Poem After/For Johannes Göransson (with edits):
With deer there are derisions.
Every time it rains hard enough the ferns bleed.
Every time it’s hard deer jump across ravines.
Blood warmth wilts the ferns.
Scarlet floods from wildlife crisp the tendrils.
Out of the body the crisping blood begets legs sans saddle.
A shivering human manages a mount.
Tongue to hallucinated hornrut a deer-filled gut hears yarrow sprout.
Ok now for some prose-notes: my Baraka on violence bit is bad--no quotation, no elaboration; and probably if I go looking for the line(s) which led me to making that statement they'll not even be there; oh well I suppose blogs aren't usually scholarship and hence I suppose I'm in no violation of what's blogwise legit but wow my blog blows! I envy many other bloggers their grace/panache/elan/I wish an eland would start blogging!
Monday, June 14, 2010
Sunday, June 13, 2010
Every blogcommentbox post I've made at Kate Zambreno's blog Francis Farmer Is My Sister has not seen the light o' day--I hope it's tech issues and not me making Kate mad.
I'm looking forward to With Deer arriving sometime hopefully soonish in my mailbox.
A portion of the Teare poem posted a few days ago is not formatted correctly. MMMMMMMMMMM, sex, religion, gayness: deeeeeeeeeeeeeeeelish.
I've been recently reading Baraka's selected Transbluencies; I don't dislike it, but it doesn't get me in the gut either. When he's breakin' lines well, well I think that's swell. Some of his political theorizing seems spot-on (un-naive takes on Black Nationalism etc); other times, nope-nope: his takes on violence seem underdeveloped.
I'm looking forward to With Deer arriving sometime hopefully soonish in my mailbox.
A portion of the Teare poem posted a few days ago is not formatted correctly. MMMMMMMMMMM, sex, religion, gayness: deeeeeeeeeeeeeeeelish.
I've been recently reading Baraka's selected Transbluencies; I don't dislike it, but it doesn't get me in the gut either. When he's breakin' lines well, well I think that's swell. Some of his political theorizing seems spot-on (un-naive takes on Black Nationalism etc); other times, nope-nope: his takes on violence seem underdeveloped.
Saturday, June 12, 2010
Poem After/For Johannes Göransson:
With deer there are derisions.
Every time it rains hard enough the ferns bleed.
Every time it’s hard deer jump across ravines.
With human blood warmth wilts the ferns.
With the scarlet floods from wildlife the tendrils crisp.
Out of the body the crisping blood begets legs sans saddle.
A shivering human manages a mount.
Tongue to hallucinated hornrut a deer-filled gut hears yarrow sprout.
With deer there are derisions.
Every time it rains hard enough the ferns bleed.
Every time it’s hard deer jump across ravines.
With human blood warmth wilts the ferns.
With the scarlet floods from wildlife the tendrils crisp.
Out of the body the crisping blood begets legs sans saddle.
A shivering human manages a mount.
Tongue to hallucinated hornrut a deer-filled gut hears yarrow sprout.
Thursday, June 10, 2010
I think the poem below is really wonderful:
Eden Tiresias
by Brian Teare Brian Teare
[apocalypsis—L. to uncover, disclose]
i. “I am the sign of the Letter, / . . .”
No seed. Flat beneath my hand:
bone. Pelvis a field, but no seed.
Because there was no punishment
like fucking, its whip burned
Adam and nothing after. Because
shine took flight like two parrots
so deep green they seemed black.
And though the field tilted and split
forth meant two ways, though
far into the garden meant I lost
love, even a god could honor that.
“Cell by cell unsexed, I will light the
female,” said the snake, and what was
I was lost. What was shine fell;
a shed skin white as water falling.
Wisdom, when did it descend
weeping into each thing? I saw
too much to know who I was:
asleep in each molecule, chaos’s
energy. I couldn’t speak of this
change, how apocalypse once
gave tongue to each new skin
between my legs, twin parishioners,
bent prayer books inside me. Dominus
was Eden in me, and the Tree
the world had imagined, except:
interior, what asked for a mind
to hew with wounds. Except memory:
jibe, jilt, jest. What was real died
as its own elegy, as Adam did not.
ii. “. . . and the designation of the division.”
Mons: venus-field held horizon by sharp
fuckless months, field lain fallow. I lost him.
I did not love. Because bitterness lit me
strung tongue to gut. Because god loved
the way the snake shook shine into the tree,
leavening air with matte magnolia leaves.
My mouth opened to ask the snake’s name.
Like his tongue from which each word went
each way the meaning bent—leading me
the way back—, I never doubted what I didn’t
change down to the syllable, molecule,
shift between dahlia and dalliance, male to
woman, behold, becoming her, became me.
