Friday, August 15, 2008

Room 999
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FOR IT IS SILENCE THAT BAUMGARTNER AND

I

DO

EVERLASTING SEEK

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INSTRUCTIONS FOR BLOG
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PLEASE CLICK ON THE IMAGES

USUALLY THEY WILL OPEN RIGHT UP LIKE GREAT FLOWERS

OF THE ETERNAL MORNING

AND REVEAL GREAT VISIONS

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READ MY IMAGES

and

IMAGISE MY WRITINGS

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FOR IT IS SILENCE THAT BAUMGARTNER AND

I

DO

EVERLASTING SEEK

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SEE

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SEE THE WHOLE HERE AS TENDING TOWARDS BEING

.........................................O N E T E X T

WITH ....................................................................................................

NOTHING UNINCLUDED

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THINK MAYBE OF THE IMAGES AND THE COLOUR AND THE SHAPES

TO BE "WORDS"

THAT PROBE THE SEMANTIC DEPTHS OF OUR SECRET MINDS

PERHAPS ENCRYPTED IN SOME ULTIMATE LANGUAGE

WHOSE DEPTH OF SEMANTIC POWER IS ITS VERY "INCOMPREHENSIBILTY"

OR THE MATHEMATICS OF ITS DEEP AND BEAUTIFUL SILENCE

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FOR IT IS SILENCE THAT BAUMGARTNER AND

I

DO

EVERLASTING SEEK

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IS IT ALL SO DEEPLY PLOTTED OR PLANNED?

NO -

MUCH IS EXTEMPORE - EVEN DONE TO "GET THE TEXT SPACED ETC" AND

I

LOVE

....................COLOUR AND SHAPE

I LOVE THE MYSTERY OF WORDS AND LANGUAGE

BUT MUCH (NOT TOO MUCH) IS ALSO ARTIFICE

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An example of cleverness or "artifice" from a previous Blog Post:

o000000000000OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO000000000000o

EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE

EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE

OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO
WWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWW
LLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLL

Reading after the first line of oos there is E (repeated)

This derives from the book "Disobedience" by Alice Notley as does the line of oos,wws and lls

that is it spells "Owl" which bird is very important to Notley in that and previous books and this

I found about in an interview with her.

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FOR IT IS SILENCE THAT BAUMGARTNER AND

I

DO

EVERLASTING SEEK

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BUT A LOT OF EYELIGHT IS NOT SO "CONSTRUCTED" ?

I make room for what I call "the random", for play, for accident and process.

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Friday, August 08, 2008

Room 880.1

Hospital 17

we beat strange

the sky is above us

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25/ 1/ 04

Hospital 23

It’s incredible how bone “melds together” in the way perhaps metals meld when welded: bone is to some extent calcium phosphate and calcium carbonate deposited in the collagen and united and compacted and moved and connected into the Haversian structures. The body like a great machine – a metropolis – rebuilds itself, as those bombed or bulldozed rebuild, as the people gain heart and grit and strike back: the Palestinians strike to the Israelis’ very heart, the Iraqis counterattack against the imperialist invaders: the Vietnamese fought, the French, the Greeks.

No one knows why John Mulgan committed suicide just after the war, in a hotel, in Cairo, alone, with poison. Man is indeed alone: perhaps not always.

But I am alive and not in a romantic or terrible war, my real war is with myself and my hate is, if I have any, abstract. I am alive but “laid up”. My repair or my recovery is almost some sort of statement…but then who am I?

Once I told Leicester Kyle how I couldn’t relax at poetry readings unless I was drunk and he said “Why can’t you just BE?” Point taken. Leicester is me mate! The Old man of the Woods, now the old discoverer of a new snail! A giant snail! What if your giant snail starts to eat New Zealand, Leicester? What if it is molecularly transtoned by those green bastards and eats everything in the world up! Leicester Kyle, the writer of many books of poetry, one dedicated to me. Shut up head!

