a ghazal by Shaikh Sa'adi of Shiraz.

This is no. 16 in a sequence, Early Autumn Pantoums

15 | "A speaker turns" [pantoum]

Shouts mimic the shreds of light
what is the wire inside the word?
nods dapple the pool of night
cicadas mock the absent bird
what is the wire inside the word?
the writer's pen is leaking tears
cicadas mock the absent bird
a speaker turns then disappears

the writer's pen is leaking tears
the thinker's pause is in the script
a speaker turns then disappears
the china teacup isn't chipped
the thinker's pause is in the script
but something's apparently improvised
the china teacup isn't chipped
the difference hasn't been recognized

but something's apparently improvised
the film is spooling all the time
the difference hasn't been recognized
what was the undetected crime?
the film is spooling all the time
the plot isn't conventionally tight
what was the undetected crime?
shouts mimic the shreds of light



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Pantoum beginning and ending with a line borrowed from Bob Perelman's poem MUSIK (after Rilke), from the volume Primer (1981)

This is no. 15 in a sequence, Early Autumn Pantoums

14 | "All I know of the sea" [pantoum]

The voice of your eyes is deeper than all roses
the argument of your smile exceeds all tomes
for in your eyes abides   my heart supposes
all history   the world with all its gloams
the argument of your smile exceeds all tomes
the explanation within your gaze suffices
all history   the world with all its gloams
then seems a pale box of poor devices

the explanation within your gaze suffices?
but I must find its plenary implication
then seems a pale box of poor devices
my reasoning   you spur anticipation
but I must find its plenary implication
I merely dip in shallows of your eyes
my reasoning   you spur anticipation
I seek the being hidden within the guise

I merely dip in shallows of your eyes
why do I lack the feet to reach your door?
I seek the being hidden within the guise
for all I know of the sea is a windy shore
why do I lack the feet to reach your door?
conceding my defeat   the poem closes
for all I know of the sea is a windy shore
the voice of your eyes is deeper than all roses



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Pantoum beginning and ending with a line borrowed from e. e. cummings -- from his poem that begins with the line "somewhere i have never travelled,gladly beyond", from his volume W [Viva] (1931)

This is no. 14 in a sequence, Early Autumn Pantoums

13 | "How the curving cheek is solicitous" [pantoum]

Considering how exaggerated music is
mightn't one tone it down a notch or two?
the note that thoroughly buys its own imperatives
is persuasively dogmatic   in my view
mightn't one tone it down a notch or two?
but no   its solace lies in how the hyperbole
is persuasively dogmatic   in my view
this illustrates what one might accomplish verbally

but no   its solace lies in how the hyperbole
can become seemingly cogent   dreamably plausible
this illustrates what one might accomplish verbally
when the concentrated emphasis is pleasurable
can become seemingly cogent   dreamably plausible
what can? and why?   who would explain persuasion?
when the concentrated emphasis is pleasurable
is the form the point? or a sly narcotic evasion?

what can? and why?   who would explain persuasion?
we're talking around the problem of formal beauty
is the form the point? or a sly narcotic evasion?
is discordance then   a mode of authorial duty?
we're talking around the problem of formal beauty
how the curving cheek is solicitous of the lover's kiss
is discordance then   a mode of authorial duty
considering how exaggerated music is?



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Pantoum beginning and ending with a line borrowed from the title poem of Leslie Scalapino's Considering how exaggerated music is (1982)

This is no. 13 in a sequence, Early Autumn Pantoums

12 | "Learning from the stone" [pantoum]

Learning from the stone
by going to its school
nobody grows alone
this is an olden rule
by going to its school
through auditing its class
this is an olden rule
studied in stone and glass

through auditing its class
you fathom its hidden lesson
studied in stone and glass
the mystery of vergessan
you fathom its hidden lesson
what is the stone's condition?
the mystery of vergessan
it deomonstrates   by omission

what is the stone's condition?
its memory dim and nascent
it deomonstrates   by omission
how dream becomes quiescent
its memory dim and nascent
what's bred   in the bone
how dream becomes quiescent
learning   from the stone



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The first two lines of this poem are borrowed from the first line of the title poem in Joao Cabral de Melo Neto, Education by Stone (2005), the translation from the Portugese by Richard Zenith

vergessan (German): forgetting
"what's bred in the bone will come out in the flesh" is an English proverb

This is no. 12 in a sequence, Early Autumn Pantoums

11 | "In printer's ink" [pantoum]

Fifty pantoums   in early autumn written
how would that do for a title?   what do you think?
it's quite alright   if you say you're not so smitten
when you picture these words   displayed in printer's ink
how would that do for a title?   what do you think?
maybe I'll change the way they hit the bottom
when you picture these words   displayed in printer's ink
fifty pantoums   written in early autumn

maybe I'll change the way they hit the bottom
written in early autumn   fifty pantoums
fifty pantoums   written in early autumn?
fifty infants emerge   from fifty wombs
Written in early autumn   fifty pantoums
by Jove!   I rather think that three's the charm
fifty infants emerge   from fifty wombs
may heaven keep their reader safe from harm

by Jove!   I rather think that three's the charm
I might allow   a title has arrived
may heaven keep their reader safe from harm
I wonder if in end   they shall have thrived?
I might allow   a title has arrived
the air's not cold enough to warrant mittens
I wonder if in end   they shall have thrived?
fifty pantoums   in early autumn written



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This is no. 11 in a sequence, Early Autumn Pantoums

10 | "Addressed to you" [pantoum]

