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| what awkward morning, we stay and dream awhile
Posted: 8/14/2009 10:30:00 PM | good one trulio.
Like your legs.
like the way hair maps your arms.
especially when you muse with your eyes
when you walk, my heart sings.
oh, when your mind talks /through your words
I could swiftly bundle you into my arms.
Then the power of your anger
excites and incites my very eye
to the way of truth; I am free
to learn. Did I mention your eyes?
Of course. Salvation enters in the musing. | |
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| TERRIBLE CANYONS OF STATIC
Posted: 8/20/2009 4:28:29 PM | TERRIBLE CANYONS OF STATIC*
I sing O to the Ooh
sing La to the La
going round
the bent light
the blacksnake's back
and the north bullet
below an interval of cloud
where once
a marigold sea
tugged at my
coat sleeves and
a skeletal motion
busied itself
in the cinders
where once
blackbirds fragmented
the gales in the conglomerates
the place yielding up
its static breath
its late afternoon shadows
ghost eyes for a sleeping sun
*GSYBE | |
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| TERRIBLE CANYONS OF STATIC
Posted: 8/20/2009 10:32:22 PM | Today....cluck, drop, cluck, frop...no...drop
squirrels gathering nuts!
Plop...something on my arm.
Fragments of little bits are everything
in the end.
Especially the moment you relax
history stops. | |
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| THE STORY OF THE FUUIKU
Posted: 8/29/2009 8:42:29 PM | THE STORY OF THE FUUIKU
My interest in Japanese poetic forms was recently piqued due to all the activity on the various Haiku threads. As a result, I have spent a little time investigating the subject. In addition to learning about the multitudinous formats for Haiku and the older Tanka, I have come across a little known form of Rising Sun poetry known as the Fuuiku. Actually this occurred rather serendipitously through several conversations with my next door neighbor Mr. Jo-Jo Farnswarte. Although he is something of an autodidact, nonetheless he loves sushi as well as anime and he rides a Kawasaki 250. In addition, I have seen him retrieving the Sunday paper while wearing a kimono adorned with koi. Consequently, I place the utmost trust in his considerable knowledge on the subject of the Fuuiku and post-WWII Japanese poetry in general and defer to him in all such matters.
Now the Fuuiku, it seems, rose from the ashes of Hiroshima and Nagasaki during the Japanese beat movement. Although the movement is not well-known in the West, it paralleled the American beat movement through its response via collective angst to the superficiality of society amidst the shadows of nuclear war. Indeed, Japanese beat poetry shares many of the characteristics of American beat poetry such as youthful alienation, a desire for freedom from the constraints of society (especially in the areas of sexual morality and drug experimentation), and a generally critical view of traditional society as handed down by elders. However, the Japanese, in contrast to their American counterparts, rarely used the rant in their poetry, instead preferring a more subtle delivery. Farnswarte theorizes that the youthful Japanese poets opted to tread with a lighter step as they confronted the vestiges of the Rising Sun Empire and certain reactionary elements already in collusion with the Americans.
At the onset, Fuuiku poets risked censure from both the occupying American authorities as well as their Japanese underlings. In fact, most Fuuiku was written anonymously in the beginning, although it is believed the first example (appearing below and entitled simply Fuuiku) was penned by Mei-mei Meato Bufuyutu, better known for the epic masterpiece Scowl.
The format for Fuuiku (which loosely translates as flowery insult) has come to vary over the years, however in its original form it consisted of 42 lines in 7 stanzas with the syllabic count being 5-9-12-8-5-2-8-6-7-7-13-4-7-9-8-16-6-8-11-14-11-6-5-10-14-5-6-6-12-8-10-6-7-5-10-12-12-9-10-7-10-7. The form was purposely made rigid as a comment on the reactionary nature of Japanese society but proved too constraining in the end. Consequently freer forms quickly evolved. The one criteria that Fuuiku artists adamantly adhere to in defining Fuuiku is that the poem absolutely must contain at least four references to sexual fetishisms or paraphilia.
