Cibola 77

This entry is part 76 of 119 in the series Cibola

 

Esteban (4) (conclusion)

She’s gone. He collects
his scattered clothes–through
what magic had she
recovered hers?
And
his thigh still tingles from
a sudden brush of fur.
He kicks sand
to put the fire out–to hell
with any more tracking
–& feels
his way back in the half-
dark of gibbous moonlight,
avoiding the shadows.

When he slips into camp
everyone’s asleep & the fire’s
down to coals, as if it’s been hours.
One of the greyhounds works his jaws,
whines a little. Esteban kneels,
reaches down to stroke his head

& stops, noticing that his eyes
remain shut & his feet twitch
in sequence–the unmistakable
rhythm of the chase.

International Poetry Month, sponsored by us

Yesterday, I think it was, or maybe the day before, I saw a reference to National Poetry Month and went, “Oh yeah, that’s right. Nuts!” That’s how it is every year. If I’d only remembered, I could have arranged a reading at some local venue, but it’s too late now. I mean, I suppose I still could do a last minute thing, run off a bunch of flyers, send out an all-points bulletin via e-mail – you know – but, well, my calendar’s already pretty full, and I’m betting yours is too, right? I mean, it’s April – not necessarily the cruelest but possibly the most hectic month for meetings, conferences, banquets, weddings, gardening, spring birding, spring wildflower walks, invasive species removals, trash cleanup day, trout season opener, Little League… you name it, it’s happening. And then, whoops, here’s National Poetry Month, strategically announced – if this year is like all previous years – with a full-page ad from the Academy of American Poets in the inside back cover of American Poetry Review. I’m looking at last year’s ad (a friend passes on APR, so I read it one year late) and I am marveling anew at the sheer lack of imagination on display. Ooh, let’s all get together and list our names as co-sponsors! What exactly are we sponsoring, other than this full-page ad? Who the hell knows! But isn’t it nifty how the size of the type diminishes the farther down the page you go, the less money you give? Oh, to be in the Chairman’s Circle, now that spring is here! Western wind, when wilt thou blow, the small names down can name…

Oh, but wait – there’s a web address. Maybe everything’s explained online. Let’s see. Front and center is a spooky calendar, with empty dresses marking dates for the National Poetry Month: 10 Years/10 Cities reading series. Below that, in order, I find links to a poem-a-day e-mail thing; a listing of new spring books; a poetry book club; a National Poetry Month poster gallery; and “Poetry and the Creative Mind, the Academy’s Annual Benefit,” which was held on April 5 in New York City. The blue sidebar, which is headed “Get Involved,” in descending order includes: Join the Academy; Save the Date! (April 21 is Poem in Your Pocket Day – another NYC event); Adopt-a-Poet (they make wonderful pets!); New on DVD (John Ashbery, Louise Glück, Anthony Hecht, and W.S. Merwin. One word: yowza); Look for Poetry Month Events in Your Area (I did. There weren’t any. Though that’s as much my fault as anyone’s); Sale! $10 – Purchase the official National Poetry Month T-Shirt today. (“Official?”)

I click on the link to the T-shirt, and find it features a moderately funny New Yorker cartoon. Wear this official T-shirt and people will know that, while you may like poetry, you’re sophisticated enough to be humorously self-deprecating about it. Which, come to think of it, seems to be the point of the strange calendar with the empty dresses and the classically agoraphobic quote by Dickinson (“Nature is a haunted house – but Art – a house that tries to be haunted”). The Academy may at one time have been about Art with a capital A, but now, they want you to know, they’re all about “Art.” If you’re as hip as they are, you’ll recognize the ghostly, invisible quotes. No unseemly enthusiasm, please! Rumi and Neruda are dead. (Over at Slate magazine, they’re celebrating the month with “Poems Against Poetry.” That is so hip.)

I’m a little troubled by the implication that National Poetry Month is a wholly owned, corporate-sponsored subsidiary of the Academy. Let’s see if Google bears that out. Hmm, well they certainly don’t have much competition for the top slot. Infoplease has an informative web guide to poets and poetics, but the swarm of pop-ups doesn’t tempt me to explore further. Next down is a guide to NPM-related materials and events for school kids, from Scholastic. The fourth result is Charles Bernstein’s dyspeptic take on National Poetry Month, which I usually end up chuckling over every year around this time.

