Wednesday, November 30, 2011
At some point, I also dreamed that I should add a large disclaimer to the blog to the effect that most of the posted poems or fictions are posted as drafts and I eventually either discard them or work 'em over good and radically revise them. It's ironic to me that often the potential for the largest and most enduring audience for these pieces is here, on the internet, and not in the books and journals where the finished pieces often eventually appear, much improved. Still, I don't want to replace them. There's something about cracking open someone's braincover and looking in at the thoughts as they form, before they are polished into words. Or --hopefully -- looking into this blog and seeing the words before they are polished into more polished words.
Andrew Faulkner, he of Emergency Response Unit press (a chapbook press that does fantastic work) and a very talented writer has a begun a blog collecting sky images. I read a few and sent him one of mine. Then I ended up working on a poem using images of sky. Here it is. Unless it has, cloud-like, floated out of vision toward some blog horizon over which we may expect to arise a blog new day.
for Andrew Faulkner
sky is ape
heaven is monkey
I lie on my back and look at banks
they are clouds.
I am thrown from an airplane
grass is sky
commuter headtops: clouds
clouds I love your balding, your tinting.
between earth and space
O jam of night
star seed my looking teeth
prehensile sky in sorrowful eyes
grip the brain like a water balloon
throw it far
thinking an explosive gag shower
the mouth open to visible throat
small bugs and surprise
bank bank bank star
bank bank bank cloud
bank financial instrument bank bank
seahorse bank bank bank
the sky is wheat futures
is legal tender
is an ape with a mortgage
is the limit
is pure speculation
a foreign market
a reasonable return
outsourcing heaven to the sparrows
Monday, November 28, 2011
Thursday, November 24, 2011
Tuesday, November 22, 2011
Wednesday, November 16, 2011
Tuesday, November 15, 2011
Sunday, November 13, 2011
"…the deeper alchemy by which Kafka's comedy is always also tragedy, and this tragedy always also an immense and reverent joy… the really central Kafka joke -- that the horrific struggle to establish a human self results in a self whose humanity is inseparable from that horrific struggle. That our endless and impossible journey toward home is in fact our home."
-from David Foster Wallace's brilliant speech on Kafka’s humour
Wednesday, November 09, 2011
My daughter and I were walking in the forest in early November. Hamilton, Ontario, just below the Niagara Escarpment. Light was filtered amber through the yellow leaves. The way it reflects bright off snow, it reflected from the leaves fallen on the forest floor. We were walking through a woods suffused by golden light, a continuous late afternoon honeying, as if walking through a leaf itself, some kind of Magic School Bus science trip.
If I believed in heaven, I said, it wouldn’t be the bright green technicolour spring of the Christian right. it wouldn’t be Webern’s boundless, directionless, infinite twelve-tone heaven. It would be this fall. The end of an age. Elves leaving. The mortal forest. The peat smell. No gaudy bursting of flower buds or impetuous birds. This lager-coloured light in a shuffling forest.
I don’t understand those who don’t like all the seasons, my daughter said.
Then we wondered about borders. Where are the borders of colours, when does red become orange, and when does grey darken into blue?
Other places, there are only two seasons. Rainy and dry. And why four? What about the metric system. Maybe there should be five.
We could invent another season, try to find its source in our memory, associations, hopes.
What would we call it? When would it be?
A before-fall, an after-spring. A season of in-between days.
Perhaps it is there already like a silent letter, inexpressible and unspoken. A subtext between father and daughter. The dry season between drops of rain.