lost 17: a properly clothed man
pale, almost hesitant, daylight settles on rooftops. memory palace and the love song of alfred j. prufrock (the poet losing consciousness several times during the slam – the body takes over, knows what to do) why did i open the refrigerator door where are my keys what is that wedding ring doing here what was the author’s name moonwalking. with a hill of beans casablanca-ed; walnut – sized chunks of einstein’s brain matter have disappeared, and yet soccer explains the world of japanese chicken sexers, but it’s only mildly temporary. mandolin stanley cup hippocampus. out of new york city, the mystifying equation, 1 + 1 = 2.5, 5th century bc – by running the charge in one direction the volunteers’ learning speed increases by 10 per cent. current the other way dulls the brain cells. a boiled egg hard to beat, a properly-clothed man has a right to be there;the pattern will grow through cumulative distortions, planned and replanned: she was not a friend of the poor. she was a friend of poverty, he clutche dit, clutched. heaved. her kiss burnt his forehead. the kimball ballroom and the right stage chamber, grand exit in a cloud of pink smoke. is that all? please don’t apologise; i did not meet a soul on my way to the river. know the seven songs that are bad for your health. the blood’s got to get to the brain, add another log to its fire, long idle servomotors judder into life. the catch clicks; a passionate kiss with the same effect as belladonna or a flatfish staring, pupils dilated
Christopher Hitchens She was not a friend…re Mother Teresa
Photo of/by Bruce McGregor/Magoo, one of the finest performers, presenters, singer-songwriters/ dressers I know.
So I’m fascinated with pipe organs (cross me off your ‘sane’ list) and much of the music associated with them. This piece mentions The Kimball Ballroom Organ, the World’s Largest Musical Instrument. Known also as Atlantic City`s Boardwalk Hall Pipe Organ, it has over 600 stop tabs, the only organ in the world that can produce, (once it’s renovated) particular super-low frequency sounds. Now this means little to me, but just the words, the idea of it, knowing that the 64ft pipe (64 feet high!!!) would sound at 8Hz, and the 64ft + 42 2/3 would sound at 4Hz. Makes me want to go to St. Burchardi church in Halberstadt, Germany, where one note is now being played of John Cage’s Organ²/ASLSP (As SLow aS Possible), a musical piece written in 1987 for organ. The particular performance now ‘playing’ started in the year 2000 and will last for 639 years, ending in 2640. The last note was changed on April 5th, 2012. The next note begins on October 5th, 2013. It’s worth googling ORGAN²/ASLSP not only to read about it, and how it’s being performed, but to find Youtube videos in which you can see this once abandoned church and hear the current long note. So okay, I’m weird. And yes, this blog is about writing, not organs, so, alright, I’m writing already.
Here is a a brilliant double-exposure shahai (photograph with /haikutanka imposed upon it) e from Grant Savage: (I’ve posted the poem again under the image)
in the middle
of the double
green of the missing
The following part is about Peach Farm Studio: Peach Farm Studio (c) 2012 Peach Farm Studio. photo: The Writer’s Desk.
Peach Farm Studio
is a studio where photography, poetry and letterpress projects are created. Through this blog, (a link is on ynklings website) we provide you with an opportunity to take a visit inside the studio (from the comfort of your own chair) to see what we do, how we do it, what inspires us and to provide you with a peek at our works-in-progress as well as some of our completed projects.
Peach Farm Studio is a proud member of Ladies of Letterpress in Northern California. Its blog has been nominated for many blogging awards, and in February and March 2012 received the Sunshine Blogger Award, The Very Inspiring Blogger Award and the Liebster Blog Award. This from their blog:
Photo (c) 2012 Peach Farm Studio.
We are being invaded by lemons and can’t get any work done. The only way we know how to rid ourselves of this lemon infestation is to eat them. Yesterday on facebook I shared one of their letterpressed pieces that featured several haiku; the haiku were very good haiku, so I was surprised. The photographs on the site are so vivid. I just love them.
Back to talking about poems with/without emotion… two things: a note, Pearl Pirie on her Pesbo blog, a poet thinking about poetry:
It’s more the characteristic of the company I want in my head than anything to do with the poem. It can be a painting or an architecture that behaves in the same satisfying way. It can be an oral conversation that doesn’t have a lack of self-awareness but does have a wit for patterns and playing with them. All the pretty sentences that are put together with skill are fine but I think I’m drawn to a personality of inclusion, a crooked-laced outlook.
and whether they are still being written…this poem by Richard Greene, republished from Riddle Fence, in Southword, an Irish publication: http://http://www.munsterlit.ie/Southword/Issues/21A/contents.html#riddle
At the College
Serpentine, the path unwinds its innocence
from building to building in flickering shade
where my students feed lazy raccoons muffins
and glazed doughnuts, as if to domesticate
the last wild things on this suburban campus,
though nothing can make the few deer unafraid
of engines, words, footfalls, the human rumpus,
or subdue the fox’s wily nonchalance
and teach him not to kill anything helpless.
Here, among these fierce and sentimental students,
I stand on the edge of a world not my own,
snatching small goods from the large irrelevance
of what we do, making the old sorrows known
to children bearing their first calamities,
teaching solitudes to the newly alone,
explaining writers’ exile to refugees
and notions of intrinsic worth to half-fledged
bankers, already driving smart Mercedes.
Yet they live by their hope, curiously pledged
to some afterness that will reward and bless
them for gifts that nature leaves unacknowledged
or earnest labours I grade at B or less;
they know some need of love that poets speak to,
and few can absent their hearts from every class,
however many dronings they may sleep through;
they will mark a perfect image or a phrase
and hear it years from now, wilder then and new.
(I think Kaz Connelly would be pleased. I shared the magazine on facebook; she may have time to read it.)