Sunday, December 27, 2009
perhaps such eyes
Perhaps such eyes, as, the stark skull might hope might en Be itself, suppose it lived.
It is the word, the phrase, the sudden flame of the clause, is my starting forth:
no idea or desire have I of completing any linear completeness,
demonstration, exegesis, proof, or subtle analogue.
The beach – shells and wave song.
To have eyes.
Knowledge is incompleteness.
For example: an inventory, a cost analysis,
the calculus of turning moments –
all these things set against fiscal expansion, torsion, tension, tensile, talons – shear forces….
Be wary of the leopard – its spots I mean, rarely. Rare steak and stakes, they are raised. Cleverness, deviousness, these keep the yo yo up,
or moving.
Illusion of everlasting life.
Bang!
The Universe fucks itself.)
Something no bastard expected.
The red - swelling head moves closer – who are you? –
(I have lingered in my chamber.
Time. Eyes indeed –
the Immense Light in Child.
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Friday, October 30, 2009
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Hsuafouro
Zabragg::::::::: undo 23mno onp = goolach meeno
Qulifagi @ ==@ sanca;;;; wong..moi 9d os PartiKa
Iytcgee -5 worrraamooglefiittyy >>><<<>
Oooo|ooopu ik gafaya 3 Gweeta blauorye|||||||
fg Gatt zeeppl{}++=== Ggogg wouse (*098z] tarag0rt Yuagoohjj
forog im ^ fortafffagg ## [Kcruncah pol, 252 meei ….
Iasta-menta? Ssss ? mo 6a Polla dumsaaafsf Faaglo -
Greedheeeeads //////Januckl acnaha//// =========pragggo ik ++
Katagaggggg!!!!! % Xitttafundaaaaa!!!
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Monday, October 12, 2009
cold moving coldness / cacophony of quivers (circles) or sparks in dark
and oxymoronic vision of flowing ice in sparkle / transilluminates dark supple silence
when the chuncks again as he edged until crevasses plunged / the viol stroke not so bad as Winter plays in bone leaves and bone speech and the spectre of sand / vast ones without cause except the creeping of old force the steps are heard and who and the cause of cold coagulant / until there is a new kind of death sprung out of coal and basalt of every sparkle shivering / and something there / the cruel creaking cold in the masses of the thinking things
and the things thinking coldly examine the cold light of the existence of their possibleness who somehow in fury became
and the thought of things thinking set up new movements until firelight brush dead to hand
the hand from cold caresses the nothing if not thought the illuminating stipple as ideas enter
beginning a bird enters dives in bullet drop to the sea seeking fish and things thinking or being thought revolve in concept
the number is studied and the massive mind meanders as huge light brings fresh thoughts of flowers and ever new ideas bud
and again the thoughts of breath are cold in a warm new explosion as if thinking was
when thought pierces the spires of inversions in the chromatic fantasia where fish are said to reign in sea of green sex death
again death ugly head rears and the patient horse is there awaiting oats of kindness inside a thinking mass of gorgeously embellished flame
for the deadness of the horse is famous is the living brain of a golden rain out beyond clatter or the coldness of cold where clack
because you also reach to caress the ice mountains and the thoughtful head as it grows as huge as death of life and the sea roars like a wand
and indeed a new kind of clack clack is heard in the block land where even Eros froze the hand extended in mock forgive all this light useless the eternal wound and smoothly writhes
the gash of truth is the beginning of armies whose death is blue red and gold glory for where are we is the question stamped on the imperious report
the question raised is mocked by the King of Trees or Corn and all now dance unrigidly in giddy light of lust whose ancient times were as merry as young women on a boat and there is a great mercy
for it drops as gentle as the soft rain to engender the thirsty roots whose new quick is now the thinking thinking thing whose fire is the crack of the sun
the sun lunatic polarizes the clown of the puppet moon as all things begin to dance as if Saint Saens in macabre scenes when erotic boys to erotic girls do press
when the quickness of lust is lost in microwave hush as a pulse rebuilds the blue blocks of ice who bend with black the tongue of song
whose voice by tongue is lizard long in ancient songs where hermits thrash
more secret than exit stone
and stone recalls the cold and the fingers, stretched, of their duty to the gold and the light, and the cold moving thinking things erupt again
for thinking is thinking and no height can be more than wall for the roar of time is vast and consumes the smallest sip of love
for love is not cold as blocks yet hate has power as spears are seen to rise
nor do the molecules disturb the black machine who in steel is alive when huge the claw
for who is that shape that sea of sky and when do the gongs resound?