The poem was addressed to you
it was you whose liquid eyes
held its pensive page in view
and savored its droll surprise
it was you whose liquid eyes
discerned its solid strength
and savored its droll surprise
throughout the poem's length

discerned its solid strength
but in what did this reside?
throughout the poem's length
was there modesty or pride?
but in what did this reside?
in the way the words were shaped?
was there modesty or pride
where the metaphors were draped?

in the way the words were shaped
in the feeling of the lines
where the metaphors were draped
you could sip the poet's wines
in the feeling of the lines
you could sense the wider view
you could sip the poet's wines
the poem was addressed to you



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This is no. 10 in a sequence, Early Autumn Pantoums

9 | "A Day and Night of Brahma" [pantoum]

You may find it's a little bit hard now keeping up
but you don't just want to sit out the 21st century
when no human gullet can drain the entire cup
might a smidge of wise selection serve for strategy?
but you don't just want to sit out the 21st century
though one hundred and sixty lives might seem excessive
might a smidge of wise selection serve for strategy?
I presume this chat won't render you apprehensive?

though one hundred and sixty lives might seem excessive
it's not a remarkably Herculean statistic
I presume this chat won't render you apprehensive?
metaphysical nitty-gritty can sound sadistic
it's not a remarkably Herculean statistic
consider the length of a Day and Night of Brahma!
metaphysical nitty-gritty can sound sadistic
but it makes for a wonderfully mammoth sense of drama

consider the length of a Day and Night of Brahma!
you could handily look it up in the Wikipedia
but it makes for a wonderfully mammoth sense of drama
for the cosmos is so creative! what multi-media!
you could handily look it up in the Wikipedia
in every Kali Yug   you can look it up!
for the cosmos is so creative! what multi-media!
you may find it's a little bit hard now keeping up



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Responsive to reading this opening passage from William Grimes' review essay in the New York Times entitled "Learning How to Read Slowly Again" (September 22, 2006):

The demise of print looks as if it will be a long, drawn-out affair. John Sutherland, the chairman of last year’s Man Booker Prize Committee, offers an arresting statistic: Today more novels are published in one week than Samuel Johnson had to deal with in a decade. As he calculates it in “How to Read a Novel,” it would take approximately 163 lifetimes to read the fiction currently available, at the click of a mouse, from Amazon.com.

Day of Brahma (Wikipedia); and from the same source, see also Kali Yuga and Time in Hindu mythology.

This is no. 9 in a sequence, Early Autumn Pantoums

discovering Annie Finch amid a local deluge [book note]

Okay, it can be admitted I'm a strange person at times. Morning anyway found me (after little sleep) wandering around downtown, perching myself at the DuPont Circle Starbucks pre-sunrise, jotting poems; later wandering into the big Borders Books on L Street NW -- a place I visit but rarely. At 8-something in the morning, they were anyway up and ready for business, except one noted the unusual sounds of water. Dishwashing in the cafe? No, some kind of local deluge. I wanted to go down [some dozen green-carpeted stairs] and wander amid the poetry books. "Poetry?" the helpful but concerned manager-type inquired. "I think I can let you down there." If I had asked for a section more directly in the line of water (History perhaps?), it would likely have elicited a No. As I seemed to convey a sense of customarly care (or some-such), and Poetry was technically (merely) adjacent the helter-skelter of dripping water and functionaries mopping and bucket-placing . . . I got a Pass.

And that's where I more properly connected with Annie Finch. Though I've yet to read any of her books through; -- I vaguely think I've run into her name and perhaps read a few lines in recent years, but hadn't gotten a very particular impression till (first) reading Ron Silliman's remarks [from Oct.13, 2002 -- where have I been?](thanks to a link from K. Silem Mohammad's "Notes on (Dis)Quietude and the Post-Avant" [in this case filching his phrase "school of disquietude" rather than a whole line]. . . I'd lately found and filched from Finch's "Courtship" poem (for my Pantoum sequence, which mostly borrows a single line from an antecedent source as jumping-off point and homing abode of final, long boomerang). But here, amid the pleasant enough aquatic ambience (one of the Border-guys said to another something about this happening every year, due to something about "a water main" . . . ??? hinting at a mix of Kafka with Tarkovsky), I looked into Finchian essays, particularly her few-page musings on "Langpo, Pomo and Newfo" [if memory serves; I've not yet shelled out for the Michigan U. Press poets-on-poetry tomelet: The Body of Poetry], read it through (along with other such), and felt myself in belated discovery of a poet who shares some traits (I will hazard to claim) with yours truly: involving (e.g.) the paradoxical circumstance of feeling conceptually more keyed into intellectual underpinnings of the experimentalists, while yet pushed by innate sensibility in a direction exploring structures and devices with hoary premodern underpinnings: such as rhyming and metrical formalism, as a field of experimentation (as Finch ably argues), even though (through the fiats and fluxes of 20th/21st literary historical circumstance) scarcely perceived or imagined as such by many of our more interesting writers, at (as they say) the present juncture.

Perhaps more on such after a time. This merely to record the happy discovery. Rachel Dacus has been telling me some of the newer-gen formalists are no pushovers, in terms of spark of the language crackle, or crack of the consciousness pop (one might as well hazard semi-balderdash if not to say quasi-glosolalia, when at this turn of the postscriptive prose-dash sprint [in short, merely, I jot in haste]; -- albeit let me qualify and say I'm significantly paraphrasing Rachel's observation). It seems, she's right. I want to dig up K. Silem Mohammad's work too, not to mention more of Annie's work proper (beyond the unusually engaging self-explicatory prose).