As part of the spring ritual of National Poetry Month, poets are symbolically dragged into the public square in order to be humiliated with the claim that their product has not achieved sufficient market penetration and must be revived by the Artificial Resuscitation Foundation (ARF) lest the art form collapse from its own incompetence, irrelevance, and as a result of the general disinterest among the broad masses of the American People.

The motto of ARF’s National Poetry Month is: “Poetry’s not so bad, really.”

National Poetry Month is sponsored by the Academy of American Poets, an organization that uses its mainstream status to exclude from its promotional activities much of the formally innovative and “otherstream” poetries that form the inchoate heart of the art of poetry. The Academy’s activities on behalf of National Poetry Month tend to focus on the most conventional of contemporary poetry; perhaps a more accurate name for the project might be National Mainstream Poetry Month. Then perhaps we could designate August as National Unpopular Poetry Month.

So while the Academy may strike stick-in-the-mud poets like me as being insufferably elitist, to a formally innovative, “otherstream” poet like Bernstein, it’s much too populist. But of course, what most Americans mean by “popular,” as Bernstein suggests, is “best selling” – which, if you know anything about how the book, music or entertainment industries operate, has more to do with promotion and marketing than any genuine populist appeal. Truly popular poets will continue to be read and quoted and committed to memory regardless of marketing.

But for some reason, a whole lot of people do seem to want to know what other people are reading, watching and listening to so they can read, watch and listen to the same things. National Poetry Month is clearly intended to take advantage of our sheep-like tendencies, rather than to celebrate – as good poetry must – whatever is truly original, startling, rare. That’s what really bothers me about the whole business, hence my suggestion (see below). But first:

The fifth Google result for National Poetry Month is from The League of Canadian Poets. It’s Canada’s National Poetry month too, so declared and officially sponsored by the League since 1999. So the whole goddamn thing is a misnomer. (Aren’t poets supposed to be careful with language?) It’s really International Poetry Month, folks!

But we need a new way to celebrate it. Like it or not, in our society, poetry appreciation is a largely private affair; public readings aren’t for everyone. Not every good poet is a good public reader – and vice versa. Not all fans of poetry enjoy going to readings. To my mind – and y’all know I’m a huge fan of oral culture – poetry is mostly about books.

So here’s my suggestion. For International Poetry Month, why not go to your local bookstore or library and buy or borrow a book of poems by someone you’ve never heard of before? (I advise opening books at random and slowly reading whichever poem you open to – just one poem for each book – until you find one that grabs you by the throat.) Take it home and read it thoroughly and lovingly, preferably more than once. Then blog about it. Or read out loud from it on the subway. Photocopy pages from it and distribute them anonymously at work or school. Type your favorite poem(s) from the book into an e-mail and spam everyone in your address book (extra points if you can incorporate “International Poetry Month” and “V1AGRA” into the subject line). Slip the book under your pillow once or twice and see if gives you any strange dreams. Then find someone else who’s doing the same thing, and trade books.

Oh, and one other thing: after reading and sharing a book or two in this manner, please write at least one poem of your own in response. This is important. Especially if you don’t think of yourself as a poet, and have no particular aspirations to publish. You don’t have to show the poem to anyone if you don’t want to.

Screw the Academy of American Poets and their sponsors. Screw the League of Canadian Poets. Screw the poets, even – the whole nasty, fractious, backbiting lot of them (present company not necessarily excluded). Let’s make International Poetry Month be about poetry.
__________

Tomorrow: Practicing what I preach.

Cibola 76

This entry is part 75 of 119 in the series Cibola

 

Esteban (4) (cont’d)

While the woman stretches curious fingers
toward the beard, the wondrous hair
like gourdvine runners trailing
down his back
& the dizzying sheen, until
they alight upon a point of interest
precisely where any woman’s gaze
would tend to end up. She gives
a strange cry. Esteban smiles
to himself, knowing she’s never
seen a circumcised penis–
purified of its female covering
as God intends: a covenant
through which this imperfect Nature
can be completed, redeemed–

but she recoils, eyes narrowing,
making the signs
for Earth / Sacrifice / Taboo.
–What? She thinks
I’m a sacrificial victim who managed
to escape?
Then with curled lip
extending her arms out straight
she claps her wrists together–
Slave–the half-clenched
fingers forming
an inadvertent heart.