Here is the first known example of the Fuuiku.
FUUIKU
Words come freely now.
Now the words coming without expense,
and you little liberator that hurls the stars
across a textual universe.
Hurl on sweet child, pay
no mind
to the grog-grog waltzing meaty
in the frottage cottage.
O luscious the veiny vines
that sprout and wiggle niggle
sthenolagnia out of a basket of buttocks.
Hark, the flutey
flutes a bony marching song,
cooing coo de la crème de la coo
to dark industrial flowers
of autagonistophilia and emetophilia
abloom in the garden
where you sloop-sloop the slobber juice
across the eyehole of Empire's bulbous head.
O you our majestic queen of the bukkake party.
Western pearls ripening fruity on your face
and your sphincter glowing like
a glorious star.
How lovely you dance your geisha dance.
A lavaliere of radioactive fetal piglets
draped about your neck.
Come freely with the word
lovely little lighthouse
thinking not of the emperor's lost noodle soup.
O heavenly warrior cloud
your bloom-bloom flows as a double river
and the cherry blossoms
float upwards float downwards,
like little pink flies
in the late summer sun of our ancestors.
O loverly your winking imperial fount
smiling nodular behind the factory wall.
O Sweet Fathers of our land your lips
are as rubbery as a fugu fish
when you lick hard to receive
the collective spunking of our youthful
methedrine aspirations. | |
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| O MAMA
Posted: 8/29/2009 9:39:18 PM | O MAMA
(by Mei-Mei Meato Bufuyutu)
How you go-go boots to heal
the crack in the eye
for I have fallen once again
through the trap-door abyss
of a voluptuous velvet
My hands
disappear only to reappear
two fists in the corpse heart.
And I entered a wrathful
a mouth of blood and fools
my skin bursting with
squirming mirrors. | |
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| THE STORY OF THE FUUIKU
Posted: 8/29/2009 11:23:59 PM | bm, I had a passing desire to disembowel myself in the sign of the cross upon reading Mr Bufuyutu's elegant fuuiku, but gathered, instead, this fuuiku threnody, my first try at the curious form. Apologies for any laxness in my beginner's mind. (With a bow to my sensei, Mr Kudzu Hashimoto.)
FUUIKU, PLUM BLOSSOM
Wayfarer of grog
holy holy the sandals alight
with butane galaxies of white chopsticks sucking
the yang-dong dynasty of doom.
O little one, lost
in drink
are pallbearers of cum-soaked sheets
hazarding a sushi
julep fermenting in ease
next the supine garter snake
which twists like a geisha upended in sixty-nine.
Knee-pads of blue,
you paint lines of Tang between
cordons of silk nestling in breweries
of love, coagulating night-
mares jimmying jockey shorts from lagoons of nocturnal bandwidths
of phalli enshrouded black.
O warm succubi, flit me down
the cold avenues of gonorrhea. Quick!
Bold frescoes, wrong summers, grand rapiers of cement-tongues,
finish me off with
downy mouths indecent.
Strum allegros, moisture
in rivulets of desire incommoding fish
hairpinning a policy wonk
to a donor's pillow recumbent with
tangentials. Mooning you with hairy twin moons, it
looms hard and fast, revolving in step
with the hairy clam and the curved pestle.
Wrap this salami in mint
and chase the bent path close to my hard heart,
waxy in glorious dew. | |
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| THE STORY OF THE FUUIKU
Posted: 8/30/2009 9:58:16 AM | drea does the head bob
a bit bedeviled by fuuiko rules
who will lick the piglets from roun my neck
she pouts to the master
I've read both of these twice(i didn't count the time last night while slightly intoxicated tho lol) and as usual between rory(who mastered fuuiko in record speed) and Black Mary I will be googling for awhile just to define Rory's words and Black Mary's subtle satirical inferences..