8 | "A little shade" [pantoum]

This street could use a little shade
this hat could use a little slant
my heart could use a little aid
my sandwich needs a little ant
this hat could use a little slant
for slanting shows the lyric sense
my sandwich needs a little ant
to recollect a sense of whence

for slanting shows the lyric sense
you'll notice this in many a branch
to recollect a sense of whence
I'd recommend a country dance
you'll notice this in many a branch
how leaves are dark and light in turn
I'd recommend a country dance
at least if you've got time to burn

how leaves are dark and light in turn
the bitter fruit to sweet aspires
at least if you've got time to burn
but little space the ash requires
the bitter fruit to sweet aspires
the future diver learns to wade
but little space the ash requires
this street could use a little shade



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Pantoum beginning and ending with a line borrowed from Charles Simic -- the first line of his "Shading Exercise," in My Noiseless Enterouge (2005).

This is no. 8 in a sequence, Early Autumn Pantoums

"A Chevy poem" [quasi-gnomic ditty]

Lorna Dee was thinking of writing a Chevy poem
since Billy Collins claimed Chevy's a word unsuited
to poetry   myself I love a Levy poem
it could be a light or a heavy poem   fluted
or drummed   whatever may fit the wit and whim
when a Chevrolet drives through with polished trim

Lorna Dee was hankering to write a Chevy poem
whereas Billy Collins said Chevy's a word objectionable
for poetry   myiself I favor a bevy poem
verbosity is arguably perfectionable
though the taciturn could be charming or disarming
if a Chevrolet drives through?   oh it's alarming



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Occasioned by reading this on Lorna Dee Cervantes' blog:

I'm working on a poem . . . right now that has the word, "Chevy" in it. I think it's about a primer red '54 Chevy truck (with wood side boards and a cherry engine) but that will depend upon the musings and amusements of the Muse. But, definitely, it will have the word "Chevy" in it, especially in the title. Why? Because Billy Collins thinks that's a word which should never belong in a poem.

Hence this riff.

"I love a Levy poem" -- recalling the advertising ploy, "You Don't Have To Be Jewish To Love Levy's Jewish Rye" (something I encountered as an adolescent in the pages of East Coast artsy magazines -- probably The Evergreen Review [hmm, not only has the old magazine [or I mean, its cover-art] been selectively archived online, furthermore, Evergreen has (since 1998) been revived as an annual, onine publication] -- as a form of pop-art kitsch I think; but we didn't see the actual bread in California)

"I moonlight as a crooner" [gnomic riff]

A chicken farmer briefly   before he became a teacher
an astronaut in early life   he later was a salesman
I moonlight as a crooner   in day I am a preacher
the sleuth of syncronicity   still dabbles as a mailman
the budding choreographer   is generally waiting tables
the renegade photographer   is in the typing pool
today he runs a pharmacy   he used to clean the stables
I major in philosophy   I minor as a fool



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Still musing on Robert Creeley, I read this in the Wikipedia:

Creeley was born in Arlington, Massachusetts and grew up in Acton, Massachusetts. He was raised by his mother with four sisters, and lost his left eye at the age of four. He entered Harvard University in 1943, but left to serve in the American Field Service in Burma and India 1944-5. He returned to Harvard in 1946, but took his BA from Black Mountain College in 1955. When Black Mountain briefly closed, Creeley moved to San Francisco, where he met Jack Kerouac and Allen Ginsberg, and befriended Jackson Pollock.
He was a chicken farmer briefly before he became a teacher.

Hence this riff.

7 | "A forest with a lake" [pantoum]

They say this used to be   a forest with a lake
the dinasaurs would come   and nibble at the leaves
now look at all the traffic here!   oh for heaven's sake
the dinasaurs are gone   and where's the man that grieves?
the dinasaurs would come   and nibble at the leaves
the world was rather young   I sat here even then
the dinasaurs are gone   and where's the man that grieves?
none know except the stone   remembering the glen

the world was rather young   I sat here even then
when Hollywood and Vine   grew literal with flora
none know except the stone   remembering the glen
so few now recollect   the kelly sylvan aura
when Hollywood and Vine   grew literal with flora
our cinema were merely   a sunset in the sky
so few now recollect   the kelly sylvan aura
so many come and go   while standing still am I

our cinema were merely   a sunset in the sky
the lake was like a dream   and now it is no more
so many come and go   while standing still am I
we're silent in a row   where once there was a shore
the lake was like a dream   and now it is no more
the desert overwhelmed   the snow forgot to flake
we're silent in a row   where once there was a shore
they say this used to be   a forest with a lake



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Pantoum beginning and ending with a line borrowed from Robert Creeley -- from "Eight Bollards" (1989; and included in the volume Windows (1990); for background story, see notes). An essay about Creeley's working methods and collaborations includes this note:

There are also compelling examples of interactions with contemporary sculptors. For the 1989 Los Angeles "Poet's Walk" project, Texas-based sculptor James Surls was given a list of poets he could work with on a public art project. To his delight, Creeley, whose writing he had long admired, was on the list. Surls invited Creeley to his home in the woods of East Texas; during a short stay, Creeley wrote a series of 24 poems. Surls, for his part, worked with series coordinator Kathy Lucoff in Los Angeles, finally choosing eight round granite bollards in front of the Citicorp building on which to inscribe the Creeley poems he had chosen and the drawings he had made to go with them. Surls' drawings are clean and simple, achieving the same clear distillations present in the brief verses.