and sand and gobs and endless the hours and gold the seas illuminate
and, and …. the fire …. the thinking fire leaps again in the aeronautic night… and no one is yet or pyro … or emerge
for colours explode inside the howling head, whose single eye is mad with time
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Tuesday, September 22, 2009
The "process"continued(or continues) until Harlow (and he goes through all this with the potential writer who is learning or interested in this procedure) (perhaps of many but typical of writers and their methods) has or had or may have had could have or did have the"perfect poem"; that he then sent off ) (
the leopards are strewn about the desert in a lazy terror
that only White can convey
the leopards are strewn about the desert in a lazy terror
So I "get angry"with it all!!
The finished poem as poem is good - really good. Harlow is a major poet in NZ - one of my favourite - but I am not interested just now in the poem's meaning (meaning is problematic in any case) interested here in the look of the totality of his work as worked through and I then transform it - as things constantly do in life - in fact I went "berserk" with it almost in trance or a fever, a kind of "creative rage" perhaps: creating a new "poem" or text as in the following image-poem-text-enactment: an implication of an infinite and progressive or degressive process ... I got very angry with it:
When he arrives
on his lips a small tattoo
The plumes of his pocket
almost a wonder
has signed
something else - buff -coloured signs are taken for wonders....
the leopards are strewn about the desert in a lazy terror
foreward backward then here come the march of distribution, startle. the eagle stare. then went the reverse to space whence unsteel. of course you the stars. then if a bloom, nothing is not not something, yet a sheer. whereby enormous. once there was as steps. up upon the up.
we don’t do do. as agrarian. i indeed igloo yet yellow to unheard the extent. not facing. not impending. and distributed, could shatter to unstick the sprig because wire desire. enough. Ich habe Genug ein cochin. water. satrebach. blue is you. something. something and a
cluster how a), because, or b), because. thus if thus. we wern’t trunks. death. Mrs Walker walked. until a star surreal or if and dangle until snow. there were many Mrs Smile. yet, back there, its not the hand. a passes across; if what who when i. pigs squeal then glory. i wouldn’t wont do. but the butter. if doubt then to condition the champ. singular. When mesons then gin. i, mightily, into the mouth. mess. pig by salient until, it wants to be singular. desperation by ballot, it declined to decline, sun. soared up to sacrifice, one metre to one matchbox. six by six by six say. intransigent, implosion pan sudden to spider to black. you, too, have three heads.
everything is so quietly remarkable.
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Friday, September 04, 2009
Room 4.1 exp 3
Across the road in Panmure - Light.
The image. The power or indifference of the image.
The first school I went to - I ran away on the first day! I thought my mother would stay with me at school! It took months for them to get me to stay at school. But I eventually did, and I learnt a lot. ... Tamaki Primary.
Cottonwood (U.S. tree) in the grounds of my first school Tamaki Primary. There I learnt to read, write, and I learnt the magic of numbers coming together in patterns.
Everything gets stranger than a tree
(Grey Lynn shop in a state of convulsion...))))
The shadows - the shadows dance. No they don't. Shadows dont dance. The shadows. The shadows. The lines showing shadows. Shadowy shadows. The lines of what could be trees or grey veins. Shadow veins. Grey or gray. The insistent persistence. The after image. SEM = slow eye movement. Dreamless in shade land. Very shady!
The pub at the University of Auckland is called Shadows. Mum's cat was called Shadow. She was ferocious hunter and roamed widely. This is a message that isn't a message - read it by not reading it. Let it be a shadow. Or shadows. If "Willows willow" (Michelle Leggott) then "Shadows shadow." So there!
My art. Art? I can do art!
Sebastian and Tam - Mother and Son.
Grandson and daughter - Tam recently passed her MA in Psychology with top marks - an A.
She is with"Teddy Bear" Ed Cake - who has a great space on MySpace - he has somewhat of a cult following in the NZ music world.
Dionne is doing well and works in a library. Victor and I talk a lot - he is just now ill but seems to be o.k. so far. Seems just a bad cold.