Where was I? Oh, here is the entry: at 11 am today, after reading an encyclopaedia entry on bones, I told my helper (who is a medical student, and concurred) how marvellously complex, how mysterious the body is. But then everybody knows that.

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Room 880

He told me of the First World War, the horror of it, and the effect on his mind of seeing the cemeteries in Belgium or wherever the dead are laid. “The dead”, he said.

“The rows and rows of the dead. And the crosses. The endless crosses. The crosses in endless rows or diagonals, like white bones. The dead, the unending dead, the rows and rows and rows of all those dead. All that life. All that once life. The dead. I couldn’t bear it. The dead, the dead, the dead, the dead. The waste, the absolute waste: the total futility, the loss.” He had some coffee. I was glad he could speak this immensity to me. I was young, and it was what I wanted to hear. Yes, there had to have been some better way.

He leaned closer. Perhaps there wasn’t much hope in him.

“The crosses, the rows and rows, the ordered dead: the endlessly dead; the white, the crosses, the dead, the dazzling, the white rows.”

Room 780.1

Comment on Room 780

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The Greatest Poet of the 20th Century

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??????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????

{Clearly the above "statement" - (both in regard to their being a greatest poet and that Douglas was that ) - is dubious - but I wanted thus to signal my enthusiasm and intense appreciation of, and the significance of, for this - in some ways - "neglected" poet - }

?????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????
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Room 780 – part of the infinite set of rooms that make up the houses of

EYELIGHT

was “framed” by a reference to Keith Douglas, who, had he lived longer, may have come to be considered the greatest poet of the 20^th Century.

In my perspective he was, is.

(I owe my “acquaintance” with him to Scott Hamilton of the (political, poetic, cricket, music, Kiwiana, geography, Maoritanga, and life Blog: ‘Reading the Maps’).

The Steffi.Vergissmeinnicht “comment” is from the poem given below. While he was, in a kind of detached way, “anti-war” – Douglas also loved war – at least battle – and was fascinated by the military.

His poems a have a strange, near surreal clarity, lucidity, and (fro me) agonising beauty: derived from Douglas’s unremitting realistic observation and his powerful imagination, and deep sense of language, that contrast his work with the “horrors” they are depicting.

He knew of course of the great First WW poets such as Rosenberg and Wilfred Owen, but his “look” at war was quite different. He saw all sides of war: he has the vision of a great poetic genius, and his vision may seem cold and strange, and he did not lack deep feelings about the awful nature of war, but he felt for all involved in war, but he knew also the way men and women can be in war or situations of war and yet continue in this state with a certain abstract indifference...or seeming (or seeing?) indifference. If we didn’t indeed have this de-subjectification or “indifference and abstraction”, we could not only not think, we would probably also not be able to operate, in fact with too much sensitivity, too much non-objectivity, we would go mad.

Go mad and become "God's spies" - if for however brief a time

He was complex in this respect.

I have also shown images of Robert Creeley and my son (as well as other images such as one of a dead man killed in Palestine or Iraq or somewhere) – both Creeley and my son had or have an eye missing so their connections to EYELIGHT are thus explicated to some degree, but there is more. I will get back to that (Creeley was in the WW2 combat, but more in the back lines in ambulances etc).

Douglas thus frames this room, but so does the real or imagined Steffi – the soldier’s girl (perhaps the young German’s first love?), in the poem below…

....in addition the ‘forget me not’ is directed or turned toward myself!

It is also applicable to us all... {for indeed we beat strange.........

– the existential angst etc

Here is the poem (which has been much anthologized since Ted Hughes brought strong attention to Douglas) that frames Room 780 – perhaps not Douglas’s best, it has yet, an eerie power…

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Vergissmeinnicht

by Keith Douglas

Three weeks gone and the combatants gone
returning over the nightmare ground
we found the place again, and found
the soldier sprawling in the sun.

The frowning barrel of his gun
overshadowing. As we came on
that day, he hit my tank with one
like the entry of a demon.

Look. Here in the gunpit spoil
the dishonoured picture of his girl
who has put: Steffi. Vergissmeinnicht.
in a copybook gothic script.