I have my own small postscript to add. I had become aware of the bollards project in the early 1990s (from the poem in the book -- plus hearing Creeley read the verses in Washington, DC). These verses later came to mind when perusing an invitation for installation proposals for a summer arts festival in Atlanta. I thought about a film and installation and music project based around Creeley's bollards verses and involving the images from Surls' related sculptural work. I lined up some possible collabors (the musician Malcolm Goldstein, the choreographer Robin Bisio), and I communicated with both Creeley and Surls about this notion. They were both game and amiable, and I drew up the proposal for funding. But the proposal (one lost among God only knows how many such) was not selected, the project was shelved, time passed, I lost track of it. Eventually Robert Creeley passed away (March 30, 2005). On my way to India last fall, I stopped in Manhattan just long enough to catch the ending portion of a marathon memorial reading for the poet (held at the St. Marks Poetry Project). If there's a take-home lesson for me in this recollection, it involves something about finding or focusing on ways of making art that are not dependent on the whims and fiats of (e.g.) juried-selection patronage.

At any rate, I retain a fondness for Creeley's spare bollards verses. The above playful pantoum may not do them much adequate justice; but at least it draws a frame around one of them and proceeds, fancifully, to embellish its thought. The speaker in this poem (as in the original four-short-line verse that, here, appears as a line [the first and last] of the Pantoum) is understood to be the granite steele (in form of a stylized bollard) whereon that verse is inscribed. If the stone could speak.

A bollard, of course, is a wooden post associated with a pier. I believe the conception of these stone bollards would involve the idea of a petrified wooden post that had (thus) become stone. Or that's one line of thought -- tied in with the idea that there, in the middle of downtown Los Angeles (a city built amid what had long been a desert area, though irrigated by recent ingenuity), there had been, in more primordial times, water. The introduction of dinasaurs to the scene (none are found in Creeley's 24 verses) more or less derives from my childhood visits to the La Brea Tar Pits in Los Angeles.

"We're silent in a row" may be understood to point to the sequence of eight bollards in the outdoor sculpture/poetry/conceptual art project -- modest stone pillars arrayed like artifacts from a vanished pier, erstwhile edging into primordial waters.

This is no. 7 in a sequence, Early Autumn Pantoums:

no. 1:   "The sundial smiled"
no. 2:   "In the school of disquietude"
no. 3:   "With your full-moon heart"
no. 4:   "At the autumn equinox"
no. 5:   "One side of the heart"
no. 6:   "The stream of notes"

6 | "The stream of notes" [pantoum]

Where finally only music might suffice
the words had always seemed a poor excuse
for meanings that by musical device
emerge alike a fruit replete with juice
the words had always seemed a poor excuse
bespeaking what they couldn't quite enact
emerge alike a fruit replete with juice?
the dearth of juice they'd demonstrate in fact

bespeaking what they couldn't quite enact
though wonderful they seem within their realm
the dearth of juice they'd demonstrate in fact
an absence which in end could overwhelm
though wonderful they seem within their realm
they needed music for their sense to shine
an absence which in end could overwhelm
becomes a presence when in lyric line

they needed music for their sense to shine
what recipe will serve as food? the distance
becomes a presence when in lyric line
the stream of notes illuminates existence
what recipe will serve as food? the distance
that moats the "water" word won't boil rice
the stream of notes illuminates existence
where finally only music might suffice



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This poem is no. 6 in a sequence, Early Autumn Pantoums.

5 | "One side of the heart" [pantoum]

One side of the heart is dark
one face of the moon is hidden
sentences sometimes are stark
feelings accost us unbidden
one face of the moon is hidden
one drop of the sun is fire
feelings accost us unbidden
we learn through the haze to aspire

one drop of the sun is fire
one hint of the earth is joy
we learn through the haze to aspire
we see through the semblance a ploy
one hint of the earth is joy
each moment in the world has a meaning
we see through the semblance a ploy
at the center of things is a keening

each moment in the world has a meaning
but the meaningless emptily drifts
at the center of things is a keening
by mercy the structure yet shifts
but the meaningless emptily drifts
who follows the flight of the lark?
by mercy the structure yet shifts
one side of the heart is dark



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A pantoum beginning and ending with a line borrowed from W.S. Merwin -- from his book Finding the Islands (1982). The verse, a tercet (this from memory, so I'm not 100% sure of punctuation; not certain if he'd fully abandoned it just yet) reads:

The earth is bleeding into the sea far out
We look away
One side of the heart is dark

This poem is no. 5 in a sequence, Early Autumn Pantoums.

4 | "At the autumn equinox" [pantoum]

At the autumn equinox   in my 50th year
the cab proceeds down 16th Street   as usual
the day feels cool   the sky is blue and clear
Ethiopian singing sounds out   from the radio
the cab proceeds down 16th Street   as usual
I see this as   my final year at the office
Ethiopian singing sounds out   from the radio
so much of life occurs   below the surface

I see this as   my final year at the office
In India   I'll seek the new design
so much of life occurs   below the surface
the cask is full   with fine and aging wine
In India   I'll seek the new design
the new arises   from the pure and ancient
the cask is full   with fine and aging wine
the gladness of the vintner   is my penchant

the new arises   from the pure and ancient
at times   it filters up   into the pran mesh
the gladness of the vintner   is my penchant
at the start of a venture   one recollects Lord Ganesh
at times it filters up   into the pran mesh
the roots of life are present   though unclear
at the start of a venture   one recollects Lord Ganesh
at the autumn equinox   in my 50th year



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This poem is no. 4 in a sequence, Early Autumn Pantoums.