The reason for life is life?
This was taken, about a year or so ago, at the home of the son of the, sadly recently deceased, poet Alistair Campbell. I talked with his son, a very nice young man. This inspired me to buy a copy of his latest book.
Night - everything is more mysterious and perhaps more frightening at night.
People shopping, living, struggling with reality as here in my local shopping centre of Panmre. Tony also lived in a working class suburb. Note the diamond patterns...
Local graffiti "art" in Panmure - each individual seeks to leave their "mark".
....................................................TONY FOLARI
......................................EYELIGHT
............................IMAGES
.............NUMBER
POSTING
.........................................................................WHERE TO NOW?
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I am experimenting with ways of posting and so on. Also, the previous post was part of my poem The Red - previously posted with the large fonts - the total effect of which I cant predict -in fact I was surprised (and pleased) by it. Since then in fat I have an upgraded computer and a different screen.
But I still have little knowledge of ways to manipulate texts and images or fonts on sites etc! Just a kind of "bush cunning"....
I am still not able to take a "composition" on say, WORD, and then load it up on to this blog site.
I haven't studied HTML at all - mainly from laziness I must confess. But I know that all the
"how to info" is all out there!
I like the rawness of the unembellished Blog I have here, and by the way, I don't see 'blackness' as something negative. When I published a "huge blankness" as a Blog post on here, I did it in the vague hope that no one else had - of course I am well aware that books with nothing in them hav been published (and much else has been tried!) and so on; e.g via the book, The Book of Nothing by John Barrow, a fascinating book for "the layman" about maths, cosmolony, and so on where it is shown how by dealing with the NULL set - let's say that is zero - in fact something can be generated. But I or Barrow I am sure don't claim to have solved Russell or Whitehead's problems or Wittgenstein's additions!) (And of course we have touched on Godel! .... in my case even the questions raised themselves are too difficult (for me in any case) to "get a handle on" as they say....BUT what is interesting is, as emphasised in Barrow's book, the complex reactions there have been to the idea of zero and nothingness over time - it seems that in general the Western religions or philosophies resisted zero as a number or even an idea for many centuries while the Indian or Arabian and other Eastern peoples more readily accepted zero. Also the use of zero in our decimal system is now known by us to be essential. But interesting is the interaction of religion, philosophy and many other 'disciplines'.........
....BTW I am just typing this straight on here I really don't know what I am about to say next as I do so.....I have no plan ...do you?...eh? minute to minute? .... eh?! ...hmmm!!! eh?!...eh Taylor, what's the ablative of (Latin word and a phrase, some trick involved...) ... I can hear old Watson's voice, I recall his old car chugging in to Tamaki College ... the fascinating Latin lessons...Graham Tatana, Les Clarke....(where's he gone - rumour is he "dropped out"... he was in the Labour Party once and had a degree in Economics...old Les...lived in GI...I tried to get him to become a Communist in the 70s... crazy days (I 'm getting old (61, a lot of people die in their 60s, a lot of people die...) ... ] but as I wrote somewhere else
............................. But I loved the darkness
This not negative. This posit.. This me honest. These days silence itself has deep attraction - not Buddhism - no isms for me. Just the idea of it.
And zero is connected to infinity - another "number" or idea, debated for centuries...related to zero as if you simply do this
.................................................5
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................................................ 0
(Five - or any number except infinity - divided by zero)
You have
.................................... Infinity
Or, on calculator (none when I was a boy , slide rules for us, but log tables first)
Or
--------------------- ERROR
NUMBERS...........................................
Fascinated Tony Folari, poet and humourist, who, tragically; committed suicide on the 17th of August this year. A double tragedy for his family, as his brother, a hightly talented artist, also committed suicide some eyasr previously. Tony had many conversations with me over the years...he was deeply disturbed and passionate about words,writing,art, cosmology, and numbers - he once said that the number 3 was stronger than the number 4, and once, that there were praying mantices all over his jacket, and was quite angry that Praying mantises should be on his Jacket
"Why do the bloody things place themselves all over my jacket, and why is it that when I go on the bus or for walk people everywhere (my old so-called mates in many cases) run along side jeering and at me..?!"
In both cases I simply averred that..."These things happen."
