Those Being Eaten by America

by Robert Bly

The cry of those being eaten by America,

Others pale and soft being stored for later eating

And Jefferson

Who saw hope in new oats

The wild houses go on

With long hair growing from between their toes

The feet at night get up

And run down the long white roads by themselves

The dams reverse themselves and want to go stand alone in the desert

Ministers who dive headfirst into the earth

The pale flesh

Spreading guiltily into literatures

That is why these poems are so sad

The long dead running over the fields

The mass sinking down

The light in children's faces fading at six or seven

The world will soon break up into small colonies of the saved

(1966)

I started to develop a passion for 1960s American poets lately. I guess it was a very special moment in hystory, their struggles in writing resonate to my daily struggles in 2009, only less energy and vision on my side. They are my heroes these days.

Communication on His Thirtieth Birthday

by Marvin Bell

You didn't have to travel to become an airplane,
nor fly to get high. Considerable numbers languished
in your exclusive calculations. You would wind up abroad.
You choose home entertainment and the mechanical society.

The machine had machines which told machines all about it.
The machine knew, for example, of sensational airwaves.
The machine knew how to go up and how to drop down.
The machine knew all the exits, and the best exits.

Then your metabolism changed and you entered energy:
model-making glue, carbon, tet., solder, a piezo-electric
crystal-controlled oscillator smelled like the real thing,
and gave you the advantage of interchangeable frequencies.



You were calibrating fame and the landscapes you entered.
you could prove forty-eight states and Britain
and at dusk you could prove the small isles of the Atlantic.
You spoke to every radio on St.Pierre and Miquelon Islands!

Fifteen years later, you abandoned your license,
just as the next generation was entering chemicals.
You were writing, compulsively, bit nothing fashinable.
A poem on your birthday seemed out of the question.

Yet, here you are, celebrating, speaking openly as if
the moral of aesthetics is that the parable convinces.
The easy way out, you concluded, is through the village,
under the antenna, down the long path intended for your feet.

(1967)

Objective Subject

another poem by Allen Ginsberg

It's true I write about myself

Who else do I know so well?

Where else gather blood red roses & kitchen garbage

What else has my thick heart, hepatitis or hemorrhoids -

What else lived my seventy years, my old Naomi?*

and if my chance I scribe U.S. politics, Wisdom

meditation, theories of art

it's because I read a newspaper loved

teachers skimmed books or visited a museum

March 8, 1997, 12:30 A.M.

* I think Naomi is Ginsberg's mother, Naomi (Levy) Ginsberg. She was diagnosed as suffering from paranoia. She was institutionalized, eventually lobotomised, and she died in an asylum in 1956. Her life is the "objective subject" of Ginsberg's poem 'Kaddish', which was written in one 40-hour session as a compensation of her funeral service, where there weren't enough male mourners present for the rabbi to read the funeral elegy, the kaddish.

photo via flickr

Insecurities Increase

by Antonette*

Insecurities increase,

with daily verbal abuse

and death threats,

All because of the way I dress.

Aging tranny bitch queen,

tattooed masculine lines,

some ‘bull-dyke’ on steroids.

Nice figure,

but face like Freddie Krueger,

the serial killer.

Why can’t people let me be?

Constantly judging

by first appearances.

You can’t judge

by looking at the wrapping.

The woman in me,

dying to be accepted.

The public forces the Queen

to put the dresses away

after a certain age.

The abuse and constant danger,

Forces the she-male

to only come out at night,

if at all.

Imprisoned by letting the forces

of the shallow general public,

To intimidate the feminine side,

so she must fade away

and hide.

The tranny bitch submissive Queen,

Too old to be seen as anything other

than a sexual deviant,

Fallen so far.

Starting over again

at the bottom,

Can’t get much lower

than a tranny working the stroll.

Shit on from all sides,

an abnormality.

Can I keep going,

dressing daily for my femininity?

