Counterbalance

If There is Something to Desire...

I'm falling a bit in love with poetry again. For the umpteenth time. Not sure if it's the amount of time I have, or if it is more that I want to immerse myself in language again - not just story. Could be the mad rush of reading I've just completed for this weekend's LA Times Festival of Books (I've got another post to link to on Graphic Novels, I'll do that tomorrow), but I'm feeling plotted out and structured out and, well, poetry just feels right. Right now. Here's what's healing me at the moment:

If There is Something to Desire
by Vera Pavlova
I discovered this book on a lark as I was perusing the poetry section, casting about for something to recast the overly structured, overly plotted world I've been immersed in. I'll be honest: the cover grabbed me. Being a type junkie has it's downfalls & I do like a nice cover. Yet, a nice cover doesn't always = nice contents, so I'm oh so happy to find that in this case, the cover was just the precursor to more greatness within.

While this is Pavlova's fifteenth book of poetry, it is her first in English and I find that utterly fascinating. The language is so spare, so perfectly economical while also evocative that I'm in awe & a bit delighted & a bit in love with language again. She conveys much with just a few simple words. Not overly vainglorious (ha!) words that shout "hey look at me using these massive words in a poem that only has three sentences"  - I hate that.

More than anything else, I find the poems in this collection to have just the balance of warmth, wit and wisdom I'm seeking right now. Not overly cynical, but a clear-eyed look at the world as it is, a desire to appreciate what we can, a nudge to enjoy life for what it is, a demand to make more out of it than we currently are. I might be heaping too much upon Pavlova, but that's what I'm getting out of this slim volume at the moment. I realize I may be projecting.

The Book of Questions
by Pablo Neruda

Not mind-blowingly original, I know. Yet I find myself coming back to Neruda again and again. While I've read many of Neruda's poems throughout the years (and read more criticism and biographical works about his work), I've never taken up the infamous Book of Questions. My current need for spare language and big ideas seemed perfectly suited to the themes of this volume, to the big questions asked and not answered. Such as:

Is the sun the same as yesterday's
or is this fire different from that fire?

                   -and- 

Will our life not be a tunnel
between two vague clarities?

                   -and- 

And why did cheese decide
to perform heroic deeds in France?

What I've found so far is that this volume is less about poetry for me and far more about taking time - and creating the space - to think. Really think. Neruda's questions have slowed my pace and has somehow gotten me back to a more contemplative (if sometimes cheeky) mode...the very mode needed for writing longer fiction. So, yeah, I'm digging Neruda at the moment. Again.

Lit Bits & A Bit about Months

• I've finished Antoine Wilson's The Interloper.  This is a tough book to talk about without giving it all away. But. He's done something structurally that has helped me with my own book. I was stuck and now I'm less stuck.  While I've never found early reviews to be accurate, the press Booklist blurb of the book is dead on: "The pleasures of this wry debut novel lie not in wondering if things will turn out badly for Owen but in how badly they will go." I had read this quote before reading the book and thought, "Nah, it can't be."  Oh, but it can.  More to come.
• The LA Times Book Prizes were announced on Friday and my we said/they said look at the winners is up at LAist.
• I owe you things: Wrap-up of the A.M. Homes reading, complete with rudest ever Q & A coverage. Post on Kiran Desai's reading which still has me thinking all sorts of interesting things many weeks later. Thoughts on Jamestown. Thoughts on Distant Star. Overview of the Maggie Nelson & Matthew Sharpe reading on Sunday. A proper wrap-up of poetry month. Those last three poems will be posted.
• So about the months: Last month, it was poetry. This month, it is the Short Story. Next month, it is the world. I'm tuckered after poetry month, yet I can't seem to turn fully away from the Short Story celebration, as it's a form I love and short stories don't get nearly enough attention. But how to participate in a meaningful way? Pointing out one story a day requires a commitment I'm not ready to give, yet only one a week seems paltry when there are so many I love. I think I'll commit to sporadic coverage throughout the month that equals more than four posts but less than 31. Of course, this will pale in comparison to the 62 posts Dan has promised. He baffles me. If you have any short stories or short story collections that you especially love, email me.  They'll appear in the column to the right, in place of the now-passed poetry month listings (which I've moved farther down the column.)
• To start off with a bang, I will cheat, cheat, cheat and say that Pinky's LBC recommendation of Alan DeNiro's Skinny Dipping in the Lake of the Dead is yummy.  A great short story collection that I'm enjoying immensely.
• Update: Starting off Short Story Month right: the Frank O'Connor Short Story Award long list...

