A Brief History Of Labor

In a day
there was earth,

the bright vision,
seeing land
and sea
separate,

and all the
creatures in them.
In a day

the second labor,
pains and cries.
The work of hands

built a tabernacle
to be in the presence.
A home to hear
the later psalms

or a place to remember
the work of hands
and rest for a day.

Lorine Niedecker

I am long over due pulling Lorine Niedecker's collected poems off the shelf. The fact there is a new documentary about this wonderful poet only makes me all the more learn about her. Though her works stand for themselves and she had powerful friends like Cid Corman and William Carlos Williams she remained an outsider. While most authors these days go right from graduate school into various teaching programs she lived a life as an outsider in the poetry world. Heck, she was an outsider in the real world as well. She hid from academia, for whatever reason, and lived in poverty on a small island making a living as a maid. That seems almost incongruous to the literary life. If someone were to try that today they would die in obscurity. To be a poet (or any other sort of writer or artist for that matter) and pretty much avoid readings, writing seminars, and awards is a form of publishing suicide which most publishers won't stand for. Yet, it's one that sounds very attractive to me. As I figure out my role as a Christian and a poet I almost shun that typical literary life. Perhaps someday I'll get my MFA and settle in to some university job teaching kids about rhyme and meter and how our experiences can help us to shape humanity and seek out the truth in life we are aching to touch. My desire to seek God in such a silly and little way seems to override that desire to have people come up to me at a reading to get an autograph.

I knew a clean man

but he was not for me.

Now I sew green aprons

over covered seats. He

wades the muddy water fishing,

fall in, dries his last pay-check

in the sun, smooths it out

in Leaves Of Grass.

He'sthe one for me.

*

The death of my poor father

leaves debts

and two small houses.

To settle this estate

a thousand fees arise—

I enrich the law.

Before my own death is certified,

recorded, final judgement

judged

taxes taxed

I shall own a book

of old Chinese poems
and binoculars

to probe the river

trees.

Poems

The one good thing about the Dodge is it did help my writers block and I wrote two new poems. Hope you enjoy.

Waterloo United Methodist Church
September 2008

I worshipped the images
of my youth,
first a story, wood panels
and stained glass.
Then only the word.
And then songs written
only for the voice and guitar.
Now, if not for the men working,
silence,
turning me back to the word.

The Bridge At Morris Canal
-for Maddy

I wanted to walk
across the old plank bridge,
to share with someone the river
and the path into the woods
just beyond.
Only it collapsed
at some unknown time.
I go home
knowing what I missed.

R.I.P. Hayden Carruth

One of my main pet peeves about the festival was it seems that many poets these days hadn't really earned the right to the title. Give them an MFA and they publish a book makes them all of a sudden a great sage of the world. Hayden Carruth is good proof of what happens when a life lived along with a ridiculous amount of talent really makes a poet. He didn't go the normal path of a writer and as I am sure you can see from the picture he lived life hard. What results is a body of work that should be envied by anyone wishing to become a poet. He deserves to read. He deserves to be respected and listened to. He was the real deal. Check out his web site and his page on the Academy of American Poets.

National Poetry Month: John Berryman

Dream Song 1: Huffy Henry hid the day
John Berryman

Huffy Henry hid the day,
unappeasable Henry sulked.
I see his point,—a trying to put things over.
It was the thought that they thought
they could do it made Henry wicked & away.
But he should have come out and talked.

All the world like a woolen lover
once did seem on Henry's side.
Then came a departure.
Thereafter nothing fell out as it might or ought.
I don't see how Henry, pried
open for all the world to see, survived.

What he has now to say is a long
wonder the world can bear & be.
Once in a sycamore I was glad
all at the top, and I sang.
Hard on the land wears the strong sea
and empty grows every bed.

National Poetry Month: Lucille Clifton

I was very fortunate to have seen her and Mark Doty give a lecture at the Dodge Poetry Festival a number of years ago. And one day while flipping through channels I saw that they were showing the lecture on a pbs station. This was pre-cable so the picture wasn't the greatest. I saw a guy stand up to ask a question, but I wasn't entirely paying attention. Until I realized the person was me.

telling our stories
the fox came every evening to my door
asking for nothing. my fear
trapped me inside, hoping to dismiss her
but she sat till morning, waiting.

at dawn we would, each of us,
rise from our haunches, look through the glass
then walk away.

did she gather her village around her
and sing of the hairless moon face,
the trembling snout, the ignorant eyes?

child, i tell you now it was not
the animal blood i was hiding from,
it was the poet in her, the poet and
the terrible stories she could tell.

National Poetry Month: William Carlos Williams

Landscape With The Fall Of Icarus
William Carlos Williams

According to Brueghel
when Icarus fell
it was spring

a farmer was ploughing
his field
the whole pageantry

of the year was
awake tingling
near

the edge of the sea
concerned
with itself

sweating in the sun
that melted
the wings' wax

unsignificantly
off the coast
there was

a splash quite unnoticed
this was
Icarus drowning

Happy National Poetry Month

I can't believe I just remembered right now that it's national poetry month. Another thing which I should celebrate, but have no desire to. All kidding aside I do plan on talking about this a little more shortly.

To start off with here is a lecture I went to celebrating the 100th birthday of George Oppen. I really only stayed for about an hour when I realized the event was to go on for about 3 hours.

A Poet Of Exile

Every so often I feel the need to pull one of Bei Dao's poems off my shelf to read. Though they can be difficult to grasp you can feel his isolation being an exile. How much of a fan am I? This is sad really. I already owned soft-cover copies of all his books when I ordered hardbound versions. I remember he was the first poet I ever saw at first Dodge Poetry Festival I attended. Here are a few poems written by Dao. Enjoy.