Old memories,

sadden the heart,

vacant loneliness,

Stress upon stress.

Afraid I might kill

some ignorant young fuck,

For his ill timed,

homophobic foul mouth.

Don’t look 30,

but awesome for 50-something.

Strong masculine lines

and tattoos,

Constantly reinforce

the fitting handle

of,

Miss Understood.

* I found this wonderful poem at the Queer History Project website. You can find the story of the poem and other amazing queer stories there.

Thanksgiving Prayer - William S. Burroughs

Always good to remember Ol'Bill's words of advise. Not as good as the Gus van Sant classic version, but with some interesting footage.

"Thanks for the wild turkey and
the passenger pigeons, destined
to be shit out through wholesome
American guts.


Thanks for a continent to despoil
and poison.

Thanks for Indians to provide a
modicum of challenge and
danger.

Thanks for vast herds of bison to
kill and skin leaving the
carcasses to rot.

Thanks for bounties on wolves
and coyotes.

Thanks for the American dream,
To vulgarize and to falsify until
the bare lies shine through.

Thanks for the KKK.

For nigger-killin' lawmen,
feelin' their notches.

For decent church-goin' women,
with their mean, pinched, bitter,
evil faces.

Thanks for "Kill a Queer for
Christ" stickers.

Thanks for laboratory AIDS.

Thanks for Prohibition and the
war against drugs.

Thanks for a country where
nobody's allowed to mind the
own business.

Thanks for a nation of finks.

Yes, thanks for all the
memories-- all right let's see
your arms!

You always were a headache and
you always were a bore.

Thanks for the last and greatest
betrayal of the last and greatest
of human dreams."

my artaud article in egophobia

my reading of Artaud's Here Lies. here.

update: footnotes are missing. and funny thing, this is a Vakulovski special, read the other post today

daily nietzsche 2

Fireste se stie ca anii de scoala sunt grei,

Risipa de chin, oboseala si munca.

and another mardale, right on point

daily nietzsche 1

o noua initiativa: voi posta aici parti importante din Nietzsche. foarte scurte. sa vad cat tine. poate si niste imagini bune. hell knows.

Prietene draga, de ce nu mi-ai scris de atata amar de vreme?

Am tot asteptat, numarand zile si ceasuri.

de data asta un mardale vero, this guy changed my life as a kid and still surprises me. este clar un grafician pe alcaline.

by Bertolt Brecht

Bad Time for Poetry

Yes, I know: only the happy man
Is liked. His voice

Is good to hear. His face is handsome.

In my poetry a rhyme

Would seem to me almost insolent.

Inside me contend

Delight at the apple tree in blossom

And horror at the house-painter’s speeches.

But only the second

Drives me to my desk.

Changing the Wheel

I sit by the roadside

The driver changes the wheel.

I do not like the place I have come from.

I do not like the place I am going to.

Why with impatience do I

Watch him changing the wheel?

from Letter to the Actor Charles Laughton

Concerning the Work on the Play

The Life of Galileo

Again and again I turned actor, demonstrating

A character’s gestures and tone of voice, and you

Turned writer. Yet neither I nor you

Stepped outside his proffesion.

I, the Survivor

I know of course: it’s simply luck

That I’ve survived so many friends. But last night in a dream

I heard those friends say of me: ‘Survival of the fittest’

And I hated myself.

not to survive

Dear goddess

Crash into the crystalline damp of the full moon

Offer naturalist opium

Cancel the apocalypse

And buy me a drink

How much is gonna cost to slaughter a mirror?

Earth-core makes my throat sore

I can quote any pop artist:

Death and destruction

Asthma – just a touch

Paranoia – just a touch

Valley of death – just a touch

Sensationalism – just a touch

Who wants to be a decoy?

