Posts tagged ‘current’
About Current Poetry and Web Publishing
Of mine, I mean. Most, perhaps all of what’s been published here is from a manuscript that was totally closed as of the late 80’s. I am obviously what’s modernly termed obsessive-compulsive; I made changes after that…and most if not all simply got changed back. The new stuff will be pulled for more than one reason. One is the confusion (amply noted by Mike Masnick) of modern publishers of various sorts of media as to whether web publication counts re copyright and it only gets more involved after that. Another is that historically, since about 1979 in fact, I have never allowed new poetry to see the light of day. I might tell the story another day.
So. If it says “current poetry” I actually intend to delete it in no more than a week. In all probability my other current large blog is just going to have to go to friends-only, although I’m quite open about friends. The reason is publishers and visibility–and the force of the law is in fact behind them. Quite confusedly, to boot. Whatever.
–Glenn
stillnesses: current poetry
stillnesses
caught
in a moment’s dumbed remembrance
how odd
to find myself
muttering your name
again and again
——————————————–
Glenn
on silence (101)
that i cannot say your name
though i remember it
is a knife’s-edge loss
————————————
Glenn
song of the dead city
Song of the Dead City
crystal, distorted moments:
this young girl’s breast
for a moment revealed, and i,
twice her age, cannot quite
look away, though
i do not move to touch her.
and as a child, at her age,
i can remember watching, just so,
my untouched love by-walking,
unglancing: recording
each hip-shot sway,
each graceful curve’s allurement.
(in Alexandria, they say,
the Blind King parties, of nights,
in the ancient ruins.
ghosts and mad fancies:
i knew
the wise man quite well, once,
long ago.)
how many names have i called?
and how many paths
have i sought, yet unbelieving
in my course’s goal?…i have not seen,
i hope to touch
my Grail, my Other:
from some single
point, or focus:
to know all earth, the sky.
the meaning
of these traces, touches,
approaches
cannot be said nor bound.
that trickster turner
catches and passes, unslain,
unslaying, unsaid…
II
In the Dead City
i resided a while.
At first, viewing
the new buildings,
the gleaming cars
i could not understand its name.
But when i
approached you,
you could not
hear me.
Too many questions
thronged
behind the first admission.
…silent, stumbling, deathly
tired, i entered
the desert.
(as i scribe my poems
on the sand, the conscientious
keeper of the desert, wind,
whisks each line, each trace
away.)
III
Few words
have been meaning, most touches
have merely
slipped away: and have been,
on the whole, forgotten.
–When I first met you, i’d been
in the desert
some months. My lips
were cracked and dry, my eyes
were full of visions…
in the dead city, where
the madmen and the thieves
do roam and stray, you
tended my wounds, my aching
head.
i fascinated you: ragged, long-haired,
dirty…
but the wolves
or the madmen (i am not,
i confess, quite sure which) howled
and i left, unheeding
to your calls. (In
the Dead City, you
tended my wounds, and i
left you.)
i returned
to the desert and its
wordless teachings.
o, i say, do you
remember touching me
in the Dead City?
IV
and once by a river
i saw an old man,
muttering,
i heard the old man
muttering
“i would have silence,
silence and a dry crust,
peace
and a dry crust
“i would come under
the shadow of that Rock,
that red rock, that
dry rock,
i would come under
the shadow of that
rock…
“but at the Hill
there was no answer,
i could not find
that open grave, i…
“i found no silence,
no peace, only plenty
and much
merry-making, they…
“they have all become rich:
in the sanctum
whited sepulchres, they
know not hunger
nor any need, they
have become rich.”
i saw his hands, too,
marred by scars, as if,
once, his palms
had been pierced…
his hair was long, and wild
as his eyes; no
salon would be graced
by such a one…
he sat by the river and
wept, sat by the
by-rushing and wept…
wept for the unborn
dead and all
the world’s sorrows, wept…
but his shoulders, bowed,
would no longer
support the world’s weight…
o, but having
heard the Man
and his sorrowing cry, i
can but search
for the shadow
of that Rock,
his rock.
V
In the city of the dead,
in that City, madmen roam
to and fro,
seeking for a god
whose name they
no longer remember.
