thanks!walk woulda been significantly shorter but I tried to take a shortcut and went far out of my way — hadn't walked to the post office before, probably won't often, but it's nice to know that I can. (and I did write down some stuff at the post office before I came back, so it's not like it was all mentalism.)
― SBlendor in the grass (bernard snowy), Monday, 14 March 2011 21:26 (thirteen years ago) link
Frustrated and relatively uninformed reflections on the political situation:http://reelingatall.wordpress.com/2011/03/21/cheaper-than-bombs/
― the pinefox, Monday, 21 March 2011 14:09 (thirteen years ago) link
that's impressively written.
― j., Monday, 21 March 2011 15:02 (thirteen years ago) link
That is nice of you to say.
― the pinefox, Tuesday, 22 March 2011 00:40 (thirteen years ago) link
yesterday I got really blue and sat down and wrote an angry long-ass poem that I think has temporarily cured me of the need to write poetry, like pulling a bad tooth — poem wasn't bad either, I'll post it here in a sec
― bernard snowy, Tuesday, 22 March 2011 11:06 (thirteen years ago) link
where I’m at
A patchwork nest of colorsI have built myself down on the floor fromblankets beanbags pillowspapers clothing books guitarsfor crawling into on those nightsthe mattress grows into a mountainthat is difficult to summit.
My head, kept covered mostlyby one scrap of cloth or other,can be seen at times to peek outand regard the window sliverthat I keep the blinds suspended over—not so much for looking outas letting lightness enterand the heavy clouds escape(and also checking on the weather).Still, the view is nice enough:the foreground but a singleforking branch, set off againstthe sprays of purple dogwood,yellow something, birds andgrey uncolored sky;the wind keeps every limb in motion,more industrious than I.
But what the trees restore to methe animals steal back again:the anguish in the voice ofcats demanding to be fedcan make me miserable, frankly—I don’t know why, but somehowthey seem qualified to judge me,in a way that I withhold from others,so-called friends or former lovers,therapists and doctors,even closest family members.They sing to me of sadnessthat we both know I can remedy,and every second that I tarryis another strike against me.
But don’t I do the same?Begrudging people their indifference,the slowness of their humorsand the deafness of their consciences?Not that I want to forge a swordof sadness, and condemn the world;nor do you owe me anythingwho, even for an instant,pull apart these pagesto decipher what is written.Life sometimes has been friendly to me;still there is a tendencyfor everything to crumblein the presence of another.
I remember crouching,with the light on, underneath a quilt,and watching how its surface shimmeredlike a many-colored aspic,lime and salmon in suspension,and my tearful gales of laughing.(I had tidied up my roomand took a couple hits of acidfrom a summer long beforeI found forgotten in a folder.)I went downstairsto smoke a cigaretteand met my father,who looked older,frail and birdlike,in the glow of his computer.
He spoke to me with wordsI could not understand,and read a storyof a football playerwho had died the day before when hewas chasing down a pickup truckand jumped into the bed, but thenwas thrown and landed on his head.
I did not knowwhat I should say;but somehow feltI could relate.
That life must be a hellish thingI realized early on, and dealt withmore or less alone—as must, I figured, everyone.So when I reached my hand outI had hoped to find more sympathy,had hoped to find more comfort,and had hoped to make less enemies.I hoped the truck would slow down,and the driver spare a moment;but it didn’t, so I leapt,and perhaps I missed the targetand must now stop wasting wordsand forever soak in silence.
― bernard snowy, Tuesday, 22 March 2011 11:11 (thirteen years ago) link
You are extraordinarily productive!
I will try to make time to read your poem, properly.
― the pinefox, Tuesday, 22 March 2011 11:29 (thirteen years ago) link
But the specific function of libraries is not the only issue. There is also the sense that public places are being taken away; that in withdrawing provision for publicly owned spaces, the state is damaging the social fabric in which we live. I think that’s true.
I have similar feelings re: the current wave of cuts to public education, especially at the university level, which is one of the few things our country actually does well — it just seems absurd to me, in the face of an economic crisis (that is just as much a cultural crisis), to respond by hamstringing the institutions that serve young people who have very little to do with the current mess, but whose education may be a crucial means of avoiding the next one.
― bernard snowy, Tuesday, 22 March 2011 11:32 (thirteen years ago) link
xp haha, I've sort of forced myself to be productive lately... basically relying on it to pull me out of a bleak and painful depression. but it hasn't, so fuck it, time for a little break. maybe find a job or something, who knows?
― bernard snowy, Tuesday, 22 March 2011 11:35 (thirteen years ago) link
just a bit of fun this, fnarr fnarr:
lol
I have heard itsaid before, truefaith comes inthe earhole only.(In a messy bitof theological baloney,this is simultaneouslytaken as explanatoryof man’s place before the pastorand the subtler mechanicsof immaculate conception—not to mention, the creation.)Then again, Pascal said Kneel,and you will understand;but forgive me if I’m rather eagererto try my hand.