We see him almost with content,
abased, and seeming to have paid
and mocked at by his own equipment
that's hard and good when he's decayed.

But she would weep to see today
how on his skin the swart flies move;
the dust upon the paper eye
and the burst stomach like a cave.

For here the lover and killer are mingled
who had one body and one heart.
And death who had the soldier singled
has done the lover mortal hurt.

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There is something of the Elizabethan “metaphysical poets’” intensity of image here – and it is also notable the great interest that Creeley had in those writers (such as Donne et al).

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Here is a brief biographical comment on Douglas:

Keith Douglas was born in Kent, and educated at Oxford University under the tutorship of poet Edward Blunden, before enlisting with the British Army when World War II broke out. He is the most famous English poet of that war, although he began publishing his work at the age of 16. His verse is precise, unsentimental and at times chilling, in its treatment of desire and sexuality as well as in its pervasive obsession with death and the relation of death to writing. Douglas was killed in Normandy, having also written about his involvement in the war in North Africa, his slim but intensely powerful corpus concluded at an early age. His work began to receive the acclaim it deserves only when Ted Hughes, a great admirer, edited and introduced a collection in 1964 (Selected Poems). See also the more recent Complete Poems (ed. Desmond Graham; 1978).

(from the Bloomsbury Dictionary of English Literature, )

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Saturday, July 26, 2008

Room 790.AN

........................................ being perhaps differently in a different place

............. an agonistic sense, as sense as of desole, or illume.......

........................................as if things were, and something screams inside his silent head

.................who are we?

........................................wha -?! eh?

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OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO
VVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVV
EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE
WHOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO?
OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOH!
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OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO
VVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVV
EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE
WHOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO?
OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOH!

..............................be..........................dispute.............refuse wars......don't kill......................
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ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo
wwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwww
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.................."Though it was just a beautiful void with no one else there but it felt good."

ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo
ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo
wwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwww
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subvert

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o000000000000OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO000000000000o

EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE

EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE

OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO
WWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWW
LLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLL

?????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????

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disobey

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ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo
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oooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

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fight with words and death

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ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo
ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo
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OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO
WWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWW
LLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLL

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DONT!

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Tuesday, July 22, 2008

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Room 790

something nobody can see:
as if you were the

one

in the

centre of a gigantic sound-shriek

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Room 780.00

.....................Steffi.Vergissmeinicht.

Redeem the time

Redeem the unread vision in the higher dream

Redeem

"... a bare, forked animal."

Life and Death

The memorial to local RSA workers tragically and brutally murdered at the Panmure RSA

A man dead on the road before the indifferent chess pieces... killed in a Middle Eastern conflict

Le la, le aso (Te Ra)

You must learn time, he said to the beautiful spider...

Robert Creeley -US Poet in Auckland - I met him in 1995

"Can you recall
distances, odors,
how far from the one
to the other

........

the lawn's webs,
touch, taste of......"

Nothing must be forgotten, even the murder of a spider

.....................................................My son Victor in Panmure by a sculpture

Forget not.

.................................................Graffiti - the struggle for identity - on a pipe at the Panmure Basin (erupted about >12000 years - in fact there was more than one eruption)

As all things sigh toward their nigh...

Vergissmeinicht.

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Room 674.33

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671.00002

oooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

oooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

post – Varese etc, not something tame like
the Songs for a Mad King: but it all passes, even the wind machines,
and the ape-shaped eyes, thoughts of death, leaves, corpse valleys,
memories, inscriptions.....

you turn back to The Romantics, for there is
something about you, something nobody can see:
as if you were the

one

in the

centre of a gigantic sound-shriek, and

batting up all hell, and no one
gives a fuck, especially with everything turning into grey gold

ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

Monday, June 30, 2008

Room 689.01

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................a section of what seems to be an infinite text, a text in the manner of...........

