1269 Arts and sciences poems

William Morris I —how we’re carpet-making by the river a long dream to unroll and somehow time to pole a boat I designed a carpet today— dogtooth violets and spoke to a full hall now that the gall of our society’s corruption stains throughout Dear Janey I am tossed by many things If the change would bring better art but if it would not? O to be home to sail the flood I’m possessed and do possess Employer of labor, true— to get done the work of the hand… I’d be a rich man had I yielded on a few points of principle Item sabots blouse— I work in the dye-house myself Good sport dyeing tapestry wool I like the indigo vats I’m drawing patterns so fast Last night in sleep I drew a sausage— somehow I had to eat it first Colorful shores—mouse ear... horse-mint... The Strawberry Thief our new chintz II Yeats saw the betterment of the workers by religion—slow in any case as the drying of the moon He was not understood— I rang the bell for him to sit down Yeats left the lecture circuit yet he could say: no one so well loved as Morris III Entered new waters Studied Icelandic At home last minute signs to post: Vetch grows here—Please do not mow We saw it—Iceland—the end of the world rising out of the sea— cliffs, caves like 13th century illuminations of hell-mouths Rain squalls through moonlight Cold wet is so damned wet Iceland’s black sand Stone buntings’ fly-up-dispersion Sea-pink and campion a Persian carpet

I The leaves of blue came drifting down. In the corner Madeleine Reierbacher was reading Lorna Doone. The bay’s water helped to implement the structuring of the garden hose. The envelope fell. Was it pink or was it red? Consult Lorna Doone. There, voyager, you will find your answer. The savant grapeade stands Remember Madeleine Reierbacher. Madeleine Reierbacher says, “If you are happy, there is no one to keep you from being happy; Don’t let them!” Madeleine Reierbacher went into the racing car. The racing car was orange and red. Madeleine Reierbacher drove to Beale Street. There Maddy doffed her garments to get into some more comfortable clothes. Jazz was already playing in Beale Street when Madeleine Reierbacher arrived there. Madeleine Reierbacher picked up the yellow horn and began to play. No one had ever heard anything comparable to the playing of Madeleine Reierbacher. What a jazz musician! The pianist missed his beats because he was so excited. The drummer stared out the window in ecstasy at the yellow wooden trees. The orchestra played “September in the Rain,” “Mugging,” and “I’m Full of Love.” Madeleine Reierbacher rolled up her sleeves; she picked up her horn; she played “Blues in the Rain.” It was the best jazz anyone had ever heard. It was mentioned in the newspapers. St. Louis! Madeleine Reierbacher became a celebrity. She played with Pesky Summerton and Muggsy Pierce. Madeleine cut numerous disks. Her best waxings are “Alpha Beta and Gamma” And “Wing Song.” One day Madeleine was riding on a donkey When she came to a yellow light; the yellow light did not change. Madeleine kept hoping it would change to green or red. She said, “As long as you have confidence, You need be afraid of nothing.” Madeleine saw the red smokestacks, she looked at the thin trees, And she regarded the railroad tracks. The yellow light was unchanging. Madeleine’s donkey dropped dead From his mortal load. Madeleine Reierbacher, when she fell to earth, Picked up a blade of grass and began to play. “The Blues!” cried the workmen of the vicinity, And they ran and came in great numbers to where Madeleine Reierbacher was. They saw her standing in that simple field beside the railroad track Playing, and they saw that light changing to green and red, and they saw that donkey stand up And rise into the sky; and Madeleine Reierbacher was like a clot of blue In the midst of the blue of all that sky, and the young farmers screamed In excitement, and the workmen dropped their heavy boards and stones in their excitement, And they cried, “O Madeleine Reierbacher, play us the ‘Lead Flint Blues’ once again!” O railroad stations, pennants, evenings, and lumberyards! When will you ever bring us such a beautiful soloist again? An argent strain shows on the reddish face of the sun. Madeleine Reierbacher stands up and screams, “I am getting wet! You are all egotists!” Her brain floats up into the lyric atmosphere of the sky. We must figure out a way to keep our best musicians with us. The finest we have always melt in the light blue sky! In the middle of a concert, sometimes, they disappear, like anvils. (The music comes down to us with sweet white hands on our shoulders.) We stare up in surprise; and we hear Madeleine’s best-known tune once again, “If you ain’t afraid of life, life can’t be afraid for you.” Madeleine! Come back and sing to us! 2 Dick looked up from his blackboard. Had he really written a history of the jazz age? He stared at his television set; the technicolor jazz program was coming on. The program that day was devoted to pictures of Madeleine Reierbacher Playing her saxophone in the golden age of jazz. Dick looked at his blackboard. It was a mass of green and orange lines. Here and there a red chalk line interlaced with the others. He stared attentively at the program. It was a clear and blue white day. Amos said, “The calibration is finished. Now there need be no more jazz.” In his mountain home old Lucas Dog laughed when he heard what Amos had said. He smilingly picked up his yellow horn to play, but all that came out of it was steam.