April 27: Moly by Thom Gunn

I promised you good stuff and I meant it: after the treat of hearing Kleinzahler read his own work, Ami has now made it possible, through the magic of the interwebs, to listen to Kleinzahler reading Thom Gunn's work!  I know, crazy good, right?  I love Kleinzahler's reading style -- very firm, confident -- yet also slow, deliberate and even...soft?  I think I'd like to have dinner with him. Or go to a rock concert with him. Or the zoo. Or, just sit and listen to him read other works. Divine.

Here's the text for the Thom Gunn poem he reads:

Moly by Thom Gunn

Nightmare of beasthood, snorting, how to wake.
I woke. What beasthood skin she made me take?

Leathery toad that ruts for days on end,
Or cringing dribbling dog, man's servile friend,

Or cat that prettily pounces on its meat,
Tortures it hours, then does not care to eat:

Parrot, moth, shark, wolf, crocodile, ass, flea.
What germs, what jostling mobs there were in me.

These seem like bristles, and the hide is tough.
No claw or web here: each foot ends in hoof.

Into what bulk has method disappeared?
Like ham, streaked. I am gross--grey, gross, flap-eared.

The pale-lashed eyes my only human feature.
My teeth tear, tear. I am the snouted creature

That bites through anything, root, wire, or can.
If I was not afraid I'd eat a man.

Oh a man's flesh already is in mine.
Hand and foot poised for risk. Buried in swine.

I root and root, you think that it is greed,
It is, but I seek out a plant I need.

Direct me, gods, whose changes are all holy
To where it flickers deep in grass, the moly:

Cool flesh of magic in each leaf and shoot,
From milky flower to the black forked root.

From this fat dungeon I could rise to skin
And human title, putting pig within.

I push my big grey wet snout through the green,
Dreaming of the flower I have never seen.

by Thom Gunn
from Moly

April 27: Green Sees Things in Waves by August Kleinzahler

As part of National Poetry Month, I've tried to unearth some poetry favorites -- both mine and yours -- but I've saved the best for almost-last: Ami Greko of FSG has kindly invited me to take part in the celebration of their poets. Several of you have pointed out her blog and have noted how clutch it is that someone in her role "gets" litblogs.  Her effusive enthusiasm for poetry has been a joy to visit each day this month. Such a joy, that I secretly (and now less secretly) hope she'll continue to blog after National Poetry Month is over. It is in the spaces between the planned posts where the good stuff lives and Ami's got it in spades.

I feel quite lucky to share the text of two outstanding poems today by two of my favorite poets.  The first poem is Green Sees Things in Waves by August Kleinzahler. Ami has the audio of Kleinzahler's reading up at the FSG poetry blog. Please check it out and enjoy.  It is delicious stuff:

Green Sees Things in Waves

Green first thing each day sees waves--
the chair, armoire, overhead fixtures, you name it,
waves---which, you might say, things really are,
but Green just lies there awhile breathing
long slow breaths, in and out, through his mouth
like he was maybe seasick, until in an hour or so
the waves simmer down and then the trails and colors
off of things, that all quiets down as well and Green
starts to think of washing up, breakfast even
with everything moving all around, colors, trails,
and sounds, from the street and plumbing next door,
vibrating---of course you might say that's what
sound really is, after all, vibrations---but Green,
he's not thinking of physics at this stage, nuh-uh,
our boy's only trying to get himself out of bed,
get a grip, but sometimes, and this is the kicker,
another party, shall we say, is in the room
with Green, and Green knows this other party
and they do not get along, which understates it
quite a bit, quite a bit, and Green knows
that this other cat is an hallucinaation, right,
but these two have a routine that goes way back
and Green starts hollering, throwing stuff
until he's all shook up, whole day gone to hell,
bummer...