Plenty of mucus in bronchial tubes

Fragments of glass in the sea

I am not bullet proof

I want to buy some hard liquor

Based on crimes and lies

Our writing sleeps

Abyme

Discuss our tactics

To fight the mirror

I see the moon

In the valley of extraterrestrial activities

Be feel indulge

Ongoing depression

Unsuitable anthology of madness

Falling

Ballad for Bad Boys

I expect brutality and exploitation to appear

Bad Boys

One case in point:

Todesfuge – sleep with the machinery

Plain looking caftans and flowing skirts

Going along with an old hat input

Sex kittens

In a courtroom drama

I would choose not to survive

an other Rich

Prospective Immigrants Please Note

Either you will
go through this door
or you will not go through.

If you go through
there is always the risk
of remembering your name.

Things look at you doubly
and you must look back
and let them happen.

If you do not go through
it is possible
to live worthly

to maintain your attitudes
to hold your position
to die bravely

but much will blind you,
much will evade you,
at what cost who knows?

The door itself
makes no promises.
It is only a door.


1962

An Unsaid Word

She who has power to call her man
From that enstranged intensity
Where his mind forages alone,
Yet keeps her peace and leaves him free,
And when his thoughts to her return
Stands where he left her, still his own,
Knows this the hardest thing to learn.


by Adrienne Rich

eclectic

cu siguranta aleg doar ce imi place :) si garantez asta

de exemplu, imaginea de mai sus: nu stiu cine sunt cei de acolo, dar imi aduce putin din atmosfera foarte speciala a unui poet danez (?), Ivan Malinovski. personajele lui pot fi integrate in acest tablou de familie, cum de altfel si personajele tabloului pot fi regasite in lumea creata de Malinovski. Nu am gasit mai nimic despre el online, doar cateva volume de poezie, evident in daneza. poate nu stiu sa caut. daca aflati sau stiti ceva, please write...
deocamdata ma multumesc cu ce am:

943
Biata cruciada in galop salbatic
prin tara frumoasa.
Maini roase de rani, sapand
pe un frig care ingheata.
Si milioane de fire de praf, nici o raza -
de imnuri ar fi nevoie pe-aici!

Cateva imnuri in afara de timp -
nu despre New York, ori Ierusalim, ori fluviul Gange,
nu Aleluia sau Hei sau Asa si pe dincolo,
doar niste cantece mici, de drum.

Imnuri ale soarelui, ale prafului, ritmuri de zi si de noapte,
ale celor putini ce nu s-au nascut cu infrangerea-n sange,
ale celor care n-au cunoscut niciodata legile.



Aschenbrenner
Suprafata apei, coaja pamantului, pielea: membrane ce te apara de moarte.

Un dans pe schimbatoarele ponderi specifice, o substanta devoreaza ceea ce substanta vecina ar vomita imediat, soggetto per una commedia...

Prin membrana foetala a matricei, la capitalism; prin membrana somnului, la un alt vis, de la nimic la nimic.


Film mut
Cine asculta aceste glasuri majore, emise din turnuri inalte?
O aversa trece peste tari si harti cu degetul gros intors pe dos. Sistemele se ciocnesc intre ele, precum galaxiile: film asurzitor, desi mut - noul bruiaj intarzie.
Ce stim despre astre? State news. Iar mai mult decat o singura viata de om, nu i-e dat nimanui sa calatoreasca in spatiu, nici de-am folosi toti hormonii mieilor nenascuti inca, ce pot prelungi existenta.
La fel si pe glob. In curand, cancelarii ne vor uita. Ce haos! Fara prea multa zarva, se otraveste atmosfera. Pe semenul tau il privesti cu neincredere: nu e cumva un agent de politie? Puterea e mereu printre noi. O tanara fata insangerata se sprijina de un felinar si plange, fara-indoiala (Scriu saptamanalele vreun cuvant despre fata?).
Spune DA Europei! Catapulta sau caracter? Aceasta e intrebarea in ziua de azi! S-a uitat demult orice muzica.
Ce zapaceala! Nici o clipa nu scade vartejul.
Fericirea te-ntampina surazand pe ecran; o femeie fardata; noi aplaudam. Si ministrii aduc osanale poporului; si noi aplaudam.
Da-ne curajul opiniei, am obosit!
Cine pune curse de soareci, e -economic vorbind- mai tare decat cine-i sarac si n-are cu ce sa le cumpere.
Gandul la tramvaie nu m-a lasat sa dorm toata noaptea; birourile ar trebui sa le repopuleze.
1. Tortura trebuie sa fie indeplinita corect.
2. Si executata de un functionar superior, sau de orice alta persoana cu simtul raspunderii.
3. Noi aplaudam.