After Brion Gysin / William S. Burroughs All writing around the sides the persons a galaxy all writing resounds a hot history. All writing is in fact cut-ups history will decide games heated and heated economic behavior. To rise up scene all sounds of Tahrir and inside supply side threatened. A long delineation. Longer than I would be counting. This, a whisper, this the end of whisper time. Rise up and wiser this the streets of the world. Commission overheard in spin a soldiering one. What streets of the world to spin rubric’s yes yes commerce, no, a no, no. Tanks of the blown-off world. He is my beautiful offshore a caw caw of major spills and elsewhere no, no. Cut the dialect the binary the dear word so precious and forbidden. They use the machines to take the streets of the world. Horizon my headwater cut cut the cable my beignets my else an appetite “poor politics, poor poor pols.” Waters of the world in media cut cut the lines manipulate desire and show the word show the Man show the tablets a Paleolithic grab all the twilight fields of discontent that shadow governments rise up people of the world of many wounded galaxies of discontent. And hear you, people of the word. What room? The gray we reach to. Assume that the worst has happened deporting Rom explicit in the gypsy purge meeting with Popes in the streets of the world. Subject to strategy poor poor pol a scrutiny. Its link its drill its Bandars. Condemn Salazar and the interior ministry of fisheries and assume the worst in writing cuts his exterior of life the glib industry, the selves behind the tyrants. My loaves and fishes in deep deep water. Is at some point classical prose, my no, Bulgaria my no Romania my Haiti my Egypt, and gypsy environment come to this coastline America ruptured pipeline to awe caw Gulf Stream is seated cut cut to other fields ripple effect and your domino will fall. And the bomb fall down. Cutting and rearranging factor your opponent your domino history will gain introducing a new parity binary Assange dimension your strategy. Will history decide “caw caw caw.” How many Rom yes yes discoveries sound to kinesthetic a gulf of everyone. She wanted to soldier a gulf of anyone. She wanted to soldier out of here her long delineation longer than would be counting. Cut through this leak of revolution the future will come out. We can deport Rimbaud now produce accident to his color “Voyelles.” Exit the colors you drain me of. And new dimension to films cut cut Sarkozy cut Hollande the senses the place of sands, gambling Rom scene all sounds all colors tasting sounds, France, France smell all streets of the world. Wake up, all colors of all the burqas tasting sounds of the shadow world. Cut cut when you can have the best all: Anthropocene. Welcome to the Anthropocene. Rom the gypsy in everyone. In a collage of words read heard decipher, Rom arise outbreak of military strategy, sound of voice a pitching wail will sear the wall will wall the sound will break the word will suck the variation clear and act accordingly history will decide the streets of the world. Caw caw introduced the cut-up scissored remembered gulf renders the aroma in memory of my despotic elders. Aroma of Rom. Let the dolphins in and act accordingly. If you posed entirely of prearranged cut cut determined by random leaders no Merkel cut cut G-20. A page of written words no advantage to leak from circular Salazar. Interior from knowing into writer predict the move the mood, no go back will step down will will step down. Circumpolar water and denizens within arise. Streets of the world arise. The cut variation images shift Rom sense advantage in processing to sound sight cut cut sound to arise. Visit of memories New Orleans Florida have been made by accidents is where Rimbaud was going with order could live could systematic derangement of the gambling scene, cut cut in with a tea party lullaby then hallucination: seeing and places that arise the streets of the word. A long line’s delineation to random future streets of the world. And they our nuclear future to deny deny. Our man in rendition and cut cut the torture oh streets of the world arise to cut back forms else mammals suffer a dead Mubarak. Rearrange blunt the word and image to other fields Rom, no France France rise to streets the USA the USA of the soldiering world. We’ll see how calm politics will become. G-20 outbreak of temper Germany. Of temper BP. Condemn the masters UK France corpse or carp on it but no longer predict the move, cut cut other fields than cuts your writing Egypt your Yemen your Syria your Libya your Mali.