Tragi-comic as this is, I liked Tony, who was part Italian, and had done pretty well in commercial art, worked as a house a painter and renovator but never seemed to settle, movng around from place to place. He was obsessed with words and language in way that could have meant he, unlike so many NZ writers, seeking a "common voice" or accessibility, or wanting to write about how their girlfriend or boy friend bit their left ear, or they couldn't get money, or they failed to orgasm, or whatever, or some sad moan about politics, or some dull "realist" or personal to confessionalist dilemma or event (unfortunately over popularised by such as Lowell, Berryman, Sexton, as Plath with her ridiculous and selfish suicide - o.k all these were tragic cases of the demise of highly talented writers, but it is the way these events have been exaggerated by the press and literary vultures, and slobbered over by feminists and homosexuals etc etc and others that have seemed to glorify this cult of the confessional which extends to dubious writers such as Bukowski) ...........
....what interested me about Tony was his absolute fascination with language as almost a thing in itself. Something rarely seen in NZ poetry - where still to this day - with (fortunately more than a few exceptions) - there seems to reign - a terrible plague of dullness (such as might requireth another Dunciad!) - but this turn toward language [this is also a major target, of course, of the L=A=N=G=U=A=G=E movement (influenced by postmodern philosophy and European poetry) which still has a powerful influence, and indeed has influenced me, although I am not a paid up Langpo) - perhaps we see it, or saw it in Spear's writing and some of that of Leggott's - certainly much is in the work of Jen Crawford (although she mentioned the British poet Roy Fisher to me the other day - he like Raworth etc is very interesting and twists and remakes language ), and "dance of language is cunningly concealed in the work of Jack Ross (who is very deceptive, if not a Langpo, well, hmm... his "realism" is a front - but he is onto some great stuff) ... and Smithyman and Curnow mixed their 'reality' and craft with dosages language intensity - and in fact all good writers are language obsessed or 'centred' to some degree, as language is a writer's main tool ... but too many veer away from this focused intensity and depth to a tired realist-conversational tone...
Tony, however had read of the Oulipo group and would spend weeks (or even months) on one poem. (Often Curnow would write only 8 or fewer poems a year. Such was his huge dedication to his craft.) Perec had written an entire novel without the letter 'e' which he called "Avoid" - this fascinated Tony and he read about the Oulipos (who have also influenced such as the late Italo Calvino and that great (and fortunately current!) Kiwi poetic magician Richard von Sturmer); and in a recent Poetry Slam at poetry Live Tony had three poems he had worked on for months - they were, he felt perfect. He was bound to win -no matter how he read them or who the audience was, by their sheer unearthly power: the force of the combinations of letters and sounds, the essential wizardry of his great gestalt
The problem was the abstraction. This drive for symbolic resonance or deep intensity of a near mystical kind has the defect that, we all need, at some point, to relate at a human level. Some of his poems in his books worked. I suggested to Tony that perhaps he should vary his style (or limit the number of his poems per book) as the poems with all the vowels or all the consonants as say 'i' or 'g' - so many poems with internal rhymes and mesmeric rhthyms, like the work of Christian Blok, who he admired, but whose work I find somehow tedious; that the accumulation of the sound and ryhme and repetition was ultimately counter productive. It was, or could be, like a telvision advertising jingle. At their best though - and taken individually - some of his poems were quite extraordinary. But not, perhaps, as I see it, great (however one defines that elusive quality - I may be wrong) : as there needs - beyond this abstract mystical essential force, to always be the pressure, if not the obvious presence, or evidence, or delineation, of some deep, human, and universal emotion or need. The emotion was there, but it was wierldy side-winded into word patterns and what seemed almost like mantras or magic spells. And poetry needs magic..but not all magic. But his project such as he attempted it - and he worked deeply and sincerely - his art - was in it's philosophy, direction and intention, was admirable, as was that of his brother's. He was, however, too tormented by deep ontological or epistemological questions or emotions (in his own self) . I say too tormented. But can we be so? Some would argue that these questions are THE issues of life. Others, simply, live.
I had started to write about how my Blog has changed direction somewhat and that my method now - was, at least for now, to continue to write as when I felt, rather than to any preconceived idea. My ideas about this, in fact all my ideas! - keep changing - so to keep to a structure as such may be superfluous. However I might revert to some more formal structure.
