This morning spent with the kittens, in bed, with coffee, doing the Sunday NYT crossword (though the quality has fallen off lately), tidying up until I find my notebook, my other notebook, my favorite pens, which takes a while since I have to tidy up everything I see along the way; then sitting in my reading chair again with kittens and writing and reading some old drafts and funny snippets of half-poems. Tried to work on “Generation ship” but instead worked on “Wry crips”, which feels close to done.
As I look over my drafts and “finished” poems I have to keep repeating to myself: Not every poem is as good as my best poems. That’s ok! They can be finished and still count. It is always comforting to think that even my favorite poets have books where I only like 1 or 2 things or even just a few lines that stand out. But it is a horrible struggle and I feel faintly ill whenever I look at a poem that doesn’t go somewhere really or that feels Not Finished or like maybe I just went down the wrong path and should have thrown it all out. The perfect is the enemy of the finished. Maybe “good” or even “acceptable” or “I can see that I was trying something” can equal “DONE”.
Speaking of excellence tho my morning book after that is something spectacular. It’s Blood on the Fog by Tongo Eisen-Martin and I will be reading this book for a while / repeatedly with attention (which means it being a Pocket Poets edition is convenient). And I would really like to hear this guy read.
Did I know he was the current poet laureate of San Francisco? I did not! I just picked this up a while back as I riffled through many small books in a store somewhere in town and hit on this as instantly awesome from page 1 & then throughout. How is that assessment so fast? Like I can tell if something is gonna bore me or i’ve read something like it a hundred times.
* not prose
* not boring
* says something
* explodes in my mind a little
* language muscles flexing
* holographic
* riding a fucking tiger
* vivid images embraced
* conversational moments
* crams in a lot of thought
There is a thing I love that I don’t get to do enough which is when you get some poets talking, we all sound fucking insane-o in the best way and you can say oblique shit, heavy nonsense that is way up your own ass or your poem’s ass, and everyone understands. Oh yeah!!!!! Give me that sweet juice!!!!! that is how this book feels.
Some of these longer poems remind me of the best of Judy Grahn (Like A Woman is Talking to Death, the long poem about the mother dressing the bride as if sending to war, etc. ) in that they talk direct, they are in the world and current, not wearing some kind of weird hat, have a political awareness that is developed and centered and has compressed rage into language and action and yet also is free to range and roam.
“Will I be tied face to face with the country I murder”
Hand over my friends, LordLord, I think that I am going to die in a war
That hit me hard. this whole poem is fucking great.
waiting for the cornfield to shrug
we are forgetful
but your ancestors neverthelessslowing down the poem to the speed of sweet light
This is just little bits to tempt you to read more by the way.
and yes,
It's a simple matter
this revolution thing
To really lie to no one
To keep nothing godlike
(yes please. fuck, i’m so tired. )