Wednesday, June 15, 2005

any idea?

Would you ever write a poem with the line "not concerned about ever arriving" in it (we're talking a non-ironic sense here)? An American poet not much of my acquaintance, W.S. Merwin, did in the 6 June edition of The New Yorker (no, I don't subscribe, I got a good dentist).

And then there's this other bloke, C.K. Williams (what's wit the initials wit these guys, eh?), in the same issue with some lame poem about a tiny insect (a fly, a midge, I want to know) being compared and/or contrasted with Tsvetayeva's essays. Is this a cop-out or what? Isn't this so done.

The New Yorker is, like, a major player, an institution. They must have da money to pay for good stuff, not crapola. Please explain! Or are these guys the real cream cheese and I just don' geddit.

Saturday, June 04, 2005

el culo de bettie

Bettie holds up all she'll want, trunk and flowers
she’s bored by a doll, slip off the pretty
she sits on not merely her beauty

don’t pretend you’re in the long hall for peekaboo
forget it, she’s no ghost girl
but full of promises, all of those “36 Flavors” at once

taste the good side, that boop pose
her candy showing pink, a hold of each cheek
they speak to one another

seated in that good place
smoothed with the purple swells with doing
she’ll not surrender her back

says no, the one who does the choosing
she holds up there in abundance
no matter what language you speak.

Taking up Didi's challenge.

Thursday, June 02, 2005

of further

it's getting to the cold
but I repaired the truth of the cover
as if this excuses morning
in its fragile network
dirty mud, small wheels, obstructed rock

the horizon is snaky and green
you form clouds
it looks that smooth
my hand spikes the material
the zone extends the zone

blue could be finished
in the work of lightyellow
water introduces the edge to blur
folding the other method
the wing, the movement

rubber, tobacco
the other stench
the chilled dusk
each possible surprise
mine in the flight of order