all roads lead to robert creeley

well, that may be a touch of hyperbole, however, i do get spiritual, intellectual, emotional, life-style nourishment from the poetry of robert creeley.  this past week i've been on, what is for me, a predictable, but necessary self-interrogation of the necessary uselessness of poetry.  i've been corresponding with a fellow traveler & great friend in the arts who took me to task for my roundness.  meaning that i always seem to question myself as a poet & the utility of poetry particularly in our recent mad days.  & i usually answer myself that for me poetry is a life-saving, soul gathering, practice.  so why continue to beat myself up?  i don't have a clear answer for that.  my friend calls my self-questioning a koan.  perhaps it is & so with a koan the adept continues to repeat it until it unlocks its mysteries.  & still the koan can stay mysterious.  & yet, i've never doubted myself as a poet or the  necessity of poetry of my own life.  i suspect i will keep repeating my koan until i become a boddhisattva.  right??? at any rate, every few years i return to the poetry of robert creeley who is something of a lodestar of mine.  i read him very early.  creeley's minimal poetics of plain speech resonated with my own stripped down poetics.  & yet, his poems are as mysterious as a koan.  plus, creeley adapts to & adopts technology, like digital technology, & is not afraid of newer forms of communication.  i watched VHS tapes by the Lannan Foundation of creeley reading.  he adapted to email & websites.  indeed, the best BAP series, in my humble opinion, was edited by creeley in 2004 which was one of the first anthologies of its kind that included electronic journals in addition to traditional paper lit. mags.  & now, in my hour of need, i find that there are dozens of robert creeley videos on youtube including this one where the wonderful poet describes in his own illimitable way that the greatness of poetry is inscribed by its own uselessness.  we all may not agree with creeley's analysis of the uselessness of poetry but for me, at this moment, it is a much needed analgesic for what ails me.  

portrait of the poet walking happy on the roof of hell

 

 & at the end of my days i hope to sing still the horror & beauty of this world

quote unquote

these are the days of miracle & wonder, don't cry baby, don't cry, don't cry

--paul simon

 days of poetry & wine

mel c thompson's publishing arm is trying something new.  publishing poems on bottles of wine.  this bottle of poetry vino arrived on my doorstep last weekend.  i was - am - thrilled to receive it.  but i am conflicted.  should i un-screw the cork & drink of the wine?  or should i leave it as it is like an unopened book.  i don't know.  i am a wine newbie too.  i don't know what type of wine jonathan hayes' haiku graces.  so i think i'll leave wine un-drunk.  easier for me since my beverages of choice/vice are coffee & beer.  still, i can't guarantee i won't drink it.  the holidays are fast approaching.  i can envision an evening when i eyeball the bottle sitting on my kitchen counter & it beckons me like a siren to ulysses's men.  should i succumb to its song i hope to find a sprig of moly to conjure me back to form.  

 poet hugging trees

lars palm embraces a tree cuz every thing & every being is connected on this little blue speck in the universe

[pic taken from lars palm's blog cheeky editions]

procrastination

my inchoate notes, my thoughts/ideas, my fingers on the keyboard, when should i start writing, 5 minutes from now, when does it need to get done, yesterday 

new year's eve

i think we should all get a sticker, the type they used to hand out after riding a really scary rollercoaster, on new year's eve, that reads

i survived 2020 

then, on new year's day we all get a sticker printed on it with a question

what comes next?

bark at the moon

homage ozzy osbourne

the poet claims no special magic, no special skills, but the ability to point & say holyfuckingshit look at that!, & do what rene char says, the poet bursts the bonds of what s/he touches, s/he doesn't teach the end of bonds, & be the hound that takes pleasure barking at the moon

casablanca

of all the richardlopez's 

of all the world

he walks into mine

2020

what comes next?

              motherfucking godzilla

rising from the sea? 

holy shit

i 

saw a little

blue in the sky

quote unquote

If they cut my bald head open, they will find one big boxing glove.  That's all I am.  I live it.