3 | "With your full-moon heart" [pantoum]

Courtship is pulling with your full-moon heart
the sea is the world that heeds your love
if happily the horse may precede the cart
the lad in the meadow may need your love
the sea is the world that heeds your love
one grows through experience jaded and sad
the lad in the meadow may need your love
the secret of spring is a missive glad

one grows through experience jaded and sad
the jasper of courage becomes our token
the secret of spring is a missive glad
the circle of days remains unbroken
the jasper of courage becomes our token
the scythe of autumn is sighing for plenty
the circle of days remains unbroken
the wheel is strong the stone is flinty

the scythe of autumn is sighing for plenty
darling you dwell on the marge of thought
the wheel is strong the stone is flinty
lines from the willow with grace are wraught
darling you dwell on the marge of thought
the wisdom of balance abides in art
lines from the willow with grace are wraught
courtship is pulling with your full-moon heart



=======

A pantoum beginning and ending with a line borrowed from Annie Finch -- from her book Eve (1997).

This poem is no. 3 in a new sequence, Early Autumn Pantoums.

no. 1:   "The sundial smiled"
no. 2:   "In the school of disquietude"

"True or false?" [gnomic ditty]

True or false?   for twenty points
    the ocean   is a mirror
true of false?   for twenty points
    the moon   is a pale queen
true or false?   for twenty points
    the truth   is never clearer
true or false?   for twenty points
    true love   is a machine

2 | "In the school of disquietude" [pantoum]

In the school of disquietude I dawdled
on the pad of my diary I doodled
from the hilltop of history I yodeled
by the Nile of negativity I noodled
on the pad of my diary I doodled
my utterance seemed utterly banal
by the Nile of negativity I noodled
the spaghetti proved scrumptious withal

my utterance seemed utterly banal
I awoke in a land far away
the spaghetti proved scrumptious withal
I suppose it was not Montpellier
I awoke in a land far away
but it must have been merely a dream
I suppose it was not Montpellier
things rarely are quite as they seem

but it must have been merely a dream
the street was arranged as a vine
things rarely are quite as they seem
there's solace in a thimble of wine
the street was arranged as a vine
the nude artful nakedness modelled
there's solace in a thimble of wine
in the school of disquietude I dawdled



=======

Responsive to K. Silem Mohammad's essay, Notes on (Dis)quietude and the "Post-Avant", including this passage:

Certainly there are historical moments, or just particular times of day, when it seems more or less advisable to shout or whisper, depending. It is only when quietude is adopted as an all-governing aesthetic that it takes on its more oppressive dimensions. Likewise, disquietude in isolation not only becomes exhausting, it loses its meaning in the absence of the quietude it disrupts. Poetry can never be only about beauty, nor can it be only about the absence of beauty.

This poem is no. 2 in a new sequence, Early Autumn Pantoums.

After I shaved my beard [vers libre]

"We should have done a champaigne toast"
remarked Tim Doyle an intellectual property
attorney in the electronics group

"I didn't recognize you! I almost
called security" quipped Tracy Müller
an associate in the biotech group

otherwise things seemed normal
the boyish babyface that I'd kept
in hiding was back on display

while the black gone grey and
then white had suddenly vanished
from sight   for the moment

impromptu

(i)

only a few minutes before
the 15-minute-cycle here
at the freebie screen
at the Kramerbooks bar
but what is this music?

it recalls the happiness
when sitars were drawn in
to the wash of rock'n'roll
what is this music?

the years pass
the song fades
another song begins
what was that music?

the beginning of a
conversational position
happens anywhere
at for instance the
bar at Kramerbooks
with 175 seconds remaining
before automatic logoff
at 11:12pm of a Tuesday
what was that music?

(ii)

back again
like reincarnation
but with the same brain
intact as it seems
the electric guitar so
the singer singing thus
the bar not crowded
ditto the bookstore
the night not cold
nor warm . . .

"tell them I'm gone
and nothing's wrong"
the wench in croon
what music?

for a time some deep
thought comes and after
a time again recedes
are we here only
to think a thought?
human purpose translated
into a synapse flash?
what is its music?

sometimes we think
in music lies all meaning
words are like slivers
of ice in that ocean
words are like wisps
of cloud in that sky
what is the music?

and if one lived
a thousand years
would things become
a little bit clearer?

the music calls toward
an abandoning a loosing
of the grip no need
for things to be other
than just as they are
in whatever is the music

as if meaning
a human meaning
cosmic by implication
in its mirrorings its
inclusions
such a meaning in
such a music
were sufficient

pulling against the
tug against the tow
running against the wind
rushing upstream
crossing against
the traffic light
cutting against the
woodgrain asking
questions against
the molecular order
of thought's fixity
breaking the ice of
crystalized emotion
melting whatever
was freezedried
but no
the thaw looses
water of what music?

I began this poem
when I was 12 years old
you won't find those
words verbatim but
the page is almost
the same -- no screen
and yet like a screen
no 15 minutes
not Kramerbooks'
nor Worhol's
no limit? a limit
always a limit
and crossing
of the limit
and the failing
to cross
always a setting forth
said Francis
somewhere in the tome
of his music what music?

the chaotic note dies
the tinkly strings sound
the grinding of coffee beans
the sounds of humankind
the man with his pen and pages
and his Oxford Dictionary of
Current English, sitting at
the bar at Kramerbooks writing
presumably his academic paper
seeking what music?

the longhaired girls with
the tall glasses of beer
the Time left 156 seconds
the WARNING! the shaking
of the glass with the ice
the change to the next
song bringing
what music?