how do you want me to live with it? alone in the closet

closet-ul e un concept care se potriveste ca o manusa lumii in care traiesc. fiecare usa deschisa, fiecare closet daramat inseamna intrarea intr-un closet si mai mare. si aceste treceri nu sunt niciodata usoare. imprevizibil ramane doar noul closet, cu regulile lui.

Am gasit un raspuns la mesajele de sub capac, pe care insa nu le inteleg. o pot numi

Plimbare in 2007

Ratacesc prin case mohorate
lipsite de o lumina fireasca:
adaposturi ale celor demult decedati.
Umezeala pe pereti e o licarire
de lacrimi pe obraz, nezvantate.

Ratacesc prin bucatarii mucegaite,
prin dormitoare-n amurg
in care ingalbenesc fotografiile barbatilor disparuti,
ale fiilor impuscati.

Prin holuri, coridoare, pivnite,
sub multe lampi obosite
ratacesc prin multe incaperi.

Si nici o taina nu-i ascunsa
indaratul vreunei usi,
indaratul fiecarei usi
dau de teama si speranta,
curaj si slabiciune
si indaratul usilor nu mai dau de nimic -
in afara de mine.


autorul este Gunter Kunert, traducerea este a lui Petre Stoica.

despre Peter Hille

revin la poetul german Peter Hille, intrat in legenda. a lucrat foarte putin si cand a facut-o, avea meserii jalnice: grefier si corector. la berlin era o curiozitate locala si la un moment dat apare ca fiind proprietarul unui cabaret de doi bani, dar cunoscut in boema berlineza. de cele mai multe ori, fara a anunta pe nimeni, Hille diparea fara urma si prietenii lui nu mai stiau nimic de el ani de zile. Cel mai frecvent, pleca alaturi de caravane de tigani prin toata Europa. La un moment dat il gasim stabilit la Londra, unde va trai o perioada in comunitatile de negri si de chinezi. Singura proprietate de care se stia era un sac de campanie plin cu manuscrise. Stilul sau fragmentat, grabit, mereu pus pe improvizatie se poate observa in poezia sa. se presupune ca cele mai importante scrieri ale sale au disparut undeva pe drum sau prin carciumi. publicat, cum era si de asteptat, postum, Hille a scris si teatru dar si o proza cu o puternica tematica anarhista. ironia razbate din fiecare rand al sau. ca o ultima nota asupra vietii sale, a fost gasit mai mult mort decat viu pe o banca in gara din Berlin. In scurt timp a murit la spital.

Memphis, Tennessee

voi continua serile de poezie de pe blog.
poate si datorita sophianei, amintiri cu mici momente de victorie pe poeme inspirate.

cert este ca in aceste shot-uri stil mtv sau youtube gasesc inspiratie si puncte de plecare pentru kestii mai mari.

urmeaza in aceasta seara minunata un poet danez, Johannes V. Jensen cu fragmente dintr-o calatorie americana. ca doi globethroateri fara o experienta vasta, in planul unui coast-to-coast, dupa lungi zile si nopti pe drum, vom astepta un greyhound

In statia Memphis

Pe jumatate treaz, dormind pe jumatate,
intr-o vijelie launtrica de vise dadaiste,
stau si scrasnesc din dinti
in statia Memphis, Tennessee.