The structure will be whatever is haphazardly or luckily weaved....
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The Red
The blocks of red on red on red by black around
by black by black by line by line by round. The
red in red of red in red where black by back the
white around. Around the bound about the
white the red more red comes up the red. It
rears its head. The eye the see the sight to see.
The eye the see the light the sight.
Wednesday, August 05, 2009
it would be a mistake not to rise early to break fast and to walk within the city or in the great Earth to go forth into the sounds the huge day and the curses and the voices and the clouds and the women and the men of all ilk or being; to rise and go; and maybe first the fried liver the bran the oat the milk the nuts the tea the coffee the aqua; and to set out like a small god or a thing; anything huge or small; anything of dirt or light or being, any possibility; it, not to go, a terrible waste of the sky and the lungs and the light and the motor cars, the gardens, and the old man by the bus stop or the cat the fly the air the your the you of me or the lungs the heart the legs; to go and not to miss; for there is the no final Yes infinite in meaning or sound or the wind and the sweet girl sweet flower sweet songs; and the harsh menace the secret and the rocks to avoid; but it would be error to lie abed silly head for the brain is your brain and it is your hand, for the Now shall hold it in clasp and the menace of eyes / the yes of eyes / and the no of eyes / and the No of those who fear or who do not fear to embrace the tumult of the shout and the words and the works the days; it would be wicked to lie or yet to die for we and me and your and you could venture the bran the honey the bitter death the blood the sirens the sure soft sucks the dangerous scents; and the all bright ambiguous yield of the queer beginning of sound and the perfect imperfection of day and eye the pain; the crave the hunger the swirl and the great sea the child the things the road and it all; stepping out in the city or the world the dark dust the what is next; for out of the enigma of ending and the surety of starting out and the manifest of cessation of the uncertain step as the egg holds vital the Nothing where things begin or die; but the dappling splashing light is now russet now green and now it is a cascade of man-killing ice and now the fire spreads beyond anything your mind could imagine or your ear could hear; or the clack of stones and the miasmic mesmer of the especial silence; and colours imply the plunge into the sea or the tramp of mighty boots or the quiet scratching of a match to start or stop; and yet we breathe we breathe we breathe in all tortures of joy – for there is no truth whose lie we cannot ache for in our huge aloneness; and the girl and the man or the woman or the child or any being or thing that is or imagines or images or is the dust of the potential ghost or the sign or the song or the music of create who would search; endless endless the stopping start who it wakes us and it lurches and they sup in expectation of the thing shall come; a fire in any being’s eye; the eye of all things the beating things or the soft thud in the dull sad hope as rouge and grass and the things moving always and always but never still as the grey light and the whiteness spreads and the white and the breast the muscle the stare the dog the limping man and the dripping tap the beat the great gush and the storm begin the sad wind and the huge joy of the child the heavy boot the thud the grief and the wing and the sting of song and the strange of truth and the knot and the seed in soil; the minute and the uncountable the stars the milk the flow beyond all moons the Cow of knowing the ignorance in the great library of towers where the nodding smile is a book on a beach of dreams is the truck and the blood of the what of all things are beyond all arks or shelves and the sea and the songs and the many musicks and the capering antics of ancient Man…
…. and the eternal lust of Woman and the power the power the power and the all generative regenerative mighty Deathlife ka’ora of the Two
Thursday, July 30, 2009
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".....To which you are invited. To which you are invited. To which you are invited. I say this in triplicate, being a good bureaucrat: the enemy of all poets. Ah! Such is life. Anyway, I bid you adieu, and trust you have a very merry morn, etc etc. Que serra! Bye!”
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Brent Lewis as I saw him about a year before his death. He could be infuriating. Here he looks edgy.
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Picture of a Nazi Death Camp
Brent focused a lot on the Holocaust, perhaps as he was part Jewish. This also is part of the "horror" Woolf may have feared, one extra reason perhaps, that lead to her tragic suicide.
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Brent Lewis as a child, and a young man setting out with excitement and hope, on life's great adventure.
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Bookseller Brent in the "heyday" of his Nostromo Books days.
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An image of beauty for Brent Lewis - Requiescat in pacem, Brent meum amicum.
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