"Ripe to ramble" [shi]

To begin to come to terms   with essential sadness
I sit and smoke a Djarum   on the lateday bench
it's a mystery   when we're able to clasp our gladness
is it destiny   that I've failed to find my wench?
at 50   maybe I'm ripe to ramble a while
at least   if I can but lift myself from the trench
I've shaved my beard   I'm told it's a Washington style
even sans mustache   I can hope to prove a mensch



==========

Djarum: a popular cigarette imported from Indonesia (comprised of a mix of tobacco and cloves); I've found it available in New Delhi as well as DC. I first developed a liking for Djarums in San Francisco. The filterless variety is much preferred; it's strong but sweet, and (for cigar-smokers like myself) there's no need to inhale.

The 2nd and 3rd couplets of a shi should both, if possible, show grammatical parallelism (i.e. between the 2 lines of a couplet). I've largely ignored this feature in the present sequence; but am at last pulling in a hint of it in this poem. For this reason, I revised both those couplets. Earlier forms of them had been:

mysterious   are the springs of human gladness
it seems   I never found   my proper wench

and

at 50   maybe I'm ready to ramble a while
if I can but manage   to lift myself from the trench

-- but I'm finally getting around to the neglected desideratum of grammatical parallelism.

(I've a vague notion that, in some Hindu constructions of the human life cycle, the age of 50 is a time when a man may be permitted to enter a period of sanyas (renunciation, which can involve homeless wandering), although this would (in this schema) generally follow after the raising of a family (as a householder). At any rate, this schema merely plays lightly or dimly in the background of the title phrase, I'd say.)

==========

This is no. 8 in a series, Chinese poems, late summer.

The ealier poems:
no. 1:   Rooftop Scene [Aug. 28]
no. 2:   "The basic problem" [Aug. 30]
no. 3:   Night Sounds [Aug. 31]
no. 4:   "The invitation" [Sept. 7]
no. 5:   "Do you know the way?" [Sept. 7]
no. 6:   Ancient Future [Sept. 8]
no. 7:   "Questions" [Sept. 10]

2 | "Fugue of the refugee" [villanelle / elegy]

You favored the ways the word finds a differing music
where it doesn't quite fit   it fits more wonderfully
I'll play you a song that's mutedly John-Phillip-Sousic

the ecstatics abandoned the self   for they were enthusic
the rain leaves the cloud   all hushed or thunderously
you favored the ways the word finds a differing music

refusing the fuse of refuse   is the refusenik
but the fugue of the refugee   plays under the tree
let me whistle a song that's mutedly John-Phillip-Sousic

the absence of news is good news   to the non-newsic
but for newshounds and newsies   the novel is pure poetry
you favored the ways the word finds a differing music

the gainful are game   while loss belongs to the loseic
and the music?   the Muse is amused by the waves of the sea
I would play you a song that's mutedly John-Phillip-Sousic

things fall apart   at the time when they fail to be gluesic
they're assembled afresh   at Elmer's cosmic factory
you favored the ways the word finds a differing music
now I'll play you a song that's mutedly John-Phillip-Sousic



============

This is a second villanelle-elegy in memory of the poet Lynne Beyer. The first in the sequence is:
heel to toe ("till the days of blogging")

"For the love of what you love" [sonnet]

The news at 5 in the morning   Zorn has nabbed it
or garnered? or been recognized?   locutions
proliferate:  neglected like Confucius
the geniuses triumph   hailed   none have grabbed it

you can't apply for a Gug   you've just gotta live it
for many a year   for the love of what you love
the genius-hand   is tailored to its glove
or medium   now as for those who give it

the laurel of esteem and broad support
they play a worthy role in our society
those who receive it plausibly resort

to inward gladness don't they?   would sobriety
at such an hour be meet?   should one comport
oneself with (quite un-Zorn-like) mild propriety?



=======

responding to a radio report about recipients of the Guggenheim Foundation's annual fellowship awards. When writing the poem, I had confused the Guggenheim awards with the so-called genius award from the MacCarthur Foundation . . . At any rate, a Guggenheim has been announced for (among others) New York's innovative and energetic composer/musician/improvisor John Zorn

neglected like Confucius: Confucius [Kong-zi] had many theories about wise and proper methods of governance. He deemed himself a philosopher well-equipped to advise kings. But during his lifetime, he never had much of an opportunity to apply these skills or institute these ideas. He did however pass on his thoughts and remarks to a small circle of students. In later centuries, his teachings and pricniples became widely accepted, indeed became the cornerstone of the established intellectual norm among the educated class in the Chinese bureaucracy in most of the dynasties for more than two millennia. So perhaps it can be said that Confucius was an avant-garde intellectual -- ahead of his time. His ideal of the Golden Mean -- a mode of behavior that is purposively never excessive in any direction (particularly, where the self does not seek to go too far in demonstrating its own excellence) -- seems to involve a psychological stance and mode of thought and comportment and action rather foreign in our modern world, but apparently influential among cultivated persons through long spans of Chinese antiquity.

The final lines of the sonnet are intended merely whimsically and playfully. The underlying sense one has from John Zorn is that he has followed very far in the direction of his own inner promptings as an artist, and that he demonstrates a palpable elan of self-assurance. This quality of assurance, which can arise in the wake of much work for a creative artist, renders him inwardly independent and carefree. Then, presumably, honors or recognition may come or not come, and he is unruffled either way. Still, all human beings can take delight in happy events and auspicious circumstances. At any rate, perhaps the earlier mention of Confucius in the poem is playing out whimsically here. Admittedly, I am fairly talking through my hat vis-a-vis Zorn, since I do not know him, and have only heard bits of his music here and there over the years. He runs an estimable record label.