Noaptea e prea pustie si moarta,
si ploaia curge pe pamant
cu o energie surda, cretina.
Totul e umed si nepasator.
De ce sta trenul de ore si ore?
De ce s-a oprit destinul tocmai aici?

Am fugit de ploaie, de pamantul macinat,
in Danemarca, India si Japonia,
ca sa -mi intre ploaia in oase si sa putrezesc la Memphis,
Tennessee, USA?

Ce surda e lumea, ce nemiscata!
Ce banal creatorul!
De ce sa platesc pe deasupra o taxa
acestui vulgar sanatoriu al vietii!

Aprinde-ti pipa, pe stomacul gol.
Blestema cerul si alunga-ti necazul!
Si du-te si stai la Memphis!
Viata ta, in definitiv, nu-i altceva
decat o ploaie cazand pe pamant.
Viata ta, in definitiv, nu e mai mult
decat un ropot de ploaie gretoasa, si soarta
ti-a fost dat sa intarzii
intr-o mizera sala de asteptare sau alta.
Ramai deci la Memphis, Tennessee!

Opreste-te, om neimpacat!
Vei purta vesnic pica pamantului pentru recunostinta ce ti-ar datora-o?
Ce-ai vrea sa faci cu inima ta cea plina de dragoste?
Opreste-te odata, ramai la Memphis;
anunta-te printre nou-venitii in targ, ca orice alt cetatean;
du-te si asigura-te asa cum se obisnuieste;
plateste-ti prima de vulgaritate,
sa se stie ca esti sanatos
si sa nu fii zvarlit afara din club cu pistolul.
Curteaza dudui cu roze in piept si inele de aur in deget,
incepe-ti cariera cu un gater mic ca si altii.
Ia-ti zilnic galosii in picioare...
Uita-te-n jur, fumeaza pipa-ntelept
in Memphisul fara sfinx...

100% Bertolt Brecht

Despre sarmanul B.B.


1
Eu, Bertolt Brecht, vin din padurile negre.
Maica-mea m-a adus in spatii citadine
in timp ce ma purta in ea. Si raceala padurilor
pana la moarte o sa ramana in mine.


2
In orasul de asfalt ma simt la mine acasa.
Cu slujba de inmormantare asigurat,
cu ziare, cu tutun si cu alcool,
neincrezator si lenes si, pana la urma, impacat.


3
Spre seara, imi adun cativa domni aproapte
si ne spunem "gentleman" pe rand.
Pe masa mea isi pun picioarele
si spun: o sa fie bine. Iar eu ma intreb: cand?

4
Spre ziua, in zorii cenusii, urineaza brazii
si ganganiile lor - pasarile - incep sa tipe.
La ora aceea imi beau paharul in oras, arunc mucul de tigara
si adorm nelinistit peste cateva clipe.

5
Cine o sa ramana viu in aceste orase? Vantul!
Cel care le strabate si le goleste in sfarsit.
Stim ca suntem provizorii
iar ceea ce urmeaza dupa noi nici nu merita amintit.

6
Sper ca la viitoarele cutremure, tigara mea Virginia
sa n-o las sa se stinga, de-amaraciune grea,
eu, Bertold Brecht, naufragiat in orase,
din padurile negre, adus de maica-mea.



Intrebarile unui muncitor care citeste

Cine a cladit Teba cu cele sapte porti?
In carti, e trecut numele regilor.
Oare regii au carat bucatile de stanca?
Si Babilonul, de mai multe ori daramat,
cine l-a recladit de atatea ori? In ce case
locuiau ziditorii Limei, cea stralucitoare ca aurul?
Unde s-au dus zidarii, in seara in care zidul chinezesc a fost terminat?
Marea Roma
e plina de arcuri de triumf. Cine le-a ridicat? Asupra cui
au triumfat Cezarii? Locuitorii multcantatului Bizant
au locuit oare numai in palate? Chiar in legendara
Atlantida, in timp ce marea-i inghitea, scufundatii urlau
in noapte, dupa sclavii lor.