this is just to say I saw the icebox and wheels rumbling through the figure 5 I saw the white chickens in the dark city glazed with rain I saw the figure 5 in the white chickens the plums that were in gold on a red wheel barrow the plums that you were probably saving among the rain water I have eaten the dark city so sweet the plums that were so sweet this is just to say I have eaten the figure 5 in the plums that so much depends that were in gold on a red firetruck

The grammatical rules of this language can be learned in one sitting. Nouns have no gender & end in -o; the plural terminates in -oj (pronounced -oy) & the accusative, -on (plural 0ojn). Amiko, friend; amikoj, friends; amikon & amikojn, accusative friend & friends. Adjectives end in –a & take plural & accusative endings to agree with things. Ma amiko is my friend. All verbs are regular & have only one form for each tense or mood; they are not altered for person or number. Mi havas bonajn amikojn is simply to say I have good friends. Adverbs end in –e. La bonaj amiko estas ie. The good friend is here. - A new book appears in Esperanto every week. Radio stations in Europe, the United States, China, Russia & Brazil broadcast in Esperanto, as does Vatican Radio. In 1959, UNESCO declared the International Federation of Esperanto Speakers to be in accord with its mission & granted this body consultative status. The youth branch of the International Federation of Esperanto Speakers, UTA, has offices in 80 different countries & organizes social events where young people curious about the movement may dance to recordings by Esperanto artists, enjoy complimentary soft drinks & take home Esperanto versions of major literary works including the Old Testament &A Midsummer Night’s Dream. William Shatner’s first feature-length vehicle was a horror film shot entirely in Esperanto. Esperanto is among the languages currently sailing into deep space on board the Voyager spacecraft. - Esperanto is an artificial language constructed in 1887 by L. L. Zamenhof, a polish oculist. I first came across Fundamento Esperanto, the text which introduced this system to the world, as I travelled abroad following a somewhat difficult period in my life. It was twilight & snowing on the railway platform just outside Warsaw where I had missed my connection. A man in a crumpled track suit & dark glasses pushed a cart piled high with ripped & weathered volumes— sex manuals, detective stories, yellowing musical scores & outdated physics textbooks, old copies of Life, new smut, an atlas translated, a grammar,The Mirror, Soviet-bloc comics, a guide to the rivers & mountains, thesauri, inscrutable musical scores & mimeographed physics books, defective stories, obsolete sex manuals— one of which caught my notice (Dr. Esperanto, Zamenhof’s pen name, translates as He Who Hopes) & since I had time, I traded my used Leaves of Grass for a copy. - Mi amas vin, bela amiko. I’m afraid I will never be lonely enough. There’s a man from Quebec in my head, a friend to the purple martins. Purple martins are the Cadillac of swallows. All purple martins are dying or dead. Brainscans of grown purple martins suggest these creatures feel the same levels of doubt & bliss as an eight-year-old girl in captivity. While driving home from the brewery one night this man from Quebec heard a radio program about purple martins & the next day he set out to build them a house in his own back yard. I’ve never built anything, let alone a house, not to mention a home for somebody else. I’ve never unrolled a blueprint onto a workbench, sunk a post, or sent the neighbor’s kid pedalling off to the store for a bag full of nails. I’ve never waited ten years for a swallow. Never put in aluminum floors to smooth over the waiting. Never piped sugar water through colored tubes to each empty nest lined with newspaper shredded with strong, tired hands. Never dismantled the entire affair & put it back together again. Still no swallows. I never installed the big light that stays on through the night to keep owls away. Never installed lesser lights, never rested on Sunday with a beer on the deck surveying what I had done & what yet remained to be done, listening to Styx while the neighbor kids ran through my sprinklers. I have never collapsed in abandon. Never prayed. But enough about purple martins. - As we speak, Esperanto is being corrupted by upset languages such as Interlingua, Klingon, Java & various cryptophasic tongues. Our only hope of reversing this trend is to write the Esperanto epic. Through its grandeur & homegrown humility, it will spur men to freeze the mutating patios so the children of our children’s children may dwell in this song & find comfort in its true texture & frame. It’s worth a try. As I imagine it, it ends in the middle of things. Every line of the work is a first & a last line & this is the spring of its action. Of course, there’s a journey & inside that journey, an implicit voyage through the underworld. There’s a bridge made of boats; a carp stuffed with flowers; a comic dispute among sweetmeat vendors; a digression on shadows; men clapping in fields to scare away crows; an unending list of warships:The Unternehmen, The Impresa, The Muyarchi, Viec Lam, The Przedsiebiorstwo, The Indarka, The Enterprise, L’Entreprise, Entrepeno