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| THE STORY OF THE FUUIKU
Posted: 8/30/2009 11:17:01 AM |
The one criteria that Fuuiku artists adamantly adhere to in defining Fuuiku is that the poem absolutely must contain at least four references to sexual fetishisms or paraphilia.
for some reason, I imagine this to be the most enjoyable stricture... | |
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| THE STORY OF THE FUUIKU
Posted: 8/30/2009 11:46:51 AM | this is exactly why you guys get all of the women..
none of them have a clue what the fvck you are saying..
I've got to try that more often. Yo biatch!
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| untitled
Posted: 9/6/2009 10:20:12 PM | blindly dragging knuckles into the next thousand years
it’s time to reform the look angels give when they circle these lives
waiting for time to frame itself into a pretty box
then disrobe it with a hurried pull of wrappings
the bandages that hide back the layers of suffering that need healing
the brand of innocence that is just that
a torn body from the farthest reaches of earth
wrap me in a mindset that allows me to pretend that happy is a four letter word
and all the exalted should stop and name someone their leader
because were all going down in time as shapeless wanderers that didn’t make a imprint
don’t fool me into thinking I’m alone on this great blue ball of flesh
it’s time to flick bees off the hive and climb inside for a good taste of sweetness
take your bones into the graveyard and dance with zombies just for the kicks
wait for the ativistical scrolls to be read with two gods judging just who is boss
painting inkblots off heavens wall with primary colors, and a hint of grey
shake off that wrinkle in your brow that defines you as old and worn
I’ve got a washboard forehead that needs an aspirin
time is not standing still for the wise, wicked and wretched
stretched out hands ask for a respite and if we are kind we can give five minutes
while standing on our heads break dancing our shoes off
I can’t wait for time to stop just so I can take a vacation
the spoils be to the fodder until that day I’ll take another look in a broken mirror
of shards and displaced memories hellbent on 7 years of bad luck
take the needle out of my addicted mind and allow me to scale back the direction of my thrusts
until the time comes when I’ve no longer got a reason to complain | |
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| untitled
Posted: 9/7/2009 8:04:15 PM | Eighty plus another six
Where are the wrinkles
Even his toes are hardy
Where is the war?
Where are the kicks to his mind.
Why, when my ears heard
Forgiveness came easily.
He still cannot say love.
But he marvels my heart
He hunches waiting for the real death. | |
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| untitled
Posted: 9/7/2009 8:56:32 PM | Love cooing comes across like velvet
underground underneath
you look up and see
me as I am
i lasted only as long
as nothing changed
our history of one and
others | |
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| untitled
Posted: 9/7/2009 10:34:59 PM | Halting
He Ho
a small farmer in Manchu
wanted to know
exactly
whether there should be something solid
that you could make of
such as a block
something that did not destroy trees
The Great Detail, of the last century, and progress,
was nothing more than a scent of food cooking slowly
over juniper
You end up being more divine, encased, lightly in a fog,
that is you | |
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| untitled
Posted: 9/11/2009 9:14:04 PM | Trees, flowers, volcanoes, hours
in human company...how sad
that the twain shall never meet.
I especially like wood fires
crashing, forward waves
prairie cities rising into the dawn
quiet voices chanting gregorian nuances.
Followed by someone crying stridently
fog is the enemy, stand waiting/ see the sun. | |
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| THE DISTANCE INSIDE SONGS
Posted: 9/11/2009 10:05:21 PM | THE DISTANCE INSIDE SONGS
Then unlinked, the vehicle contained wisp
the thought threading itself in the weave
in the notes of old radio songs and a background
of self-replicating strip malls; unfinished or flat out
empty where once marshlands and pastures
entertained consumers
this morning I ensconced
myself within that blue dream of snow
waves went by I heard the song
heard the mockingbird
announce the end of days
something heaving
weight or sigh or only
fluid oscillation, the rippling state
between harmony and frenzy
in the year of the ox
when
someone said
the abscess of argument
the screech of what is blind
in the desert should we not
prefer the dead
an afternoon choosing
sun-driven chariots and unfinished sky
laying on hands or fingers
in your hair the breeze
in the wisp of the thought
beneath the notes of old radio songs | |
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| THE DISTANCE INSIDE SONGS
Posted: 9/13/2009 8:42:58 PM | Frequently reminders are balms.
