Poem in the Middle of the Afternoon

This afternoon I am bored by poetry
so I open the window to my bedroom
and feed a pigeon named Rex, “a flying rat,”
as my octogenarian neighbor calls it,
and yell to the super down in the courtyard
that the actress I am seeing,
a leggy, toothsome brunette from Estonia,
or perhaps the former Czechoslovakia,
I don’t remember which one, exactly,
because maps are confusing to read and borders
are always redrawn to suit the wishes of military
strongmen anyhow, has asked me
to marry her, even though we’ve never
met in real life, as the kids like to say—
just in the pages of the local celebrity
magazine, each new edition of which I keep
in a locked, lead box under my bed
in the event that I miss her and feel the need
to rub my face with a picture of her
at the Oscars or a charity golf game,
even though I don’t particularly like popular films,
and despite the truth that golf is meant
as a leisure activity for the bourgeoisie. My super,
who goes by “Papi” or “San Isidro,” depending
on the weather forecast, yells something
in Spanish (Quechua?) so twisted it sounds
like he’s repeating a recipe, one which does not
call for capers, despite my fondness for them
and for exotic tastes in general. As a way of saying
thanks, I call him a “son of a bitch” and an “asshole,”
because this is how men in New York behave,
even when there is nothing to be angry about;
“such are the vagaries of language and the human
spirit,” I add in the event that he expects a healthy
tip, during Christmastime, for his efforts. I then close
the window, making sure Rex remains on the ledge,
and later wonder, while sitting in an E-Z chair,
what to make of this American malaise.

Poetry News & Notes

The Creative Writing Program at NYU will host a tribute to Jack Gilbert in celebration of the poet's most recent book, The Dance Most of All, at 7 PM on Tuesday, May 12, 2009, at the school's Cantor Film Center. Given Gilbert's advanced age, this may be one of the last readings that he'll give in New York City. Click on the title of this post for details and additional information.

Also due to read:
--Linda Gregg;
--Jim Finnegan;
--Mary Karr;
--Gerald Stern;
and others.

Quote of the Day

No poet, no artist of any art, has his complete meaning alone. - T.S. Eliot, writing in Tradition and the Individual Talent

New American Tragedies

During one afternoon a couple of years ago at City College, while taking a study break in the English majors' lounge, I decided to look through the department's collection of literary journals, some of which dated back some thirty years. I could not help but wonder, as the name of writer after unknown writer passed over my eyes, whether, in time, another young man would come across my own work in some journal, and whether he would take a brief second to consider my life, my desires and impulses, my place in a world that measures its citizens by the weight of language. A grief then came over me, not because I feared that I would one day join the ranks of minor, forgotten writers (there are far worse identities to be had, to be sure), but because it occurred to me that so much of the writing life, this true circus, is about glorified failure, ready-made.

*

All of this is to say that I haven't written a single line of creative work since December 2007, which leads me to a certain preoccupation: Will the urge to write, once seemingly natural and ingrained, return? Will it be a matter of time before pen is set against paper, or will I have to relinquish that title, dear writer, I've worked so hard to develop?

*

Outside, somewhere in Prospect Park, parents are cheering their well-trained children, dressed in clean, multi-colored uniforms, running on the basepaths--perhaps at the expense of their own lives.

*

I should clarify that second point: I wrote a line of poetry just yesterday. It is only a line, a brief and not altogether good one, which, for the sake of readers not aware of the concept of failure, I shall keep to myself.

*

And now, a chorus of seven Vespas, so foreign, in a formation normally the domain of fighter pilots, on the road just beyond her third-floor window.

[D - R]

Two Poems by Linh Dinh

Caption

Before photography, people didn't exist.
Blow it up, I'm in the doctored details

In this picture, and this one, I'm in
Each photo, in the cool blur, in the

Brown cloud, my tiny head redrawn,
My splayed limbs cropped. I hammed.

I'm telling you, I've slept many times
With near celebrities. True, I'm lying

Face down, here, in the mud, my pants
stained with too much clarity. My bones

May dissolve in a toxic tub, but long
As this photo shall last, I won't fade.

*

Not Quite Symmetry

Broke, I'd like to borrow your lower half,
Wear it for a day, to make some coins. I'd

Love to enter you, snug, but not through
The usual channel. You can invade me,

Feel my convexity, as I'm ventilated
By your absence, there, in the crotch.

My eyes shaded by your eyelids, I'll
Conform to your nose's architecture,

Breathe this life through your nostrils.

--as published in the March 2008 issue of The Brooklyn Rail

Cold Spells

I would like to be congratulated for being the last person in the known universe to have acquired a high-speed internet connection, which is pure genius. I can now download all sorts of songs, recipes, and instructions for constructing ray-guns without having to wait for what feels like weeks.