It is ironic how I keep being drawn to Old Snow, a book focussing almost entirely on his exile. I want to write my own version being a person who's lived in the same area his whole life. I have to admit I am not sure what I shall write about.

And would whoever decides these things finally give him The Noble Prize?

Milton's Paraphrase of Psalm 114

John Milton -- A Paraphrase of Psalm 114

When the blest seed of Terah's faithfull Son,
After long toil their liberty had won,
And past from Pharian fields to Canaan Land,
Led by the strength of the Almighties hand,
Jehovah's wonders were in Israel shown,
His praise and glory was in Israel known.
That saw the troubl'd Sea, and shivering fled,
And sought to hide his froth-becurled head
Low in the earth, Jordans clear streams recoil,
As a faint host that hath receiv'd the foil.
The high, huge-bellied Mountains skip like Rams
Amongst their Ews, the little Hills like Lambs.
Why fled the Ocean? And why skipt the Mountains?
Why turned Jordan toward his Crystall Fountains?
Shake earth, and at the presence be agast
Of him that ever was, and ay shall last,
That glassy flouds from rugged rocks can crush,
And make soft rills from fiery flint-stones gush.

Content in Ignorance, A Rant in the Key of Sarcasm

This morning I met with my discipler Darrell to read over 1 Peter 1:13-25. I know I picked the right person to disciple me because he, along with my buddy Ken, keep bringing up aspects of the Christian faith that I have no idea about. Such as: The Westminster Confession of Faith, The Council of Dordt, and The Nicene Creed. They actually had the nerve to expect me to not only know about them, but to actually read them as well. This has opened up in my mind a whole world of new questions and ideas that I hoped to long put to bed. Oh no. I miss my days of ignorance. It made my faith so much easier. So as Darrell and I are talking over various things I wonder aloud why I am even bothering to study literature or introduce poetic language and literary licence to the Christian community. Is it so bad to have certain Christian novels (I'm sure you can think of a few) even if they aren't particularly good? What difference will it make in the long run whether a Christian David Sedaris or Hemingway come out of our midst? Darrell says, "Because you care about it and this is your ministry." Doh! Why couldn't he just let me wallow in my self pity like other people? And to make matters worse he gave me a homework assignment. I don't recall any of the great disciples in Schripture giving homework. Darrell expects me to take the verses we read and put them in my own words. Right. So much for ignorance.

Written On The Eve Of Execution

My prime of youth is but a frost of cares,

My feast of joy is but a dish of pain,

My crop of corn is but a field of tares,

And all my good is but vain hope of gain;

The day is past, and yet I saw no sun,

And now I live, and now my life is done.

My tale was heard and yet it was not told,

My fruit is fallen, and yet my leaves are green,

My youth is spent and yet I am not old,

I saw the world and yet I was not seen;

My thread is cut and yet it is not spun,

And now I live, and now my life is done.

I sought my death and found it in my womb,

I looked for life and saw it was a shade,

I trod the earth and knew it was my tomb,

And now I die, and now I was but made;

My glass is full, and now my glass is run,

And now I live, and now my life is done.

I love finding old poetry anthologies at used book sales. In them you find who was considered the hot commodity at the time. Whose voices were worthy to be sustained for a time. Usually they are common names found in many other anthologies, such as: Coleridge, Keats, Elliot, or Bronte. Digging deeper are the names of poets who have been forgotten. Anyone of you heard of Sir John Suckling? A few days ago I found a single poem written by Chidiock Tichborne. Besides having an unusual name I was struck by the title of his poem, "Written On The Eve Of Execution". The poem is dark, but has such stunning imagery was this poem written by someone who was about to die? Yes he did. Catholics during the time of Queen Elizabeth were persecuted for their beliefs as were the protestants during other parts of English history. Chidiock and some others plotted to have the queen assassinated. They were found out, but only the author was captured and executed. Before he was about to die he wrote a letter which contained this short poem. As far as can be told this was his only poem. Granted his reason for execution, but I wonder if I were in a situation where I knew I was going to be executed for my faith what would I write? I've been going through a lot of my old journals to find which ones I want to keep and which to throw away.... man I was a weepy little wuss back in the day. Is that what I'd want people to find? If you had the opportunity what would you lave behind?

Christian Poets

Out of curiosity I did a google search on Christian poets to see what I'd find. Besides a lot of people attempting to re-write the psalms I found a list that was quite interesting. It is a list of the faitfhul or formerly faithful rounding out with a lot of the major heavy hitters of poetic thought including Auden and Berryman. I wonder if people any of us realize how influential Christianity is whether we mean it to or not?

The Poets Voice

I am disapointed in myself. For years there was a recording archive of poets past and present reading their works. What makes it worse is a college right across the bridge from where I live created the sight. Plus, The Kelly Writer House offers a ton of progams which I should have been taking care of. Man, how could have I let this go for so long!?

UPDATE:
The greatest band in the world is coming to Philadelphia!!! I seriously would spend $100 for a scalped ticket. That is how much I love this band! I am stoked beyond imagination!

Rattle Online

Rattle is one of the better lit journals out there. They just produced their first online version of the journal.

And I also joined the 3rd day blog roll mainly because I thinkt hey are an awesome band. I do not necessarily endorse any of the blogs on there, so bear that in mind if you check any of them out.

UPDATE
Here is the link to it. Because of some problems re-loading I had to start again.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Pe5p1BXNCQM