"The sundial smiled" [pantoum]

But the sundial smiled in the rain
is this how irony begins?
like the premonition of pain
that's appealing   shimmery with fins?
is this how irony begins?
one's unable   does that make one Cain?
that's appealing   shimmery with fins
but to whom does it now appertain?

one's unable   does that make one Cain?
the sardines come delivered in tins
but to whom does it now appertain?
the losses seem more than the wins
the sardines come delivered in tins
the roses were featured with thorns
the losses seem more than the wins
the drummers soon paused for the horns

the roses were featured with thorns
the violets remembered fond springs
the drummers soon paused for the horns
while compassion flowed through normal things
the violets remembered fond springs
the bison recall vanished days
while compassion flowed through normal things
little words were employed to sing praise

the bison recall vanished days
the mountain redreams olden seasons
little words were employed to sing praise
every rhyme grew nostalgic for reasons
the mountain redreams olden seasons
the circus now pines for the road
every rhyme grew nostalgic for reasons
personalities sometimes implode

the circus now pines for the road
the frog thought about all the flies
personalities sometimes implode
it's presumably hard being wise
the frog thought about all the flies
the baker delights in the grain
it's presumably hard being wise
but the sundial smiled in the rain



=======

A pantoum beginning and ending with a line borrowed from John Ashbery

heel to toe ("till the days of blogging") [villanelle / elegy]

We may not be kind
but we are enough.
We may not be strong, but
we pretend.
The mind is grey, a blend
of all colors.
mind over matter: I will line up
several pairs of shoes, heel
to toe. I will follow
their procession.

Lynne Beyer
in The Cheap Review Of Poetry #1 (1986)

Why didn't you stick around till the days of blogging?
I'd daily be checking the news at Beyer-dot-blogspot
but I won't submit you now to postmortal flogging

ten years has it been? does a decade thin out the fogging?
have you found release in light? or some shady grog spot?
why didn't you linger a spell   till the days of blogging?

in Christian realms is there annual egg-nogging?
do Judaic & Islamic kin fear a Gog & Magog spot?
but let's not submit you now to belated flogging

I'll head some moon back to LA   the land of smogging
though I laze through the years I'll find afresh some jog spot
why didn't you stay?   so close to the days of blogging!

true enough   the pipes of hope are prone to clogging
and we tend to sink when we hit the proverbial bog spot
no I'd not submit you to any belated flogging

from life to lifetime   sheaves of narrative logging!
all the poems (with sources) revert to the secret tug spot
it's a pity you didn't stay put till the days of blogging
but I pray you're past all weary dreams of flogging



============

in memory of Lynne Beyer

"Compassion, love" [villanelle with found poetry]

"Dalai Lama Urges Compassion, Love"
the headline reads at 6:00 a.m.  it's Monday
there is an earth below and a sky above

the contours of the hand are shown in the glove
he addressed the Denver Pepsi Center on Sunday
"Dalai Lama Urges Compassion, Love"

to fifteen thousand he spoke for an hour of
the value of human tolerance   as some say
there is an earth below and a sky above

"I'm a Buddhist monk   now becoming a defender of
Islam" he remarked   decrying how after that numb day
one September   many lost track of compassion and love

"Take care of others, you will benefit. Think only of
yourself, you will lose"   seems it was a plum day
as if an earth were below and a sky above

autumn returns   toward winter you feel a shove
a week ago   human beings remembered a glum day
now "Dalai Lama Urges Compassion, Love"
there is an earth below and a sky above


============
The headline and quotations (as found poetry), found here:

Dalai Lama Urges Compassion, Love

By THE ASSOCIATED PRESS
Published: September 18, 2006

Filed at 5:27 a.m. ET

DENVER (AP) -- From high in the rafters of the Pepsi Center, perched on a bare stage in a big leather chair, the Dalai Lama looked small.

But his message was as big as the world.

"This century should be the century of dialogue," he said Sunday. "The past century somehow became a century of violence, century of bloodshed."

As global trade, travel, telecommunications and the Internet bring people together, the old ways of war and territorial thinking have to give way to mutual respect and aid, he said.

"Take care of others, you will benefit," he said. "Think only of yourself, you will lose." . . .

Influences: Suzanne Vega reinvents Rumi [rumination]

I was pleasantly surprised to note Suzanne Vega has written an op-ed piece in the New York Times today ("The Ballad of Henry Timrod"). My initial introduction to Vega's songwriting happened to come from her participation in Philip Glass's memorable art-song-cycle, Songs From Liquid Days (1986). Around the same time, Vega's own first albums -- the eponymous Suzanne Vega (1985) and Solitude Standing (1987) introduced my ears more fully to her work and likeable voice. I suppose it was in 1985 that I interviewed Glass in San Francisco. (In 1987 or '88, I also interviewed him in New York.) I recall discussing the Liquid Days album with him, and his noting the recent exposure of Vega to a wider audience (though he had known her work for some time in New York).

Anyway, this op-ed piece concerns the little plagiarism allegation or contretemps washing around Bob Dylan at the moment. Vega's opening two paragraphs sets the tone for what's to unfold. She writes,

I AM passionate about Bob Dylan. As a songwriter, I find there is nothing like singing “It’s Alright Ma (I’m Only Bleeding).” It is nearly eight minutes of cascading images, rich language and the coolest, most unexpected metaphors. My synapses light up in little fireworks, making connections they don’t get to make in ordinary life.

So I read with curiosity about the similarities between some lyrics on his new album and the verses of a forgotten Civil War-era poet. Who is Henry Timrod? Is it true that Mr. Dylan has been borrowing from his poetry? I ran out and bought the CD — not downloading it, because I wanted the lyric booklet. I wanted to see the evidence. And, of course, I discovered that he includes no lyrics in the CD package. No words at all, not even liner notes. Bob isn’t making this easy.