                Anyhow, the docs are having a look,
see if they can't dream up a cocktail,
but seems our boy ate quite a pile of acid one time,
clinical, wow, enough juice for half a block---
go go go, little Greenie---blew the wiring out
from behind his headlights and now, no matter what,
can't find the knob to turn off the show.

by August Kleinzahler
from Green Sees Things in Waves

April 26: Copyright Renewal Under the Texaco Star by Jeffery Dye

Copyright Renewal Under the Texaco Star

The sass pumping my gas
Is flashing a come-hither tattoo--
Kokopelli, the gigolo flute player
(After some Anasazi petroglyphs.)
And you know
The way it peekabooks into view
When her arm eclipses the blaze of the windshield,
A five-color icon, conga dancing through that tan line,
And the way the waist of her oversized, orange jumpsuit
Grabs ass when she roll-casts the air hose
Out of the way of my going,
Lug sole boots by R. Crumb
Zippering the tarmac,
Walk-away wink,
You just know
How Susanna burned those elders down.

by Jeffery Dye
from The Threepenny Review, Winter 1999

April 25: To be of use by Marge Piercy

Marge Piercy's intense poem (one of my favorites) is the second in a set of three poems that Matthew Tiffany has generously sent over for his contribution to our celebration of National Poetry Month.  Enjoy:

To be of use

The people I love the best
jump into work head first
without dallying in the shallows
and swim off with sure strokes almost out of sight.
They seem to become natives of that element,
the black sleek heads of seals
bouncing like half-submerged balls.

I love people who harness themselves, an ox to a heavy cart,
who pull like water buffalo, with massive patience,
who strain in the mud and the muck to move things forward,
who do what has to be done, again and again.

I want to be with people who submerge
in the task, who go into the fields to harvest
and work in a row and pass the bags along,
who stand in the line and haul in their places,
who are not parlor generals and field deserters
but move in a common rhythm
when the food must come in or the fire be put out.

The work of the world is common as mud.
Botched, it smears the hands, crumbles to dust.
But the thing worth doing well done
has a shape that satisfies, clean and evident.
Greek amphoras for wine and oil,
Hopi vases that held corn, are put in museums
but you know they were made to be used.

The pitcher cries for water to carry
and a person for work that is real.

Copyright © 1982 by Marge Piercy
from Circles on the Water

April 24: Dog by Lawrence Ferlinghetti

Jeff Bryant of the spot-on Syntax of Things directed me towards his favorite poem for National Poetry Month. He recently posted this on his own site in honor of Ferlinghetti's 88th birthday and included a sweet audio clip that I include here as well.  Nothing better than hearing the poet read his poem...especially in the case of Ferlinghetti. Enjoy!

Dog

The dog trots freely in the street
and sees reality
and the things he sees
are bigger than himself
and the things he sees
are his reality
Drunks in doorways
Moons on trees
The dog trots freely thru the street
and the things he sees
are smaller than himself
Fish on newsprint
Ants in holes
Chickens in Chinatown windows
their heads a block away
The dog trots freely in the street
and the things he smells
smell something like himself
The dog trots freely in the street
past puddles and babies
cats and cigars
poolrooms and policemen
He doesn't hate cops
He merely has no use for them
and he goes past them
and past the dead cows hung up whole
in front of the San Francisco Meat Market
He would rather eat a tender cow
than a tough policeman
though either might do
And he goes past the Romeo Ravioli Factory
and past Coit's Tower
and past Congressman Doyle of the Unamerican Committee
He's afraid of Coit's Tower
but he's not afraid of Congressman Doyle
although what he hears is very discouraging
very depressing
very absurd
to a sad young dog like himself
to a serious dog like himself
But he has his own free world to live in
His own fleas to eat
He will not be muzzled
Congressman Doyle is just another
fire hydrant
to him
The dog trots freely in the street
and has his own dog's life to live
and to think about
and to reflect upon
touching and tasting and testing everything
investigating everything
without benefit of perjury
a real realist
with a real tale to tell
and a real tail to tell it with
a real live
	   barking
		  democratic dog
engaged in real
		free enterprise
with something to say
		         about ontology
something to say
		about reality
			        and how to see it
					      and how to hear it
with his head cocked sideways
			        at streetcorners
as if he is just about to have
			  his picture taken
				              for Victor Records
		         listening for
				His Master's Voice
	and looking
		       like a living questionmark
				       into the
			               great gramophone
			           of puzzling existence
           with its wondrous hollow horn
	      which always seems
               just about to spout forth
			         some Victorious answer
				     to everything