Tanarul Alexandru cuceri Indiile.
El singur?
Cezar ii batea pe gali.
N-a avut cu el macar un bucatar?
Filip al Spaniei planse, cand flota lui
se scufunda. Nimeni n-a mai plans in afara de el?
Frederic al II-lea a invins in razboiul de sapte ani.
Cine a mai invins in afara de el?
Pe fiecare pagina, o victorie.
Cine-a gatit praznicul victoriei?
La fiecare zece ani, un mare om.
Cine i-a platit intretinerea?

Atatea relatari;
Atatea intrebari.

cu Bush, Patapievici, Pulcinella, Rednic si Chopin

Bush e hotarat sa distruga Iranul intr-un blitzkrieg. holocaustul nuclear trebuie oprit cu orice pret. Rednic a fost dat afara de jucatorii de la Dinamo pentru restantele din premiul luat de la Steaua pentru castigarea unui meci. Patapievici ia atitudine virulenta in Evenimentul Zilei in legatura cu ongistii, aparatorii drepturilor omului si sustinatorii minoritatilor de orice fel, numindu-i fara drept de apel bolnavi de leninism. Scriu de zor despre grosolania si obsesiile lui Pulcinella pentru sex si mancare.
Aparent fara nici o legatura, intr-o lume mult mai salbatica, Gottfried Benn publica Chopin:

Nu prea vorbaret.
Opiniile nu erau partea lui tare,
opiniile sunt vrute si nevrute.
Cand Delacroix isi dezvolta teoriile,
el deveni nelinistit, intrucat, in ce-l priveste,
nu-si putea motiva Nocturnele.

Amant debil;
o umbra la Nohant,
unde copiii lui George Sand
nu primeau de la el nici o educatie.

Bolnav de piept in toate fazele
cu hemoptizii si cicatrizari
care dureaza;
moarte lenta
in contrast cu una prin salve de pusca.
I se impinse pianul (Erard) langa usa
si Delphine Potocka
ii canta in ultimul ceas
un lied al violetei.

In Anglia a plecat cu trei piane:
Pleyel, Erard, Broadwood.
Canta pentru douazeci de guinee pe seara,
un sfert de ora,
la Rotschilzi, Wellingtoni, in Stafford House,
si in fata a nenumarate bretele,
intunecat de oboseala si de apropierea mortii
se intoarce acasa
pe Square d'Orleans.

Apoi isi arde schitele
si manuscrisele
sa nu ramana resturi, fragmente, notite,
aceste tradatoare privelisti -
la sfarsit spuse:
"Incercarile mele sunt desavarsite
in masura in care am reusit sa le realizez".

Fiecare deget sa cante
cu o putere conforma constructiei lui,
al patrulea e cel mai slab
(e numai siamezul mijlociului).
Cand a inceput, ele stateau asezate
pe mi, fa, diez, sol diez, si, do.

Cine a auzit candva
anumite preludii ale lui,
fie in case de tara,
fie in tinuturi de munte,
sau prin usile deschise ale teraselor,
sau, de pilda, dintr-un sanatoriu,
le va putea uita cu greu.

N-a compus niciodata o opera,
si nici o simfonie,
numai aceste tragice progresii,
dintr-o convingere artistica -
si cu o mana atat de mica.

speranta dupa 21

intr-o antologie de poezie germana am gasit un autor fenomenal. drept exemplu, aduc doua mostre. numele lui este Peter Hille.

Speranta


Am mers
sa-mi cumpar
o cutioara cu praline
Speranta.
Ghinion: si pretul lor
a urcat.
Pacat.
Nu-mi mai pot permite
acum
luxul sa sper.


Dupa 21 de ani


Peste intinderile cu ruini
crescu iarba.
Noaptea, vantul
colinda prin iarba.
Dimineata
un om
trece drept
prin iarba inalta.

traducere de Dan Constantinescu