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Saturday, October 27, 2007

Room 77


Tama iti

Room 76

Wednesday, October 24, 2007

Room 75B

To see with the naked eye
what was seen with the naked eye:
back back back back,
and forth, and back and forth:
and in true, these black-faced mirrors
shiver reflect the wilderness
of backward forward fragment worlds
that are strange agonal with toe and claw.
That acting agony. It cannot be said. Again.
At night: the crucifix cries.

This slow dark dance

Anonymous said...

I is am.


bill direen

10:39 PM

Anonymous said...

I'd better follow up that attempt at compression. That first comment was only to say there is in this something of the esse est percipi (if that's right), the "to be is to be perceived" argument -- but you show that to perceive is also to be. Pause: as someone in Juliius Caesar said, "the eye turned inwards sees not itself". Well, as English says so effectively, "I would dispute that", and you have just as effectively disputed it! B.D.

7:00 PM

To see with the naked eye
what was seen with the naked eye:
Richard Taylor said...

I am not using Descartes' argument (although that can be subsumed) - this is section of EYELIGHT in a way just as if one were looking at huge canvas - a triangle of blue might be in one corner and something - say a black and yellow face in another part of the "picture".

So this section is - while EYELIGHT includes (or questions) the concepts of being and essence and so on it doesn't imply any conclusions or even any knowledge all "knowledge" or facts for me are tentative. This is a complex area - the "poem got its name from the poem that goes:

The Bright Revolve

To see with the naked eye
what was seen with the naked eye:
back back back back,
and forth, and back and forth:
and in true, these black-faced mirrors
shiver reflect the wilderness
of backward forward fragment worlds
that are strange agonal with toe and claw.
That acting agony. It cannot be said. Again.
At night: the crucifix cries. This slow,dark dance. The pen, finally, dies – and the painter’s
brush, the oboe, and the ink. Those gone aways.

Look out to that bright revolve.

Nothing is about.
Who is that old man who rages in the storm?
The and what speak you a third more opulent man?
When I began, I – I knew something. No matter.
What is it in us that we mutter, meander, and muse
on things dissolving as we do?

Roots limbs nerves trees stand stark:

black veins on eye-light scrawled .

To perish powerfully, despite ferocity, and the queerness of how you are becoming a spoon.

You have hell in your hands.

From that poem I took the line -

"black veins on eye-light scrawled"

Then I took one word: "eyelight"

So "EYELIGHT" a word inside a poem became the title and generator of a larger poem. Generation. Words beget words.

I don't think anything can be finally known or proven by philosophy
or science or politics or "art" or religion we can only map - or try to. Maybe via "art" we see glimpses of some kind of esse or even "light" or I think the other Bill of Arden and London started to doubt all these realities when he read Montaigne (translated by his contemporary Florio) - and he and I and Shakespeare/Shakespear/Shagspear/Hamlet/
Richard (his brother)/other [ "Fixed spelling" is useful but relies on an erroneously rational world "All the naively scientific logic" (Glenn Gould)]
would agree - nothing can be known

Even the full stop can deceive

I was also "echoing" Christopher Smart whose long poem Jubilate Agno was brought to my attention by Scott Hamilton (Duns Scotus 2!)

In this "room" a more random "poetic" event is let in so this is another thread I took from book 5 or 6 - I have about 10 large books with the various "threads" in them - I am never quite certain what is going to happen next (but there is a general structure - I proceed by starting with a large or longish poem and go more or less in order through my various books and then start again - and there is a general raison d'etre so to speak - it isn't like Joyce's work in Progress I am not a determinist (nor was he completely - chance plays a part in FW) - or even one who necessarily believes in Vico's cycles - Joyce used Vico I think more for a structure and a possibility. Joyce believed in the soul (but not a Judaeo Christian God) - I think I do also - but what it is I am not sure

To see with the naked eye
what was seen with the naked eye:

"All things are a flowing" but also they are growing and constantly changing - yesterday I planted runner beans and I want to develop my garden (which is now a "wilderness" - as it will remain even if I "develop" it) - that is also part of the EYELIGHT - which is an ongoing organic process - not a poem really - a process - as life is a process - conceptually and perhaps actually infinite. I have no fixed ideas no "beliefs" - only a strange hope

Nothing is about.

I do dispute (but I am not philosophically combative - philosophy is somewhat mood dependent for me)- but I feel that we do and don't see ourselves

Thanks for your comments - ideally and de facto the comments become a part of the "poem"/project which constantly changes direction as rivers do and as nature does. No one can ever "know themselves" but the effort to do so is a valid project. (As is the choice to not think about anything at all of "significance".) I have no idea who or what I am

8:22 PM


this............... slow.................... dark........................ dance

Richard Taylor said...