by Lawrence Ferlinghetti

April 23: A Performance at Hog Theater by Ruseell Edson

A Performance at Hog Theater

There was once a hog theater where hogs performed as men, had men been hogs.

One hog said, I will be a hog in a field which has found a mouse which is being eaten by the same hog which is in the field and which has found the mouse, which I am performing as my contribution to the performer's art.

Oh let's just be hogs, cried an old hog.

And so the hogs streatmed out of the theater crying, only hogs, only hogs...

by Russell Edson
from Postmodern American Poetry

April 22: Marginalia by Billy Collins

Marginalia

Sometimes the notes are ferocious, skirmishes against the author raging along the borders of every page in tiny black script. If I could just get my hands on you, Kierkegaard, or Conor Cruise O'Brien, they seem to say, I would bolt the door and beat some logic into your head. Other comments are more offhand, dismissive - "Nonsense." "Please!" "HA!!" - that kind of thing. I remember once looking up from my reading, my thumb as a bookmark, trying to imagine what the person must look like why wrote "Don't be a ninny" alongside a paragraph in The Life of Emily Dickinson. Students are more modest needing to leave only their splayed footprints along the shore of the page. One scrawls "Metaphor" next to a stanza of Eliot's. Another notes the presence of "Irony" fifty times outside the paragraphs of A Modest Proposal. Or they are fans who cheer from the empty bleachers, Hands cupped around their mouths. "Absolutely," they shout to Duns Scotus and James Baldwin. "Yes." "Bull's-eye." "My man!" Check marks, asterisks, and exclamation points rain down along the sidelines. And if you have managed to graduate from college without ever having written "Man vs. Nature" in a margin, perhaps now is the time to take one step forward. We have all seized the white perimeter as our own and reached for a pen if only to show we did not just laze in an armchair turning pages; we pressed a thought into the wayside, planted an impression along the verge. Even Irish monks in their cold scriptoria jotted along the borders of the Gospels brief asides about the pains of copying, a bird signing near their window, or the sunlight that illuminated their page- anonymous men catching a ride into the future on a vessel more lasting than themselves. And you have not read Joshua Reynolds, they say, until you have read him enwreathed with Blake's furious scribbling. Yet the one I think of most often, the one that dangles from me like a locket, was written in the copy of Catcher in the Rye I borrowed from the local library one slow, hot summer. I was just beginning high school then, reading books on a davenport in my parents' living room, and I cannot tell you how vastly my loneliness was deepened, how poignant and amplified the world before me seemed, when I found on one page A few greasy looking smears and next to them, written in soft pencil- by a beautiful girl, I could tell, whom I would never meet- "Pardon the egg salad stains, but I'm in love."

April 21: At the Same Time by Marianne Boruch

At the Same Time

An annotated list: rain, not
rain (proof: I was squinting),

or everyone grinning
in the photograph despite cancer,

the little strokes arriving,
one knuckle at a time, now

or not yet, dark ghostings
in the side vision: his, hers,

yours, mine. At the same time nothing
then something left on the porch,

a can of coconut milk, a note
in green ink, a package

of spices for laksa, soup
of the gods. We are not gods, the huge nun
breathed up, all of her pitched

over us, filling the room, fierce
smile that frowned. She was

way too big to be human.
We were small, the beginning

of human. See? Close your eyes,
she flooded us again.

by Marianne Boruch
from Gettysburgh Review Spring 2006

but I talk to one