(Once, i recall,
i saw one sitting
in the seat of an auto
long dead. That great
God, i say, was dead.)
VI
These visions
are illusive, lending
little connection.
But once, bathing
nude with a girl, i think
she was sixteen, and beautiful,
i
made no attempt
to seduce her.
Wisdom
may be called
many things.
Absent-eyed, dreaming
in a fall wind, i journey
far straits, datheless voyages.
VII
The winter, that year,
came early, bitter (ah, but
i remember
the summer’s roses, sweeter
for the cold that followed)…
each huddled each
to house, clasping
what need would call
one’s love…
odd, that the spring
should sunder so many! perhaps
we know little
of those mysteries, our selves.
VIII
o, yes, travellers have come
with names of their gods
and stories of strange visions, promises
of never-never lands…
the world remains. though
i name the thunder Thor,
and call the earth Urmutter
this makes the name
no less of man, no more
of the thing itself.
at the fane of the dark,
the nameless god, we gathered
to celebrate our mutilation.
(i have not seen the
light in some years, now)…
our habits have scarred us,
here, in this desert-bordering
city. (the blind boy, sitting
across the square from my door,
sings of sunset.)
fugitive dreams, vain fancies, thoughts
of an old man
in a dry and unsolaced
season. (peace, and a dry crust)
IX
I saw you, last night,
dancing alone in your rooms,
half-nude, with
a slow and stately grace.
But when i called you,
you would not or could not
answer.
Passing one another on the street,
at times, we brush.
Though we’re near neighbors,
you’ve never deigned to
notice me or my
feeble gestures of greeting
(your beauty stuns me dumb)
–i should have been
a hermit, an ascetic.
rather, i hesitate
before touching or its lack
neither affirm love
nor gainsay it.
but, as you pass once again–
as i review private, midnight
glances–
at times i ache to touch you.
X
At times i ache
in the west wind, dreaming
of leaving. I
have been here
four years, now.
(I know these hills well.
Spring-green, summered
tinder dry; autumn-russet
and, of winter, again perversely
green…my memory
as my socks ticked
with beggars-lice…)
There is so much
i’ll never know, though
through all those
different countries i’ve known
there was really
all difference, small change…
At times, all the faces
i’ve known parade
before me…perhaps
i have had too many
friends and lovers.
dry man in a wet month,
glooming over following winter: perhaps
we’re jesters all. as i stare,
disconsolate, desiring
my untouched, unknown,
mysterious Other.
—————————————————-
This dates from about 1972, although I worked on it for another eight years or so. I wanted to have the literary references without clumsiness and indeed without being necessary. The major attribution is to Samuel Delany’s Dahlgren. I am not saying that anything else much was in common. I would hope the one major homage poetrywise is obvious although it certainly isn’t linear.
When I quit working on it, I closed the “voices” manuscript. Otherwise, it would have become compulsive. In my poetry I don’t capitalize the personal pronoun for a very simple reason. English is the only language in the world to capitalize the personal pronoun. Such usage in my opinion has an intrinsic, inescapable effect.
As far as the “meaning” of this goes, I’m sorry but I can’t actually help you. I am a relativist (that’s as close as current English can come to my actual philosophical stance) and in this case it definitely means that the creation is (rather necessarily) a private event, while the spectator’s is another and just as valid. That means I disagree with a lot of English teachers that want to tell you how to read. O well.
Enough.
–Glenn and no doubt the second time I’ve done this.
A Truly Different Hiding Place…
Make sure you don’t rustle after a bank robbery…talk about dirty money.
–Glenn
second in ‘a journey toward the nameless one’
2. Refracted Reflections
i think maybe each passage
marks us,
most especially in our actions
and those named knowledges
we seek
or flee,
there is
i suspect
or maybe “know”, no
escape. these names aren’t lent us
they mark us
as we, cattled
respond peacefully
to that gentle voice, in
the instant before our slaughter.
——————————————-
Glenn
8]
you can’t trust anyone, these days
Symantec had an interesting blog entry up today. Malware writers are trying to write in EULA’s (End User License Agreement, a ‘legal’ contract). Follow the link and you’ll read it. Basically, it’s the same kind of contract you get on software you buy off the ‘Net or from a store.
–Glenn