I suppose my "viewpoint" is existential and phenomenological.

Another influence is Blake. But also my friend Leicester Kyle and Alan Sondheim - though he has been wrestling with all aspects of computing and the Internet and philosophy etc for years more than I

shiver reflect the wilderness
of backward forward fragment worlds
that are strange agonal with toe and claw.

He is at least keen on Merleau Ponty, Derrida and (many others) - but also I think in communication theory and technology - with him science and technology (I was also involved in telecommunications and electronics** and also as a lineman and a cable jointer [so most of my life I have worked in either factories or as a lineman or technician I am not in academia (I have an NZCE (telecoms and electronics etc) and also a BA) - but I don't abjure that world - I have no bitternesses or biases ] - hardware and software merge with language - and the body etc But he is fascinated with (the late) Kathy Acker's work* (he knew her personally) - I don't know much about her work but she was or contributed to the L=A=N=G=U=A=G=E or language" movement and their critical discussions. Olson is important and others - also Eliot, Pound, WCWs, Schuyler, Ashbery and so on. But many others - even Wystan Curnow and Michelle Leggott
Zukofsky of course

* Jack Ross cites her as an influence on himself

The electronics/telecommunications and the "human" or speech aspects morph or interrelate. The living media and the medium

this.............................slow ......................... dark.......................................... dance

Nothing is easy

One looks at great and "terrible times into:

"the heart of light, the silence"

8:54 PM


Saturday, October 13, 2007

Room 75A

e y e

eye is seeing and being

eye is blue brown or grey

eye is black or other

eye is

eye is eye

eye is lustrous or strange of colour

eye is light on eyelight scrawled

eye is hope

eye is desire and sigh

eye is see

eye is of the ineluctable

eye is trust and fear

eye is water and dust

eye is love

eye is blankness and delight

eye is people is peopled

eye is pop

eye is delight of bird

eye is horror of wound

eye is I saw gull with one leg severed

eye is sad and later and after forgets

eye is seeing and hoping

eye is deceiving

eye is sweet descent and great descant

eye is concise as lines

eye is eternal thought

eye is rock and ash and blood

eye is pity or is harsh of heart

eye is son and song

eye is child and sweet

eye is thought

eye is

eye is death and the way

eye is love and luminous

eye is fire and hand and hard

eye is


eye is begin and end and egg

eye is lie there is no end or begin

eye is pluck

eye is dark and stern with storms

eye is terrible and drinks death

eye is mercy

eye is offend or smile or wise

eye is sea blue wise

eye is omega and noun and nous

eye is lumen

eye is


eye is reflect and ripple and still

eye is quill

eye is word

eye is thought and spiritual space

eye is sea

eye is nothing and all

eye is one

eye is love or gone or rills

eye is hills where speech is death

eye is great and complex bread

eye is mathematics

eye is translucency

eye is complexity deferred

eye is joy for she was my mother

eye is suffer the gull or the woman

eye is child

eye is the man

eye is all language

eye is speech and silence

eye is i

eye is thin blue ink

eye is death and exult

eye is dream of waves

eye is motion

eye is


eye is how would I hold you

eye is perplexity and anger and peace

eye is forest

eye is forgive

eye is eternal unterminate torment

eye is could be

eye is possibility

eye is e ...y...e

eye is si

eye is an ancient irradiate star

eye is a black factory

eye is blue

eye is ship

eye is


eye is eternal colour

eye is woman and man

eye is language

eye is all

eye is


Friday, October 12, 2007

Room 74

an excrutiation of acrostic ecstasy,


and the concentration against


this mad possible in us all


he, the thinker, down digging


to tubers whose golden boulders


such gifts,such tallith truth,

such : life



and the seeding words

their gemmation as no other,

and this, built by other hands,

green as light, new-shivering -

and the

lamb’s bleat

beating into the who and where

and what we are —

yesterday is todayed

again again and again

never unremember



the human scroll,

turn the scroll -


Room 73

That was their way. Lonely folk, ugly to look at and overfull of growth, but a blessing for each other, for the beasts, and for the earth.

calved. A great day in the wilderness, a joy and a delight … and there lay a pretty calf, a beauty, red-flanked like her mother, and comically bewildered at the miracle of coming into the world.

Coming back on foot the third day, he stopped as he neared the house, and stood listening. There was curious noise inside … A child crying – eyah, Herregud! … Well, there it was, but a terrible strange thing. And Inger never said a word.

The rugged man stood there with a miracle before him; a thing created first of all in a sacred mist, showing forth now in a life with a little face like an allegory. Days and years; and the miracle would be a human being.

Isak is a woodman, felling tre -