Now I do not propose, here, to ruminate on Dylan's appropriation (as it's claimed -- I've not reviewed the situation in detail). What interests me involves Coleman Barks and Rumi and Suzanne Vega. Vega introduces this more or less as an illustrative aside. But the aside seemed to me actually more interesting than her main topic. I have not even read to the end of her op-ed piece (I merely have a premonition how things may fare for Dylan). Of course I'll finish reading her piece. But I should not wish the chance to pass to delineate the curious thought that has come to mind from her aside. So: she goes on to write,

It’s modern to use history as a kind of closet in which we can rummage around, pull influences from different eras, and make them into collages or pastiches. People are doing this with music all the time. I hear it in, say, Christina Aguilera’s new album, or in the music of Sufjan Stevens.

So I had an open mind when approaching this Dylan album -- which is called “Modern Times,” by the way. Does this method of working extend to a lyric? To a metaphor? To Bob Dylan’s taking an exact phrase from some guy we never heard of from the middle of the 19th century without crediting him? That’s what I needed to satisfy myself about.

For example, recently I saw a poem on the subway that startled me. It is by the 13th-century Sufi poet Rumi.

One of my own songs says:
I’d like to meet you
In a timeless, placeless place
Somewhere out of context
And beyond all consequences
I won’t use words again
They don’t mean what I meant
They don’t say what I said
They’re just the crust of the meaning
With realms underneath
Never touched
Never stirred
Never even moved through.

Rumi’s poem says:
Out beyond ideas of wrongdoing and rightdoing,
There is a field. I’ll meet you there.
When the soul lies down in that grass, the world is too full to talk about.
Ideas, language, even the phrase each other
Doesn’t make any sense.

(Jelaluddin Rumi, 1207-1273. Translated from the Persian by Coleman Barks and John Moyne, from “The Essential Rumi,” published by HarperCollins. Copyright ©1995 by Coleman Barks. Reprinted with the permission of Coleman Barks. M.T.A. New York City Transit in cooperation with the Poetry Society of America. Poetry in Motion® is a registered trademark of M.T.A. New York City Transit and the Poetry Society of America.)

Sorry for that chunk of text right there, but I want to make sure everyone is credited properly.

So, I sat on the subway staring at the words, wondering -- how did that happen? I had never even heard of Rumi, and I thought the resonance of ideas was a remarkable coincidence. I felt vaguely guilty and wondered if I should be paying royalties to someone.

But back to Bob Dylan. . . .

Or not. Back, rather, first, to Rumi and Barks.

What Vega apparently did not particularly consider is that the influence in this case may conceivably -- indeed may well -- have washed the other direction. Rumi may have been influenced by Suzanne Vega's poem (not vice versa). How? Well, let me amend that. Rumi's translator may have put in Rumi's mouth words whose inflection were in some measure influenced by sources such as her own song; so that when -- years later, riding on a New York subway -- she saw those words attributed (correctly enough, as far as that goes) to this 13th century Persian source, she was nonetheless seeing, down-river, a rippling echo of her own songwriting.

Vega's lyrics are from a song entitled "Language," from the above-mentioned 1987 album (Solitude Standing). The interesting thought is that the translator's style and use of language is perchance as influenced as much by his familiarity with American poetic discourse (including the songwriting tradition to which Vega belongs) as it is by the idioms and tropes of 14th century Persian.

Okay: I was gearing up (I thought) to point to Barks' poem being published later than Vega's album. And indeed she cites The Essential Rumi (1995). That was the first book of Barks' Rumi versions finally (after Barks toiled away for the better part of two decades, self-publishing his little volumes) -- finally picked up by a big, established publisher and distributed widely.

However, not so fast. Google research has (somewhat) nipped my notion in the bud. In point of fact, the poem Vega quotes -- later appearing in the source she notes -- evidently first appeared in an earlier, thin volume (Barks' collaboration with scholar John Moyne) published in 1985 (as noted here -- on, of all things, the Out Beyond Ideas dot org website).

Ah well, this remains: ideas and language wash every which way. Even if in the instance, Barks was perchance not (unconsciously) borrowing from Vega, he easily could've been.

Stranger things, Horatio. Actually, what Vega didn't mention (and likely was unaware of) is that her line "In a timeless, placeless place" is even more directly reminiscent of Rumi's poetry than is the poem she saw on the subway. "Placeless place" is a phrase frequently found in Rumi. Though it's akin to the phrase "pathless path" found in some Zen sources perhaps more directly familiar to Vega. But with "placeless place" she seems to have reinvented the Rumi wheel verbatim.

Now I'll read the rest of Suzanne's editorial . . .
where, in end, she takes an unexpected turn.

============

Speaking of Philip Glass: it bears mention that his new choral work, The Passion of Ramakrishna saw its world premiere in Costa Mesa, California yesterday.

A co-commission by Orange County's Pacific Symphony and the Nashville Symphony, the work will be played in Nashville next February.

The concert yesterday featured special guest violinist Midori -- such a sweetheart she is. I enjoyed a radio interview with her on NPR (in the past year or so), where I learned of her dedication to new music along with the standard classical repertoire. Among maturing prodigies, she seems to be on a special path. Glancing at her website, look at this sign of good things afoot:

As part of its new International Community Engagement Program, Midori's MUSIC SHARING project will visit schools, hospitals, and other institutions in Vietnam in December 2006.