fluther of jellyfish

lost 16: fluther of jellyfish
drawn with another soft rank to create a slow undulation similar; in word-spotting baboons that familiar faint roaring – voix celeste spellbound. it nestles round the scalp a vague thing, a pity object, a love object, familiar. done, vast, kite, but not dran, itsc lons. wat, the fringe of the near dark, the same cobweb dangling, my poor old vegetable. creak of air compressed through his larynx, crabwise restorative, he edged: oh i’m so confused says alice, the dormouse denying possible thens, the blankness of waiting, merely a felonious bot. am i real? i hardly feel/it. without mishap through the mirror if jellyfish inherit the oceans, sudden increase of water content in their gels, a float of jellyfish, a fluther shore to shore – oh dear, you forgot the castor oil, castors, castor beans, castor sugar the cast that makes woman sound like a four-letter word… hydra anemone and dance like a wave of the sea. ords/non-ords, dl and sr not yet sl and dr fine. he knew from the inside he was wild and this was a wild night; only his hat was a friend you can have my girl but don’t touch my hat murmurs lyle lovett, aside. grand ophicleide 130 db, it’s time to kill off the captchas – cnidocytes and all cnidarians, do you know where your captcha is, what it could be saying about you? what it denies? meanwhile the white dwarfs flame out, the dentist and the manicurist marry but fight tooth and nail, zombie bees litter the zone of light at the foot of streetlamps, jumping genes and tentacles turn soft eyes, unda maris, wave of the sea, very soft rank tuned slightly sharp or flat.

and dance like a wave of the sea, from the Fiddler of Dooney, W.B. Yeats

Thought du jour
“It’s amazing how quickly nature consumes human places after we turn our backs on them. Life is a hungry thing.”
Scott Westerfeld (1963-), U.S.-born science fiction author

I’m enjoying the recent questions about whether emotion is being lost in Canadian poetry; they tie in with questions about what’s ‘happening’ to poetry in general. What are these crazy poems all about anyway, and why smack one idea up against an unrelated one, much less do it over and over. Why break up syntax? Here’s a poem for poetry month from Poem-a Day (The Academy of American Poets, from yesterday) using similar ideas, so they are as crazy as we are. Emotion in this poem? What think you…

Scientific Method
by Adam Clay

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Twenty-three percent when placed under
intense pressure did in fact kick
the door in. Soldiers creep on the other side
of the turn. Every little thing
is destined for ease. Music, be still.
Keep the mannequin secrets
to yourself. Remember a ladder
can take you both up and down.
The weather grows less stable
than us. This line here is where
the season starts. Spring seems
fluorescently golden. Too much
milk in the fridge. When left alone
long enough, the prisoners
began to interrogate themselves.

One more thing today: I’m a new Ipod owner, and having worked out many of the intricacies of turning it on, linking it up, downloading music from the internet and from my own CDs, I set out for my walks listening to random sets of what I have put on the little machine with wires and earplugs. A friend mentioned he preferred the Goldberg Variations by Angela Hewitt, but I’ve always liked the Gould version, listened for his voice underneath the notes. So this by Don MacKay pinpricked something in my mind and poetic heart. It comes via Southword magazine out of Ireland which, in this issue, features Canadian poets (via Riddle Fence Magazine.)

Glen Gould, humming

not along with the music, which isn’t listening,
but to the animal inside the instrument,
muffling the perfections of hammer, pedal,
wire, the whole
tool-kit, humming
he furs the air,
paints an exquisite velvet painting of a far-off country
where the rain falls
contrapuntally the wind lies on the land
like a hand caressing a cat’s back, humming
“this is your death, which is but a membrane away,
which is but a leaf, turning,
which is falling in these delicate
explicit fingers, as you have always known,
and worn, though only we,
the instrumentalists,
have found a way to sing it for you.
Sleep.”

“Glenn Gould, humming” from Apparatus by Don McKay © 1997.

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