*

Cat Power's version of "New York, New York" (simply "New York") makes me tremble: If this is emotional tyranny, then I don't want freedom.

*

cold-drill, the journal of the MFA program at Boise State University, has accepted "This Medicine May Cause Blurred Vision" for publication.

*

After seeing Il Postino again (with Laura, this time), that terribly sweet film about love and exile, I remain convinced that poetry does have some sort of purpose, that it does, indeed, have a place in the lives of the [un]common, the now.

*

Currently in rotation:

Sons & Daughters - "Chains"
Bruce Springsteen - "Radio Nowhere"
Paul Westerberg - "High Time"
Asian Dub Foundation - "Naxalite"

*

The poet, whose name I cannot recall at the moment, says:

We love what we cannot know...

[d | r]

Close, But No Fine, Hand-Rolled, Imported Cuban Cigar

Dear Danny _________:

Thank you for sending us "The Cartographer." We really enjoyed this piece, but it didn't work for (esteemed literary journal) right now. We hope that you will continue to send us your work.

Sincerely,
The Editors of (esteemed literary journal)

Charles Simic for the Win

Charles Simic has been named the new poet laureate of the United States. Of the new consultant to the Library of Congress, the Academy of American Poets writes: Simic was appointed the fifteenth Poet Laureate Consultant in Poetry in 2007. About the appointment, Librarian of Congress James H. Billington said, "The range of Charles Simic's imagination is evident in his stunning and unusual imagery. He handles language with the skill of a master craftsman, yet his poems are easily accessible, often meditative and surprising. He has given us a rich body of highly organized poetry with shades of darkness and flashes of ironic humor."

Late September

The mail truck goes down the coast
Carrying a single letter.
At the end of a long pier
The bored seagull lifts a leg now and then
And forgets to put it down.
There is a menace in the air
Of tragedies in the making.

Last night you thought you heard television
In the house next door.
You were sure it was some new
Horror they were reporting,
So you went out to find out.
Barefoot, wearing just shorts.
It was only the sea sounding weary
After so many lifetimes
Of pretending to be rushing off somewhere
And never getting anywhere.

This morning, it felt like Sunday.
The heavens did their part
By casting no shadow along the boardwalk
Or the row of vacant cottages,
Among them a small church
With a dozen gray tombstones huddled close
As if they, too, had the shivers.

"I prefer your face as it is now. Ravaged."

The above, it goes without saying, is the album cover of the year.

*

Is there anything cuter than Rufus Wainwright in lederhosen?

*

Ever notice how conservatives will resort to using words like "illegal," while liberals prefer to use "undocumented"?

*

Song of the Moment: CSS - "Fuck Off is Not the Only Thing You Have to Show" [Sub Pop, 2006]

*

Station platform scene. What unpredictable calm--it's the inner voice.
--Tomas Transtromer

*

We need not know the details of history to recognize its children.
--Tony Tost

*

Dislocate, the literary journal of the graduate creative writing program at the University of Minnesota, has published "Permanence."

With this event, modern American poetry has finally suffered creative collapse.

*

I'm in the middle of drawing up a summer reading list. So far (have you any suggestions?), I've only been able to come up with the following books:

Nicanor Parra - Antipoems: How to Look Better and Feel Good
Various - Scoring from Second: Writers on Baseball
Eliot Asinof - Eight Men Out: The Black Sox and the 1919 World Series
Dave Eggers - What Is the What*

*denotes nearly completed; progress impeded by arrival of life events.

*

I was looking forward to a cross-country road trip from Chicago to San Diego, but will have to do with with my own plans, tired heat.

*

how do we make sense
of such evil,

ashen stream over
Murray Street

Notes on the People We Love

Breaking News:

1. Word on the blogosphere (such an ugly word) has it that Elaine Equi's poem, "Etudes," has been selected for inclusion in Best American Poetry 2007. This appearance marks her fourth (if I'm counting correctly) in the series. The poem was first published in the second issue of The Tiny, the literary journal edited by Gina Meyers and Gabriella Torres.

Etudes

Autumn is a solitude.

Winter is a fortitude.

Spring is an altitude.

Summer is an attitude.

Summer is a multitude.

Autumn is an aptitude.

Winter is a quaalude.

Spring is a prelude.

Spring is a lassitude.

Summer is a longitude.

Autumn is a gratitude.

Winter is an interlude.

Winter is a beatitude.

Spring is a platitude.

Summer is a verisimilitude.

Autumn is a semi-nude.

2. The Seattle Times has written a story about AK Allin and her experiences as "The Poetess of Green Lake."

Congratulations to both Elaine and Mimi.

Links:

http://seattletimes.nwsource.com/html/localnews/2003591052_poetess27m.html

http://ronsilliman.blogspot.com/2007/02/i-havent-always-read-elaine-equis.html *

*Ron Silliman on Elaine Equi