What is better than fingers caressing hair?
Then, what is better than this ancient
walking alongside as I view his every step.
Take me down to where I live, with no hesitation
Stroke, velvet hands, my present need. | |
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| THE DISTANCE INSIDE SONGS
Posted: 9/27/2009 6:35:38 PM | Which song ever defined
the distances between viewpoints?
What corrects the miles between what you thought
what I thought, what evolved from this process?
Matters become silent in the end. It is always the same conclusion.
The only agreement is the full moon, a sunrise, deep, enchanting sunset.
At times the only definition that fits distance in songs is two, just two
ringing in the morning, singing Glory Allejuhah. | |
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| THE DISTANCE INSIDE SONGS
Posted: 10/1/2009 10:03:37 PM | foresight
it came
without
a
beaming
or
dreaming
of
foresight
darkness
fled
it came and went
pleading
screaming
for
some semblance
of
redeeming
damn you for making me wake
I told you it was a mistake
to dream
without
a reckoning
of
blight
damning
yet
it woke
me
it awakened
me
to a new
dream
what is this distance
it
is
a
dreaming
within
awakening
dreaming
within
damning
what is the true wakening
within
it
is
dreaming
and
yet
waking
to
another
day
of
hoping | |
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| THE DISTANCE INSIDE SONGS
Posted: 10/1/2009 11:13:03 PM | Ah...true awakening involved a big matter
of protein, (bacon, eggs,) then some really yummy carbohydrates
PANCAKES....I had the money for all of these. It is Sunday morning.
Clear, simple, quiet, serene, Sunday morning possesses the facility
to bring down the mighty, uplift the needy.
If you have to leave, take this maple syrup soaked pancake
leave with your grimace. There is so much room for smiles
and hey you I am walkin, talkin, and plain and simple until
enough, I have no power to say when, is enough.
That is not the point. Each time the sun rises.
Somebody definitely smiles. | |
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| THE undercut faculty of foresty
Posted: 10/5/2009 12:51:45 AM | heno-, hen-
(Greek: one; used as a prefix)
hendiadys
A figure of speech in which two words connected by a conjunction are used to express a single notion that would normally be expressed by an adjective and a noun [or expressed by two nouns or two adjectives joined, rather than by an adjective-noun combination] such as "grace and favor" instead of "gracious favor"; or as Virgil wrote: "We drink from cups and gold" (instead of "golden cups").
henism
henogenesis
henogeny
henopoeia
A figure of speech by which a number of things are considered as one.
henotheism
1. The worship of one god, that is, as the special god of a social group or occupation, while acknowledging or believing in the existence of other gods.
2. A kind of polytheism in which one god of the pantheon is raised over the others.
Coined by Friedrich Max Mueller (1823-1900), professor of comparative philology at Oxford, in his "Lecture on the Origin and Growth of Religion" (1878). It is also defined as, "the worship of one of a group of gods, in contrast with monotheism, which teaches that only one god exists." A henotheist is an adherent of henotheism.