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Monday, June 23, 2008

Room 687

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the ape shaped eyes

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Saturday, June 21, 2008

Room 201.00000103

I DONT KNOW WHAT ANYTHING

MEANS

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Ante-Room 505.00781128795453

to swell a progress

the moment caught - the time clasped or lazily guestured at
the relentlessness of the sun and bright trees
the massive microscope trained on the silence
of human hope or hate - something emergent and pastel in a fuzz
of beginning - a quizzical shape bending away from you:
the sexy women and the endless questions -

the sad dust keeps popping
as the lanky man chews gum or rides away over the Southern Alps
in his Toyota - the deep voice - in all this rubid resonance - and indeed
a voice is heard to "cry out for meaning" and the land does indeed cry for meaning, sobs for significance, as we might cluster on a beach if only we were still alive:

there is talk of progress, and petrol prices etc
but insanity has its own rewards it has been recorded (somewhere) -
I reach for the pepper, wondering idly, if peripherally, whose hand it is that reaches:
lately the light has become so solid with its own ineluctability I am left
fingering my fingers - where is all that exciting Italian dolce vita they said we would imbibe
in the bemused and hazy vino evenings - laced with sad drinks and wondrous women
dressed only in their vaginas and a small covering - promising so much

but we are used to nothing happening for ages
and return with slick smiles to the task at hand

the clicks and insane toys and all the other cacophanies of the night scream with significant laughter as we too disappear down the twisted corridors
with grace of those who have failed perfectly and

we are completely mad and huge with ourselves
amid the gigantic lobelias and frozen leopards -
the joyful destruction continues

and we recall 'the phenomenological phallus' and the excrutiatingly lovely details

and -

-it is the details we require - progress was mentioned - but Buzz kept drinking -

we who also read the technical books and wonder about the blue one and the red one and
and the endless miles to fulfill our wire blood needs &
our quietly desperate hungers - our advancing annihilation and the wonder of tree trunks
the black hands writhing and writing everywhere -

- and indeed, the beautiful futility of the impeccable evening

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Wednesday, June 18, 2008

Room 501.22a

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THE INFINITE SONDHEIM SEMEME MACHINE

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might think of this as a universal machine applicable to texts of any length; it becomes increasingly evident that meaning is a construct across symbols, neither within them nor within the dictionary translation / transliterations.

here, in this example, only in this particular example, one has a section of what seems to be an infinite text, a text in the manner of

++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

Room 501.22 The Infinite of

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My Text and Alan Sondheims's Text

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Standing on the hillside at night. The fluttering of millions. Shells. How things. Being among the multitudes and the thoughts. Folded. Shelled in many ways. Imagine. There is surely something. One. Cup. A kind of. They were. Seeing (or hearing?) the ecstatic silence. The intellection and the bursts of rawness. “Drifts of shifts” The wrath of words. The iration of ideation. Qualm. He felt a qualm. Where has the softness gone? The man. Something explodes somewhere. We can say of a that it is not b. Judgement. The spider descends. Hard green cord round the spinning top to get it to gyrate. The whirl of many colour. We inhabited the hinter woods. He disappeared mid winterely.

Richard Taylor

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Alan Sondheims's script and the - "... a section of what seems to be an infinite text, a text in the manner of a bandage or suture across the wound of a sememe (what reads as a sememe); a wound within, unconstrued within, the imaginary...."

is this a found script or one i created ? does it really matter? given the relatively small number of symbols, it would be reasonable to apply coding to it - a matrix/template that might slide across the apparent grid, producing meaning. one might think of this as a universal machine applicable to texts of any length; it becomes increasingly evident that meaning is a construct across symbols, neither within them nor within the dictionary translation / transliterations.

here, in this example, only in this particular example, one has a section of what seems to be an infinite text, a text in the manner of a bandage or suture across the wound of a sememe (what reads as a sememe); a wound within, unconstrued within, the imaginary. think of this as the lid of the pre-linguistic - not exactly mode, but a potential for interpretation, sliding out and against itself, as soon as one is found. nothing holds here, not even "here," not even place or placement. the lesson, where we are, where we are not, is always already unlearned.

Alan Sondheim

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