--marvelous marvin hagler

 

it looks like fog.  it smells like a campfire.  the ash is everywhere.  even at the gas station i opened the gas cap of the family truckster.  ash.  not in the tank.  but on the area around the gas cap.  the place that is covered with its own little door.  ash got inside that area.

the smell hit me the moment i stepped outside.  thick acrid smoke.  like the gate of hell cracked open.  i took my time walking home from work.  slow.  i took several pictures of the sky, the orange ball of sun, the buildings fogged in smoke.  i texted these pics to friends & relayed my astonishment at the severity of the fires.  they are worse than i can remember of past wildfires.  

every year these climate events get more intense & destructive.  this is the world i give to my son.  i hope he, & all the children who inherit their place on this planet, can do a little better than us.  

my right eye is bloodshot from the smoke.  it was stupid of me to walk home when the air is so bad my weather app should have a skull & crossbones instead of a message that the air quality is extremely unhealthy.  

i think of those pop songs that tell us the world is on fire.  at the moment, my little postage stamp of place on this earth, is on fire.    sac is not in danger of burning.  but the flames are close by.  i fear that this is just the beginning. we have disrupted the climate.  we have not seen, by far, the worst that is still to come.

'poetry is also an essential service'

midday 

sun 

balled into a fist

grey clouds [not clouds] cover the sun

ash every where & on every thing

geese flying south

the unofficial theme song for summer 2020

 

the other side of summer

i've not written a poem for a few weeks now.  not that i'm terribly worried about writing or not writing.  i let myself go fallow when i need to.  the world has plenty of poems already in it.  still, it's been ungodly hot here the last few days.  well over 100 F.  the wildfires are fucking insane.  the air is thick with smoke.  it looks like orange clouds cover.  & everything is covered in ash.  the power grid gave up the ghost around 3:30 pm & we were without AC or anything else.  electricity is only noticeable when it is absent.  same goes for the internet.  so we took a road trip to at least have some AC from our vehicle until the grid was repaired.  what else?  anna & i have not gone anywhere or done anything this holiday weekend.  the pandemic is raging.  the heat is hellish.  the wildfires are making unholy.  we've binge watched cobra kai & young wallander on netflix.  the former is a sequel of sorts to karate kid [1984] with the two protagonists, danny larusso & johnny lawrence are 50-something men who can't let go of their high school era feud.  the latter is based on the fictive swedish detective kurt wallander created by the late writer henning mankel.  both series are very good.  we like scandinavian noir.  but i really really dig cobra kai.  you'd think the series would be a cheap money grab of '80s nostalgia.  rather, it is a deep dive into growing up even in late middle age.  the writing sparkles, & the editing keeps the pace of the narratives just this shy of manic.  crazy without going nuts.  of course i read poems all the time but my reading lately is slapdash.  i seem to no longer read poetry books from cover to cover.  i read poem to poem.  i open the books up at random pages.  plus i read a lot of poems online.  i do.  i think many of us do.  pdfs, blogs, twitter, etc etc.  digital life is become just life.  i'm glad this summer is nearly over.  this is a summer like no other i can remember.  what comes next?  fuck knows.  but here is an 'older' elvis costello song to lead us out of summertime.  'good night, god bless, & kiss goodbye to the earth'.  

michael dennis

ottawa based poet michael dennis is one of my favorite writers & human beings.  i've written about him before & reviewed two of his books here,  one of the many things i admire about michael is his goodness & his practice of kindness.  the poet says in a poem that kindness is more important than poetry.  to which i say, oh fuck yeah.  still, even better is when a good poet is a good person.  michael dennis is that & more.  over the last few years we've also become good email friends.  we've not met in person.  i think we talked on the phone just once.  & yet, like the poets of old, it is by correspondence upon which our friendship is made.  thank god too for the interwebs otherwise i'd probably never have discovered michael's poetry.  anyway, i just wanted to point out this brilliant interview by another of michael's great friends, his own brother from another mother, poet stuart ross.  together they talk about friendship, kindness, poetry, garbage collection, & michael's recently shuttered review blog, today's book of poetry, which is still up & can be found in my links to the right, & also by clicking here.  i agree with stuart & michael that poetic ego is a cornball attitude toward the art & life.  if you like a poet's work say so.  write a little about that poet.  drop the poet a line via email, or twitter, or instagram, or whatever social media of your choosing.  most of us have some online presence.  just a good word here & there about the poets & poetry you love makes a huge impact for all of us in the art.  & it is something i need to do more of too.  we got just this one go at life & creation.  make it count.  

so please click on this link to read an interview with the poet michael dennis done by his great friend stuart ross.