henotheist
henotic
Tending to make into one; unifying; reconciling, harmonizing | |
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| THE undercut faculty of foresty
Posted: 10/6/2009 9:59:34 PM | | trulio...very colorful , unifying, reconciling and harmonizing. No matter the number of gods or God you choose.... you are still better than any flippin banker, real estate agent, broker, developer , despot, egofreak, brain dead populace, ummm....etc. etc. ( and the sad fact that aforementioned also profess to believe in gods or God) So you are still better if you are really not one of the so mentioned and you realize that there is indeed something pretty fantastical happening and you are working hard not to be afraid and stone cold dead in your heart and mind. Peace. | |
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| FRAGMENTS FROM THE CENTRAL FLOWER
Posted: 10/11/2009 9:02:57 AM | FRAGMENTS FROM THE CENTRAL FLOWER
*
She waited by the kitchen window for hummingbirds
Something inside her counting down
The last of February as if sparkling
and the skyline was shivering
through threads of ice though summer was also
(there) between us
A lake of green mirrors
Floating as if counting as if
There were little sailboats
On little waves
On little waves
On little waves
There were times when the morning was still red
Still and red
In the bonsai garden
a conformity of twisted saplings
obeying my father’s will and wire
lignified lovely or lonely as a dwarf
one might have dreamed
as if cragged above the sea
as if the wind had carved
a samurai’s death poem upon its bark
one might have dreamed
as if counting down
a remembrance of suns
counting down the sea
Still and red
She read strange books
As if floating she read H.G. Wells in the morning red
By the yellow afternoon through the avens
Thoreau
On good days hummingbirds
Sequenced the flame in the central flower
Could have been hibiscus could have been
magnolia blossom floating
on little waves
**
The austere voice of our house, the vacuum of tongues and
Nobody asking
Are we culled or are we called?
Afterbirth of deities, blood symphony, gut-slag of empire, and more than a little murder, inc.
Mud monkey and tooth
Slippery when wet dreaming through the divine mirror
Nucleosides jetting on the rungs of a twisted ladder
So sorry Mr. Somebody but I think I’ll have
a fragment of cloud, a train in a house, a trained house
In the night of her garden a fragrant juggernaut leans on me
Afterwards the weather is lovely, the sky is empty, the sun sets in her mouth, etc.
***
The answer was forest of suns the distance irretrievable
Now a graceful curve of echoes follows me
Longing green light and a language to count outwards
the petals of the central flower
Also
As if
Counting pulse along
Volutes of the ram’s horn
Along the spiraling embossments of the pine’s cone
Counting down through lens-cored sea-depth a blue eye glinting on the nautilus’s mottled shell
Counting other sequences
Terms accumulating like steps
Round a perfectly round lake
Days of a December strung out like a sentence of light because by heart she knew
The first three Duino Elegies
Because she slept on stairs to provoke angels because she slept
Under strange strange skies in open fields
I wanted her to dream she was a bulldozer I wanted her to dream she was alone
The horizon arcing in the peripheral eye
Hued lavender, pinpoints of light and little crosses
A dream of architecture just below the surface
Her voice in the abandoned stone church
The crumbling wall as she spoke
Telling me of Uffizi, of Filippo Lippi’s
Madonna in the Forest
Of a hundred other staring madonnas and her staring back
Until her eyes began to drown
In sections of black canvas
As they began to move in waves
As a darkness on the sea
In her fugue she sat
On a marble bench and knew
She was disintegrating
The vast expanse of white between paintings
Was the only thing that brought her back
And I wanted to be a cloud
****
Draw out the allegory of snow
The spaces in the text
Where the words fall down
In purposeful white
Also
As if
Love leaving water
The music plays and I remain not I
Red Georgia on the road down the center line a spiral flowers open
Stars of the nights of August flamed out of the flower
I wanted to count them as if touching beads on a rosary
I wanted to touch her midnight on the shores of Dog Lake
Where soft-shelled turtles laid their eggs
and the waves were green longing and then the rain and
It never bothered me about how the together of our we
Realized a special sadness in the year of the locust
And we went
To the lighthouse at St. Marks
Its walls monarch-covered
In winged skin of orange and black and
We came as we were and oyster shells cut our feet
And when she got mad I tossed some Yeats her way
Something about her pilgrim soul and the changing lines in her face she was having none of it
Constellations, civilizations, trees, one leaf, a thousand leaves, little turtles and little birds
Except the majuscules fading out of gesturing language, made of silk and seasons, made of wilderness, made of nothing
But one old building on the highway, falling into itself, breaking me down, going close to the other going far
And eventually
(She was always)
a fretless guitar
*****
“ne pas effacer merci
La pluie s'en occupe
….please don't erase this
the rain will do it for you”
… words chalked in stone by Jan Elsv Zylberstein following his homage to Apollinaire on the wall at the end of the bride of Pont Mirabeau
Somebody asking
Are we culled or are we called?
