Poem: where windows open

where windows open, abandoned once       or not thought
of

a breast that moves on its own, during the day
,night

a hand that wanders lonely in a room

when others, a speech of everlasting
skirted the avenues in search of

insects or birds, mentioned or read about
an afternoon, how to spend

torn up or cut, carded
scratched a surface into

there is a cure for that, the sunken part

vegetation, takes a mountain walk to disturb
an apple dissected or
broken for the trip

deluged by nature, how love is found out
to be overrun by amount

netting or small game
hyphenated compliments tied, a ball around a pole

faculty in a cold surrounding
afflicts an audience to participate, slow down, or
disappear

fold away, the need to be caressed
such small spaces occupy the heart.

Robert Creeley

Got the news just now from the Buffalo poetics list that Robert Creeley died, great poet of his generation, one of the Black Mountain schooled poets. Also one of the founders of SUNY Buffalo's innovative poetics school; which I hope to attend one day. Funny, last night I came home to a package outside my door. A book I had ordered off ebay finally arrived. A collected Creeley. Read it at midnight, just as he was struggling with life, I was struggling with my own paths--Creeley's infused remedies guiding the way. I guess when one person leaves this world, another picks up his book and discovers all that he knew, or how he saw things. Sad to lose a poet, and one with such integrity and humour as I hear he had. I will read my new book tonight and think on his life, contributions, and kindness.

In other news, and to lighten things up a bit...I reached for a spoon in my office book shelf a few moments ago and discovered a can of tuna. Guess I'd brought that in for those "tuna" attacks. What am I, a cat? Yeesh. Also had a can opener up there. So, I'm eating it.

John Thompson's Stilt Jack

Just finished John Thompson's Stilt Jack. Does anyone else notice comparisons to Plath in that the context of what he's transcribing here seems to come from a place of suicidal tendancy... Of course the entire thing is breathtaking, even the few bouts with projective repetition that seem to parallel the mundane, or rather, eventual relinquishment of the/a life itself. Like how he ties in religion, fishing, ocean/salt presences repeatedly. Tells of a man living off the land; but also experiencing the depth of it all, coupled with the marriage of language and the sometimes subtle, sometimes full-on, but never trite, imagery. These words will haunt me for a long time, I hope forever.

Christian Bok, Eunoia

Been reading Eunoia--Christian Bok. Love what he did w/language and/or word as seeming mathematical equivalent. Created visual elements out of sonnet structure; fractals from combination of vowels. And each section of the book has a theme, each vowel chapter contains a representation of a limited amount of characteristics. Very interesting read so far. Interesting to have sat across from him at dinner at the Frank Davey/Poetics conference recently in London, Ontario too. Quiet guy, except for the occasional sudden giggle that seemed to extend past our table. Fun. And as unexpected as the sound poetry he read. Beat box stuff of his own, and another fella's monk-type meditations.