― bernard snowy, Friday, 25 March 2011 23:25 (thirteen years ago) link
been really into The Dream Songs lately, but I eventually had to stop reading because the pain and sadness were overwhelming me... but not before bidding a fond farewell to the unwell man and his book:
last fall poem(for John Berryman)
you do not sacrifice yourselfin vain, none of us do, a lateseptember rain shadesimperceptiblyinto the autumn
and at bottom, hell fixed onthem frozen fromthe first day of creation;
but what paradise there isis only in the lying waiting
― bernard snowy, Friday, 15 April 2011 13:01 (thirteen years ago) link
simple love songs
I saw her stood therelong and lonelyas a french horn note
that sounded in somesentimental symphony,selling outthe concert halls of life
before an audiencealready growing restlesswith this prettinessrelentlessly advancing on them
minute after minute;with the terrible acoustics;with the insecure conductor,his flamboyant mannerisms,and the thoughtless youthful couplewho had brought their screaming child…
in spite of which, she hardly smiledwhen asked“Why don’t wedo it in the aisle?”
― bernard snowy, Monday, 2 May 2011 11:04 (thirteen years ago) link
I am still writing lots of poems. this one is from a few months ago and I am quite proud of it:
————
people who live in glass housesare letting them go all to seed,wisely allowing the ivyto grow up and over and hopefullycover them totally(chimneys excepted)pruning back onlythose vines that entangle the downspouts,that threaten the gunholesand air intake vents.
people who live in glass houseshave stopped getting stoned,but still they grow paranoid, oftenthe feeling of somebody watching,of being sealed up in a coffin,steals on them softly and awfully,they pause in the kitchen,stare into the distance,and stir at their coffee.
people who live in glass housesjar their own jams, preserves that remainin a room in the basement—and from an adjacent hillside,on a stormy night sometimes,one sees through the floor,dramatically lit from behind under thunder,sprawled out in rowslike an army of pottery soldiers,the syrupy fruits of their labors.
and people who live in glass houses keep lamps litwell after transacting their day’s worth of business;for people who live in glass houses aloneknow that sound is to wateras ghost is to window
― bernard snowy, Wednesday, 27 July 2011 12:03 (twelve years ago) link
(not that anyone cares but I've) been woodshedding poetry hard lately — scribbling down lots of ideas + not posting things on my blawg until I've gotten them to a point I'm happy with; find enclosed my most recent effort:
THE NEW LAWthe new law was friendly,wearing the face and perfumeof an orchard of apples in bloom,brushing his fingersinside of your wristthe new law had a nose, made a noiselike whatever the noiseof your favorite animal is,its muzzle’s impression,and sloppily kissedunder the new law, we prospered:houses, like haikus,appearing where nothing was,holding back shadowand drawing the curtainsplayfully, certainly, onwardwe picked up the trashcansand emptied them (inwardly)setting to work on the citieswe bore as a burden—still something went missing,a phone, or a friend, or a word,a veil dropped between us and meaning—of course, the taps and blendersscreens and speakerscouches ceilings wallswe still could see,but saw obscurely,through a fog and failing lightwhen language dies, it leaves a vacuumother tongues rush in to fill;so that no word is lost for long(by ‘word’ I mean not meaningbut articulated feeling)
the new law was friendly,wearing the face and perfumeof an orchard of apples in bloom,brushing his fingersinside of your wrist
the new law had a nose, made a noiselike whatever the noiseof your favorite animal is,its muzzle’s impression,and sloppily kissed
under the new law, we prospered:houses, like haikus,appearing where nothing was,holding back shadowand drawing the curtains
playfully, certainly, onwardwe picked up the trashcansand emptied them (inwardly)setting to work on the citieswe bore as a burden—still something went missing,a phone, or a friend, or a word,a veil dropped between us and meaning—
of course, the taps and blendersscreens and speakerscouches ceilings wallswe still could see,but saw obscurely,through a fog and failing light
when language dies, it leaves a vacuumother tongues rush in to fill;so that no word is lost for long
(by ‘word’ I mean not meaningbut articulated feeling)
― swaguirre, the wrath of basedgod (bernard snowy), Wednesday, 17 August 2011 13:14 (twelve years ago) link
This sustains beautifully right up until it hits a bump in the final two lines. There is probably a way to articulate that last thought that is a bit less jarring within the context of what came before. Otherwise, outstanding poem!
― Aimless, Wednesday, 17 August 2011 15:56 (twelve years ago) link
thanks! funny you should mention the ending, which I was also conflicted about—lately, I've been reading Barbara Herrnstein-Smith's wonderful Poetic Closure: A Study of How Poems End, and trying to approach my own poetry with some of her insights in mind... I agree with you about the jarringness of this particular case, though.
― swaguirre, the wrath of basedgod (bernard snowy), Wednesday, 17 August 2011 16:24 (twelve years ago) link
My guess is that you just need to let the idea simmer a bit longer; try out several or a dozen new verbal approaches to it; daydream on it. The nubbin of an image will come along that buttons it up nice and tight for you. Patience will be rewarded.
― Aimless, Wednesday, 17 August 2011 17:17 (twelve years ago) link