No–right palm across his face,
shouting Hay una carta,
aquí­,
clutching where the brass
locket would hang on his shirt,
the hand language failing
as his vision clouds &
he lunges, clasping a forearm,
reaching for her hair.
But she twists
unexpectedly inward,
against him, plants her teeth around
a neck tendon, moaning
low in her throat in a burlesque
of pleasure, raking his back
& side with her nails while
he writhes, howling, until
she finally releases him

& he leaps back, loses
his footing, falls.

Death: letters


I found this child’s glove on the lawn after the snow melted. I’m not sure where it came from. We don’t get trick-or-treaters here.

A is for Absence, which we are unable to imagine for ourselves but all too ready to visit upon the world.

B is for Bones, which grow and break and knit themselves back together, but mercifully do not feel.

C is for Carcass, or Carcase – in either case, the body turned into burden, a dead weight.

D is (of course) for Death, which we can only understand by reference to life, which we cannot understand at all: thus, it is a mystery of the second degree and not the first.

E is for Eater, or Earth, which rhymes with mirth for no particular reason.

F is for Fate, curator of retrospectives.

G is for God or Gangster, Google or Ganges, Gog or Gag.

H is for Hell, which used not to be so Hot before the Christians conquered it and turned it into a penal colony.

I is for Iconoclast – the most precise job description for Death that I can think of.

J is for Jack and Jill, who went looking for water in high places rather than in low, and suffered the consequences.

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I almost stepped on this doe skeleton down in the marshy corner of the field yesterday – probably a winter kill from 2004.

K is for Knack, the one thing we can neither take with us nor pass on, as Zhuangzi noted.

L is for Languor, which seeks to escape but manages merely to omit.

M is for Motive, without which Murder is truly a Mystery.

N is for Narcotic: henbane, thornapple, belladonna – plants that remind us that death is a form of ecstasy.

O is for something Other than what you think.

P is for Post or Pillory, the original way to spread news both Public and Personal, where all letters arrive marked current resident.

Q is for Query, a kind of minimized Question that permits a sleight-of-hand substitution of words for bodily presence.

R is for Return, a logical impossibility (see Heraclitus).

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Also yesterday, I found this dead fish in the woods. There are no live fish on the mountain. All I can figure is that a passing osprey dropped it.

S is for Snake – or rather, S is a snake, whose hiss must be one of our favorite sounds. It makes the blood race in our snaky veins.

T is for Test, a Terror-ridden, Terrible justification for child sacrifice, both in Abraham’s time and in our own.

U is for Uncle, the ugly one that children make other children call them, on pain of death.

V is for Vault, a place to store money or bones.

W is for Want and for Worm: the price of admission, regardless of the show.

X is for X – anything you want (see W). It signals openness and cancellation both, a friendly kiss and a pornographic rating.

Y is for Youth, when immortality and tragedy both seem possible.

Z is for Zest, the merest smidgen of which is proof against Zero.

Cibola 75

This entry is part 74 of 119 in the series Cibola

 

Esteban (4) (cont’d)

In the fading light
he finds footprints across the dry
streambed, traces their contours
with an index finger: young, female,
unburdened. One way out.
From somewhere on the rim
a jackal’s laughter, ricocheting up
& down the canyon.
Coyotl, he corrects himself.

A few minutes later he rounds a bend
& stops short: a small campsite
in the cave formed by an over-hanging
lip of rock
where a woman stands smiling
behind a fatwood fire.

He hadn’t realized until now, with
an almost painful jolt
in his chest, how lonely
the lack of this very smile had made him.
It’s never been a question
of hunger alone–
thirst perhaps? he wonders briefly
as she lets her cloth dress fall.
No, not that simple, he decides
as they stand fully naked,
the shadows from the fire
playing across their lean forms,
making their skins shimmer & ripple
like obsidian mirrors, he thinks,
remembering a hidden idol
wreathed in incense.
Like the surfaces of two
flood-swollen rivers about to join.
This has so little to do
with the merely animal.