The tree wept cheap greenery; the snake left
what was knowledge, what was the given
matter: until Adam found me again, I put
weeping even inside myself: I knew
I could not explain I saw the end of things
static in anxious limitless rage. It was male,
and yet Adam found me the way language
meant to uncover: gladly he lent his mouth,
his hands, husband one, and one lover,
here the church, here the steeple: knuckles knelt,
o Deus, I remember: Self and Other,
and between us every elegy, all the fallen
language that couldn’t hold its own
and wouldn’t give it back, had no flesh
except how long dust keeps our alphabets.
It came alive outside the mind, intellect.
I loved it. He could not touch me there.
iii. “I am the sign of the Letter,
and the designation of the division.”
No seed. Flat beneath my hand:
mons: venus-field held horizon by sharp
bone. Pelvis a valley but no seed:
fuckless months, field lain fallow. I lost him
because there was no punishment
I did not love. Because bitterness lit me
like fucking, its wicked burn
strung tongue to gut. Because god loved
Adam and nothing after. Because
the way the snake shook shine into the tree,
the shine took flight like two parrots,
leavening air with matte magnolia leaves
so deep green they seemed black.
My mouth opened to ask the snake’s name;
and though the field tilted and split
like his tongue from which each word went
forth meant two ways, though
each way the meaning bent—leading me
far into the garden—meant I lost
the way back, I never doubted what I didn’t
love, even a god could honor that.
“Change down to the syllable, molecule,
cell by cell unsexed, I will light the
shifts between dahlia and dalliance, male-to-
female,” said the snake, and what was
woman, behold, becoming her, became me.
“I” was lost. What was shine fell;
the tree wept cheap greenery; the snake left
a shed skin white as water falling.
What was knowledge, what was the given
wisdom, when did it descend into
matter: until Adam again found me, I put
weeping inside each thing I saw.
Weeping even inside myself: I knew
too much to know who I was;
I could not explain I saw the end of things
asleep in each molecule, chaos
static in anxious limitless rage. It was male
energy. I couldn’t speak of this
and yet Adam found me the way language
changed, how apocalypse once
meant to uncover: gladly he lent his mouth,
gave tongue to each new skin.
His hands, husband one, and one lover,
between my legs, twin parishioners,
here the church, here the steeple: knuckles knelt
bent prayer books inside me, Dominus,
o Deus, I remember: Self and Other
was Eden in me and the Tree
between us every elegy, all the falls
the world had imagined except
language, what couldn’t hold its own
interior, what asked for a mind
and wouldn’t give it back, had no flesh
to hew with wounds, no memory
except how long dust keeps our alphabets.
Jibe, jilt, jest: what was real died as
it came alive outside the mind, intellect
its own elegy, and Adam did not
love it. He could not touch me there.
Eden Tiresias
by Brian Teare Brian Teare
[apocalypsis—L. to uncover, disclose]
i. “I am the sign of the Letter, / . . .”
No seed. Flat beneath my hand:
bone. Pelvis a field, but no seed.
Because there was no punishment
like fucking, its whip burned
Adam and nothing after. Because
shine took flight like two parrots
so deep green they seemed black.
And though the field tilted and split
forth meant two ways, though
far into the garden meant I lost
love, even a god could honor that.
“Cell by cell unsexed, I will light the
female,” said the snake, and what was
I was lost. What was shine fell;
a shed skin white as water falling.
Wisdom, when did it descend
weeping into each thing? I saw
too much to know who I was:
asleep in each molecule, chaos’s
energy. I couldn’t speak of this
change, how apocalypse once
gave tongue to each new skin
between my legs, twin parishioners,
bent prayer books inside me. Dominus
was Eden in me, and the Tree
the world had imagined, except:
interior, what asked for a mind
to hew with wounds. Except memory:
jibe, jilt, jest. What was real died
as its own elegy, as Adam did not.
ii. “. . . and the designation of the division.”
Mons: venus-field held horizon by sharp
fuckless months, field lain fallow. I lost him.
I did not love. Because bitterness lit me
strung tongue to gut. Because god loved
the way the snake shook shine into the tree,
leavening air with matte magnolia leaves.
My mouth opened to ask the snake’s name.
Like his tongue from which each word went
each way the meaning bent—leading me
the way back—, I never doubted what I didn’t
change down to the syllable, molecule,
shift between dahlia and dalliance, male to
woman, behold, becoming her, became me.