Going close to the other is also going far
Where the waters of the Seine
Slow slowly flow
Under bridge Mirabeau
And our loves the leaving water
And I do not remain I
Poets carve Apollinaire’s words
on the wall at the end of the bridge
Slow flows the Seine
Under bridge Mirabeau
Telling us remember
Joy comes after pain
On bridge Mirabeau Apollinaire wondered the Seine
How violent is hope (days go by not I)
The tired tidal eye
Below the bridge Mirabeau
The waters wonder so
Also
As if
Celan in forgetting
Sunk down in the bitter
well of his heart (her black hair floating
beneath waves) and never to forgetting the camp violins, the Lagerkommandent’s blonde Margeurite
Black milk of a cemetery sky and only half the Holderlin, the golden hour gone and the birds do not awaken
Amidst all the loss there remains numbered
Among the almonds, as if sparkling
Flowering the center, an apocalyptic star
NOTES
1. The phrase “strange strange skies” is lifted from the Rolling Stones song “Moonlight Mile”.
2. The line “I wanted her to dream she was a bulldozer I wanted her to dream she was alone” paraphrases the title of a song by the Montreal group God Speed You Black Emperor.
3. The line “Realized a special sadness in the year of the locust” paraphrases a line from the Steely Dan song “Throw Out Your Gold Teeth”.
4. The line “Something about her pilgrim soul and the changing lines in her face she was having none of it” contains phrases out of the Yeats poem “When You Are Old”.
5. The line “ Except the majuscules fading out of gesturing language, made of silk and seasons, made of wilderness, made of nothing” was inspired by the Celan phrase “ like the dance of words made of autumn and silk and nothingness.”
6. Every section beginning with the words “Also / As If” is a Fibonacci Verse (in words not syllables) The first two follow the count 1-2-3-5-8-13, the last one goes to 21.
7. The bridge at Pont Mirabeau on the Seine is famous among poets. First there is the Apollinaire poem “Mirabeau Bridge” inspired by one of his loves and set to music by the Pogues. (Many many translations are on the web and the Pogues song is on You Tube). People have scratched the Apollinaire poem on the bridge as well as other poems. It’s been said that history placed its full weight on Paul Celan. Both his parents perished in the concentration camps of the Holocaust and he was imprisoned in a labor camp. In 1970, he apparently jumped off the Bridge Mirabeau (a place he often visited) to his death. Celan was a translator and admirer of Apollinaire and both Apollinaire and Celan were admirers of Holderlin. After Celan’s body washed up and was discovered, the following Holderlin quote was found in his study, only the first part was underlined "Sometimes this genius goes dark and sinks down into the bitter well of his heart." (underlined by Celan) "but mostly his apocalyptic star glitters wondrously." (not underlined).
8. In addition to using parts of the Holderlin quote in the 5th section, I also used (in that section) phrases either directly or in paraphrase from Apollinaire (Mirabeau Bridge), Celan (Death Fugue, Count The Almonds, and a quote of Celan’s I owe knowing to my friend James), and Holderlin (not sure from which poem but the phrase is “From afar rings golden at the hour of reawakening birds. So it goes”. | |
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| FRAGMENTS FROM THE CENTRAL FLOWER
Posted: 10/11/2009 11:15:59 AM |
Something about her pilgrim soul and the changing lines in her face she was having none of it
this line gave me the lols...(do you ever wonder if she was his brown penny?)
lovely, lovely always lovely, Blackie...
Thanks for the history lesson on Celan, you've definitely intrigued me enough to go googling...(why does that phrase remind me of bugs, I wonder?) | |
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aka,om
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Joined: 12/6/2008
Msg: 2524 | |
| FRAGMENTS FROM THE CENTRAL FLOWER
Posted: 10/11/2009 11:28:59 AM | | I'm just gonna' slip in behind, brizo, in what should be a long line of admirers. doah, that didn't come out right. anyway, you both know what I mean. | |
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