Moving like dancers, both of them
trying to minimize awkwardness,
they glide on contrapuntal feet,
touch toes as
his arms pivot at his sides,
bending slightly so the palms
face up, & in the long moment
before she moves in against him

it’s as if–yes–as if his whole
body is united in
this gesture,
a response to hers–the gift
her own body presents.
And the voice of disembodied Reason
once more proclaims in its tinny voice
This is it, the one thing

worth seeking, this
Word: original sign
freed from all symbolism, the body
now & always as it was
in the beginning–pure Will . . .

Life: sentences

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1.
She had stood too still for too long in the clothing store window, and found that now she couldn’t even shift her weight to the other foot without frightening the customers, who weren’t necessarily paying close attention but who did know the difference between art, which is immobile, and its pale imitators that insist on moving, bulging, sagging, wrinkling – looking for life, so to speak, in all the wrong places.

2.
It was always the same April that came around to raise up the same clumps of daffodils and pry their petals open for the same refreshing breeze, I figured the old dog statue might be thinking, ignoring for a moment the new hairline cracks the winter left behind and the fresh flakes of paint furring his haunches.

3.
An amazing coincidence, really, she said, that in Spanish el bis, the encore, and Elvis, the singer, are homonyms – not to mention that in English you can rearrange the letters of the King’s name to get lives, Levis – which he sometimes wore – and evils, which he battled in his own bloated way, enthroned on a golden crapper.

4.
After a while, even sunflowers grow tired of craning their necks, and that entire motley field ended up with heads bowed, facing the dark and unremarkable earth, so that they did not see the bear come out of the woods to eat and smash and roll on his back for delight among the stripped stalks.

5.
With the clumsy puzzlement of a minor prophet carrying two smooth pebbles in his mouth, he was unable to explain those spectacular failures of the eyebrow to rise in the east and the toenail to metamorphose into something with an insatiable hunger for tunnels.

6.
But what faith hasn’t taken its cues from the living body, I wonder, thinking of bell tower and stupa, grotto and lingam, remembering labyrinths engraved on the pads of fingers, twin doves in the thighs, the spine’s vertiginous ladder: smiling now at the scandal of it, how all roads led to a rose tattoo just below the navel, that stingless bee.

7.
A herd of goats stood in the branches of a thorn tree as if to take the place of leaves they had eaten, the shade they had banished to their tough stomachs, the perpendicular light that must have tasted a bit like dust blown from the cover of a book too large to fit in the shelf with all the paperbacks, a book of photos meant to be paged through and nibbled at rather than actually read – a book specifically designed for guests such as I am now, sipping my coffee, stroking the hairs on my chin.

8.
What all these hip bohemian kids are too young to remember, he told us, is the way one used to see black shawls and dresses in every square, black in the long coats of the police, black ties and belts and suspenders on men in ordinary restaurants, black rooks and lines of ants that came to pick everything clean and carry off the sugar, black even in your one maybe glimpse of garters against, you know – the very word, let alone the stark sight, remained off-limits still, I think, for two or three years beyond the death of that son of a whore, the president-for-life.

Cibola 74

This entry is part 73 of 119 in the series Cibola

 

Esteban (4)

Right at dusk–his quick meal over,
the men settling into a game
of dice played with bones
(whose original owner he decides
not to inquire about) the African hears
what sounds like flute music
trickling down a side canyon
a quarter mile off. A brief phrase
ending in a question mark.
Again.
Once more.
Each separated by a slightly longer pause.
The exact blend of exaltation
& sorrow, he thinks–someone
like me.

And no one else pays it
any mind–no one looks up,
there’s not even a twitch
from the dogs’ ears.
They raise their heads only
when he gets to his feet:
Stay. I’m just going to take a leak.

Which might have been true,
had he not caught a glimpse
of a figure darting between shadows
up by the first bend of what,
he guessed, would turn out to be
a cul-de-sac, a box canyon.

(To be continued.)