Cecil Touchon’s work is radically post-textual, yet encumbered by nothing but text and the space surrounding it. His technique, as demonstrated aptly here, is to dismantle physical pages of text and reconstitute them in ways that enhance the visual continuities of text and undermine their meaningful sequentiality. This is the ultimate form of deconstruction, a literal (in the hand, of the letter) slicing of the page into pieces that Touchon repositions into a new jigsaw puzzle, different than the one that he began with. This piece is particularly austere, presenting only three colors for our consideration: a mottled white, a red-brown, and a glimpse of black peeking through from the base of the collage. We are invited to consider this poem as a piece of writing transmogrified into a visual field through which we might glimpse what it means to be text, to understand text, and to inhabit text.—Geof Huth More About Visual Poetry > >

Looking up, “The purple now,” she dips her brush and finishes the day. The flag descends. She draws the fire with a marker on fax paper uncurling from its spool. Inventory of glasses, the handblown ones blue-edged could hold a sunset neat, the new regime is softball-sized and etched with tigers. In town they’re pulling draughts for every swinging door. Don’t get angry, don’t get angry. The soaker’s washed and left to dry. Iron Hessians oversee the fire gone to bed beside the harbor, geese calling each to each triangulate the dark. Passing through or are they wintering over? In chevron resolve. Like waking to the rain and walking anyway. She thinking of what to do with pawpaw  jelly, he of mildew and of marrow, while their youngest bouncing gums the leather dice cup, sister rolls, counts, and makes a point. Get even says the horizon like the sun, democratic and unsparing.

Who are you, reader, reading my poems an hundred years hence? I cannot send you one single flower from this wealth of the spring, one single streak of gold from yonder clouds. Open your doors and look abroad. From your blossoming garden gather fragrant memories of the vanished flowers of an hundred years before. In the joy of your heart may you feel the living joy that sang one spring morning, sending its glad voice across an hundred years.

Anatomie des parties de la génération, Paris, 1773 What have they done to deserve this beauty? Did they, like Marsyas, invite some knife- wielding god with petty transgressions, the crime of a few tunes on Athena’s lost flute? Or were they simply too poor for deep graves, locked gates, and good husbands to watch over the mounds of new soil tossed toward them and their hunted unborn? Whoever they were, they’re still with us, posing demurely in suits of blood and muscle, the bruised shadows of what skin they do have, purpling like crushed petunias as they spread their legs and raise their meaty arms to show dissected breasts, unfinished infants, sundry viscera on the ground about their feet as if this were Thanksgiving and they cornucopias stuffed with squash and fruit. And who delivered their sentences? Surely not the muses who, at least, let them keep rococo faces. In 1773 the womb and the brain were the last outposts of the body to be mapped. D’Agoty bought the rights to Le Blon’s technique of printing mezzotints and gave these ladies homes in scientific texts, but anatomists believed D’Agoty’s prints too gorgeous to be accurate. Perhaps that’s why they open other wounds so easily in us. All so like the single rabbit I downed at twenty with a borrowed rifle, and then was obligated to see skinned, first scoring the length of the spine, then peeling the fur in one steaming piece, while the perverse uncle who clearly desired to touch me, instead held up a dripping pelt in one hand, and in the other, a flayed carcass still wrapped in its bundle of muscle like a gift.

is all wrong, ed what poets now live where they say they do where they started out where they want to half the midwesterners did time in new york the other half in california only new yorkers write as if they are from new york and mostly they are not the ones in california were wounded elsewhere when they feel better or can't afford the rent they'll go back where they came from this is america you get hurt where you are born you make poetry out of it as far from home as you can get you die somewhere in between the only geography of poets is greyhound general motors rules them all ubi patria ibi bene or ibi bene ubi patria bread out of nostalgia not a lot of it either some of us came from very far maps don't help much