Good News

No poems today, but found out some good news.

via mefi

Gunnar Ekelof

Friends, those of you who have read my bio below know that I am Swiss, not Swedish. And that if you're looking for great Swedish poetry, look no further than the inimitable Gunnar Ekelof. I reproduce for your edification one of his sublime elegies:

Elegy

by Gunnar Ekelof

from Songs of Something Else

trans. by Leonard Nathan and James Larson


I turned away and everything was changed
The spring thrust out its bird's view eye
From the misty sun straight lines ran to all things
Over the monotonous spans of the telephone wires
clouds loomed like a fire at sea...

Waves
Waves my sisters for whom do you weep
the young god of evening or the shepherd of pain
I write distracted by thought, perhaps I don't remember it
any more
but I believe he was blind
What did he whisper in his sleep under the white membrane
Who really knows, but it seemed to make an impression
on nature
Great tears hung in the trees
and the clouds lolled weeping along the horizons
I write distracted by thought, perhaps I don't remember it
any more
but I believe he was dead
What was it he saw under the dark membrane
Who knows, who knows, but the stones turned themselves in sleep
A temblor shook all the mountains and the sun
turned away
and the sea became bitter
it happened long ago
I don't really know what happened
I remember it only in my feelings
Perhaps it was something else
Perhaps it could have been said in other words
as always everywhere and nowhere
Waves
Waves which hide his traces or hers
all that is written in water and sand

Biographical Note (as promised)

People often ask about my name and/or (if they listen to recordings or see me reading) my accent. Well, I am Swiss. Yes, Swiss. Like Nobel Laureate Carl Spitteler, author of Der olympische Frühling (The Olympian Spring) and Prometheus der Dulder (Prometheus the Long-Suffering). Not Swedish like Gunnar Ekelof (whose "Elegies," incidentally, I greatly admire).

Here in California people confuse the two countries. I have published several books, the covers of which are visible on my home page, along with some sample poems. I am currently at work on a manuscript called The Picky Hound.

My affinity for the Umbrists stems from my reading aesthetic being broader than my writing aesthetic. This is typical, I think.

Since CP Galom has seen it fit to describe his living arrangements, I will provide mine, by way of conclusion. I live in a guest house, behind the mansion of a fairly successful Hollywood actor, a distant cousin, who feels he is "giving back to art" (his words!) by supporting my residency here in the sun. I would like to say that I drive his Ferrari around and investigate crimes, but no one is that lucky in real life. Also, the "criminal element" is not conducive to my work. I share a Prius with Asulcena, my cousin's housekeeper.

A Found Poem from Any Pond

ALARM

Zounds! not a soul Will pass, and do obeisance to the cap.

Zounds, brother, you are mad, I think!

Zounds! I bleed still; I am hurt to the death.

Why, zounds! I am surprized myself.

Zounds! consort!

Zounds! an I were now by this rascal, I could brain him with his lady's fan.

Zounds! how has he the leisure to be sick In such a justling time?

Zounds, sir! then I insist on your quitting the room directly.

Zounds! will they not rob us?

Zounds! they’ll bring the whole country down upon them.

Zounds! madam, you had no taste when you married me!

Zounds and d—nation!

Zounds! he dies: I had forgot the reward.

Zounds! I will speak of him; and let my soul want mercy if I do not join with him.

Zounds! ye fat paunch, an ye call me coward, I’ll stab thee.

Zounds! he’ll drive me distracted, if I contain myself any longer.

Zounds, fellow, cease your deafning cheers!

Zounds! there's no bearing this; it's worse than death!

Gary Norris at DagZine sends a feather across the bow of Umbrism with his parody of School of Sleep. I feel I am back in grade school in Switzerland. My response is on Crony. His response to my response is here.

Thank you for your comments on Lyceum in Ruins. I don't know when another poem will come, especially in the current climate.

For some reason, I took a so-called Book Quiz. I answered candidly. I have not read the book I am. Why is there a rabbit on the cover? Shouldn't there be a picture of a boat, sinking? Does anyone know anything about this mysterious rabbit-book?

You're Watership Down!

by Richard Adams

Though many think of you as a bit young, even childish, you're
actually incredibly deep and complex. You show people the need to rethink their
assumptions, and confront them on everything from how they think to where they
build their houses. You might be one of the greatest people of all time. You'd
be recognized as such if you weren't always talking about talking rabbits.


Take the Book Quiz
at the Blue Pyramid.

God Bless Rudolph Lope. Pray for a recovery.

Saw Mena Suvari in the flesh. Also a stranger's baby, 2 hours old (behind glass). No poems.

If you are titillated by the torrent of discussion here at Gunther's Block, prepare yourself for a deluge of Umbrist poetics at Crony.

Back in California. Rain! Poem! I present for your commentary my first blogged work-in-progress:


LYCEUM IN RUINS

"A sense of doom informs the lynx."

Weeds, schist, an Artesian well:
élan in "a heavenly forge."

    Turn back.

There is a human hand here
below the crumbling parapet.

    Step on.

A floe (with seniors) leads to the cairn,
to the sniffling goat.

    Collapse.

The crotch of time, a bridge
between catapults.

    Collapse.

My reliquary brims over:
laurels in agar, a bag of drowned targets.

Today, Manhattan. 31st and Madison. I am ahead of myself by 3 hours. The city is full with poets. Poem I wrote this morning, "Wheeled Casbah," snatched from my hand on the L train by what I can only assume was a poetic competitor. Reward offered to anyone who can provide information leading to the apprehension of the perpetrator. Could Ron Silliman help? John Latta complains of his trying to place Kathleen Fraser, but I would really appreciate it if he could PLACE the g--damn Williamsburg hipster who stole my poem and took it to Brooklyn. Any aesthetic detectives out there?

The DoubleTree Guest Suites in Boca Raton is overwhelming. I would as soon write poetry here as on Everest. Tomorrow, Manhattan!

Valentine's day a poem ("Crowning") seemed imminent, but it was just the birth of my friend's daughter. Today I ask the muse: Will I never be parturient?

"Cosmogeny" delayed due to strong (Aeolian) headwind. No poems today.

Spent all morning reading Wordsworth. Muses called to say that my long poem, "Cosmogeny," tracing my spiritual development, is imminent. No poems today, though.

Sunny day. Falafel in Malibu. Poem I hoped to write ("Apophenia") diffused away in the lotus-eating afternoon.

No poems today. Posted a new poem from ANY POND on the website. A found poem called "Alarm" -- to replace "Caveat" which has been accepted for publication elsewhere.

Finally CP Galom has written (on his blog, link to the right) of his fear of women.

Spent morning looking for copy of Alexander Griboyedov's THE WOES OF WIT aka THE MISFORTUNE OF BEING CLEVER aka GOR OT UMA (in Russian). Poem expected to materialize this afternoon ("Postcard from Ajax") has so far failed to materialize. Spike-strips of the frontal lobe de-aired les pneus.

Dentist. Wrote no poems today.