april poem a thon 7

April 7, 2013 § Leave a comment

sun day

sitting
in the sun room
in the sun

my father
whistling
his favorite opera

he filled that
house

☫➤✹

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many splendored

February 14, 2012 § Leave a comment

the edge of the world
is fluid

loving you
changes me

middle of the damned night

May 25, 2011 § Leave a comment

keeping track of time

middle of the damned night and I’m wide awake the book coming together flying apart in my mind as these things go 6 2 ups in, by which I mean half the pages done, and the type already distributed and I’m lying there thinking ohmygod the layout couldn’t possibly be right I’ve lost the vision of the which way it folds and how it lies and lays so here I am out of bed pulling out the mockup and of course it’s all just fine but now I’m wide awake novels to revise flyleafs to imagine hair appointments to make tea to drink
hard to imagine this otherwise most bed and sleepworthy godforsaken region which is neither morning nor night is when I used to get up for the pleasure of going to work, anyway what was just a routine get up to pee go back to sleep thing turned into an expedition but since I spent the day, now officially yesterday, finishing the typesetting for the last of the poems it’s no wonder really

and then as if it wasn’t bad enough he said as I was packing up for the day already jacked about printing the other sides, so, were you thinking you would do all the black (poems) before you printed the red (poem titles, and fleurons) ack…

loose flowers indeed

maybe now I can go back to sleep,

in the shop

April 13, 2011 § 2 Comments

so to speak

 OR WAS IT TIME (will be) a book of love poetry, (& an exercise in sniffy, AKA fine printing—with two colors of ink, proper measuring, and ornaments, and a fine binding—or as close as I can get it, with a hat tip ahead of time to Eric for standing up for the rules, and for the fine serendipity and timely arrival of Nicolas…)

started yesterday with LOOSE FLOWERS the longest poem to see how it would sit in the arms of Monsieur Cochin, alors, c’est mmmagnifique!

It has a shape to start, you think, I mean it starts with a shape for crying out loud, already worked more than once but to set is to reframe, by dint of default, as if there were such a thing, or as if it were not so much fate as fated but not a fait accompli and sitting as it is set lying letters one up against another it heats up strung up on the galley waiting its turn to be slathered in what color ink on just the right paper with or without the proper ornamentation and it will not be hurried
though I was, tiring at the end of the run up to only two more lines to go and you, or I have this brain air bubble and for the life of me all of a sudden going over to get some more spacers can’t remember if I’m using 3toN or 4toN as if I haven’t already used 100 of them and I’m sure there’s one line that’s if not wrong, odd, but then again, the flowers are loose, aren’t they, and we can after all justify anything, well except the dirty fork I left on the counter.

LOOSE FLOWERS
LOOSE flowers
LOOSE flowers; only makes sense don’t you think, with a ligature to boot!

In this shop
We can ju-
Stify any
TH I NG

.

brass screws

January 23, 2011 § 2 Comments

I ordered brass post binding screws

hard as it was to come up with, or to say something as simple as, I write poetry, it is at this juncture impossible to say what I’m writing–I wonder why I would say that–the shape of a poem is limitless by now, by which I mean poetry takes many shapes and yet I wouldn’t say I’m exactly writing poetry which is to say the writing is not poetry to my ears, though it is evocative rather than prosaic, but the music if there is any is cacophonic, and it is not prose in any sense of the word though there are words and even sentences

he said some time ago, maybe the book is a poem, and that’s close, or closer if you, or I as the case is need to use words that are easier, or at the very least, familiar, and earned

that said, I can finally see why they, or we as the case is, have come to call it, if it needs to be called, book art, as hackneyed as it is, it is accurate, and it is the heart of the matter, it is the exploration of an idea, or ideas within the space of something we know to call a book, at least at this point my books still look like books straight up, and down which finally gets me to the question–rather like the age old question what makes a poem a poem–what is a book, what makes a book a book, which of course is in part what I’m exploring–but it doesn’t go without saying,

it has to start with a beginning and an end, by which I mean: it has, to start with, a beginning and an end, and it takes place through space, it is visual, there is a visual field, and it is a visual experience, you can hold it touch it and fondle it, it is tactile, you can take it to bed with you, you can read it, ohmygod (I think over time this may be up for discussion); it pushes and pulls, shows&tells

there is a narrative–my books (all two of them) if you will, have narrative, a binding force, ha which gets me back to, I ordered brass post binding screws, because even if you can’t tell a book by its cover, like it or not, a cover is integral and must be a credible part of the risk–they are an exploration an idea, that may have started with a feeling for sure, but the truth is not about the feeling (as it might be in a poem, where again it is not the facts that are true but the feeling they support, for godsake), the truth is in the execution of the idea that is supports

andbut they may be a poem, or not or have words or not, or pictures or not and not even look like a book

ok smartypants, do you know what makes something a book?

the fire with good editing waxes now, the moon, in the bluing morning’s sky wanes as does the fog, and

I’m abook, all the world’s abook, book em judigo

a day of plenty; thoughts on self-reliance

October 23, 2010 § 5 Comments

sensei,

just to say again, thank you for the place, and space, and your time and willingness…and your help

years ago paul and I took a wilderness canoe trip in the Laurentian Shield of Quetico…three weeks, so far in we we saw no other humans, had islands to ourselves and packs, and a canoe to carry which in time, over longer portages he started doing himself, since it was less awkward, and it upset me and otherwise frightened me how incredibly dependent I was, and otherwise possibly screwed if something happened to him…and I would have these little tempests where I’d insist on carrying the canoe myself…impossible of course…and I didn’t like it, and didn’t give it up either, didn’t learn is what I mean

and clearly this thing about doing it oneself still is complicated and rears its funny head for me at various times,

so it was a nice peaceful place to realize–amidst so much during this time of rotator cuff repair depending on the time and kindness of others for the most basic of things–that of course I would need help printing this book, and it is, was, a false god if you will to have needed to ‘do it by myself’ and so there we are, there we were the many of us, standing side by side, in this co-op, in this co-operative place and time there we are co-operating…it’s quixotic really this lure of doing it all by myself…and, in its own way self reliance is of course, limiting…and even amidst the bustle and tear of the many I believe I came away with some of the attending-to lessons in hand; centers, and justification, measurements and the humility and hubris of upside down f’s and s’s and out of school o’s..and the never ending, even for the best of them, last minute or in the minute problems to be solved, and the unwavering mysteries of perfection opposing the more appealing for me face of excellence…there it is of course, on the face of it my default is not perfection, just as it is not symmetrical…

anyway appreciating metaphors as I do, the notion of shouldering is brought to bear, and the poetry of DRUM itself…’even the moon loses face’

and at our, (read my) age, the even more I might think clearly for myself, less and less will I (be able to) do things by myself…the canoe thing, all over again…

which makes this co-operative venture that much more

 

cranberry biscotti

October 18, 2010 § 1 Comment

homemade (with pecans and fennel) as if I were grown up
or a balebuste and prone to such things,
or as if I weren’t, but I am

it’s not a calling as if that were a disclaimer, as if at my age I need such a thing as if I never grew vegetables baked a turkey made pies from scratch canned peaches pressed cider made fruit leather and yoghurt had chickens with a damned fine coop good layers too made all our bread cut our own firewood sweat in our own sauna until

enough was enough and I went to nursing school got divorced left town got a job remarried moved on,

yet as if it were a surprise, like this morning’s rain, the biscotti like it was not my department
were damned good

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