The tree wept cheap greenery; the snake left
what was knowledge, what was the given
matter: until Adam found me again, I put
weeping even inside myself: I knew
I could not explain I saw the end of things
static in anxious limitless rage. It was male,
and yet Adam found me the way language
meant to uncover: gladly he lent his mouth,
his hands, husband one, and one lover,
here the church, here the steeple: knuckles knelt,
o Deus, I remember: Self and Other,
and between us every elegy, all the fallen
language that couldn’t hold its own
and wouldn’t give it back, had no flesh
except how long dust keeps our alphabets.
It came alive outside the mind, intellect.
I loved it. He could not touch me there.
iii. “I am the sign of the Letter,
and the designation of the division.”
No seed. Flat beneath my hand:
mons: venus-field held horizon by sharp
bone. Pelvis a valley but no seed:
fuckless months, field lain fallow. I lost him
because there was no punishment
I did not love. Because bitterness lit me
like fucking, its wicked burn
strung tongue to gut. Because god loved
Adam and nothing after. Because
the way the snake shook shine into the tree,
the shine took flight like two parrots,
leavening air with matte magnolia leaves
so deep green they seemed black.
My mouth opened to ask the snake’s name;
and though the field tilted and split
like his tongue from which each word went
forth meant two ways, though
each way the meaning bent—leading me
far into the garden—meant I lost
the way back, I never doubted what I didn’t
love, even a god could honor that.
“Change down to the syllable, molecule,
cell by cell unsexed, I will light the
shifts between dahlia and dalliance, male-to-
female,” said the snake, and what was
woman, behold, becoming her, became me.
“I” was lost. What was shine fell;
the tree wept cheap greenery; the snake left
a shed skin white as water falling.
What was knowledge, what was the given
wisdom, when did it descend into
matter: until Adam again found me, I put
weeping inside each thing I saw.
Weeping even inside myself: I knew
too much to know who I was;
I could not explain I saw the end of things
asleep in each molecule, chaos
static in anxious limitless rage. It was male
energy. I couldn’t speak of this
and yet Adam found me the way language
changed, how apocalypse once
meant to uncover: gladly he lent his mouth,
gave tongue to each new skin.
His hands, husband one, and one lover,
between my legs, twin parishioners,
here the church, here the steeple: knuckles knelt
bent prayer books inside me, Dominus,
o Deus, I remember: Self and Other
was Eden in me and the Tree
between us every elegy, all the falls
the world had imagined except
language, what couldn’t hold its own
interior, what asked for a mind
and wouldn’t give it back, had no flesh
to hew with wounds, no memory
except how long dust keeps our alphabets.
Jibe, jilt, jest: what was real died as
it came alive outside the mind, intellect
its own elegy, and Adam did not
love it. He could not touch me there.
Tuesday, July 28, 2009
On The Run, From And In, Bikini
Snapping fingers to the “brain
Stem’s” amazing vase,
On which,
Amazing grace,
An apple seed’s drawn,
A man, his pet merganser
Quacking happily
By his
Side—all slide, flee—
Mispronounces love.
“Song goes,” goes crazy. The vase
With which love’s watered,
One thoughts
Sweetly pottered,
Is creamy inside.
Its exterior, speckled
Like a high-grade egg,
Reflects
Her chic-chic leg
As it “steps over
The yellow lines,” lines yellow
As fresh Grey Poupon.
I don’t
Like mustard, drone—
Rhone timbre, river
To look at not drink—till I
Make sounds which, I thought,
Cannot
Be, be begot
By these bones, this frame.
Notes: The poem above is in honor of Bloof Book's celebration of Sandra Simonds' book Warsaw Bikini; here's the link: http://www.bloofbooks.com/news.html . For my competition entry, I have started forth from Simonds' poem "Your Own Winnebago," which can be read on the Verse Daily website.
Snapping fingers to the “brain
Stem’s” amazing vase,
On which,
Amazing grace,
An apple seed’s drawn,
A man, his pet merganser
Quacking happily
By his
Side—all slide, flee—
Mispronounces love.
“Song goes,” goes crazy. The vase
With which love’s watered,
One thoughts
Sweetly pottered,
Is creamy inside.
Its exterior, speckled
Like a high-grade egg,
Reflects
Her chic-chic leg
As it “steps over
The yellow lines,” lines yellow
As fresh Grey Poupon.
I don’t
Like mustard, drone—
Rhone timbre, river
To look at not drink—till I
Make sounds which, I thought,
Cannot
Be, be begot
By these bones, this frame.
Notes: The poem above is in honor of Bloof Book's celebration of Sandra Simonds' book Warsaw Bikini; here's the link: http://www.bloofbooks.com/news.html . For my competition entry, I have started forth from Simonds' poem "Your Own Winnebago," which can be read on the Verse Daily website.
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