Bash’um hard with a hunk o’ lard, cowboy,
when they come ‘ere to seduce our sons and daughters,
the only sons and daughters we have,
with their damn ideers. They think ideers
are worth somethin’ like a Bushel O’Pork
per each. Trahahahaha. They eschew
the feelin’s of patriotism, peals of chivalry
‘n’ private property like. So what does we care
to preserve them as a subspecies? Bein’ ourselves
of solid as rock good local stock
‘n’ rooted in these very hills that we cultivate,
bein’ so local that the mind races over
aeons of banjo-tinklin’ memory of roots
like echoes in the prairied valley, being
precisely that kinda stock, honest blue grass treadin’,
we’re buyin’ none of that Uruguay political correctness.
None, I be tellin’ ya m’s’ladies!
We automatic’ly
put that subspecies under suspicion, zitwere.
The shmuck (pardon me, Sir, me
umbilical vernacular) hadta be tryin’ to
spray us around wi’ hi’ curlture.
He said he be a-dribblin’ learnin’ into our heads
wi’ like critical thinkin’ routines.
But without shittn’ y’uns, I muss hereinafter d’claire
his reasonin’ ta be sorely wrong an’ fallaiches.
In fact, it is beyond fallaiches. Whatever.
Y’uns havin’ troubles hearin’ or somethin’? We been
on this land for gwerk knows how many a century,
from eras immemorable, and we know,
havin’ built these here barns and infrastructure,
we know without prejudice
and in good shape ‘n’ hope ‘n’ faith ‘n’ all
of mind and body like, we know
exact what the heck it cost to keep
the streets of our polity clean,
Partridge and Dingleberry Rock Village Plaza,
positively speakin’ straight narrow clean.
I do repeat, straight narrow clean,
of all yum culturevultures with all yum
cloggin’ dog’s doo an’ piece o’shit ideers.


(Philip was my classmate at Harvard in the 1990s, but despite that early disadvantage in life, he is now the proud editor of Fulcrum: An Annual of Poetry and Aesthetics and the author of several poetry books including Letters from Aldenderry, from which “Ideers” is reprinted by permission. Visit his MySpace page here.)

The day is going to come—it will come—put on 
   your nightgown,
put on your fur. And yea unto those who 
   go unclothed,
unshod, without fear, fingering the corners
of bright countertops

and calmly, absentmindedly, toeing the edges 
   of clouds
drifting in a puddle. Put on your deep-sea gear,
your flippers, and walk to the end
of the driveway.

It will come. Be not afraid to chase large animals.
Once, I had a conversation with the eye
of a moose, looming wetly
through the branches.

I was terrified. I froze. I backed away. 
   I imagined it.
And then on the other hand there 
   are those
truly fearless: schools of silver minnows
darting in and out

of the gills of blue whales—how many invisible 
   organisms
do we sustain without knowing it? Our own,
for one. Put on your crowded body,
like Vallejo,

who pulled the sea over his shoulders in 
   the morning
and stepped firmly onto ground. Thus,
when the day came, he conducted
electricity

perfectly—unknowingly—and wrote by the red 
   light of his teeth
after a glass of dark wine. Put on your 
   lampshade.
Put on your cage. If, in the shape of a key,
the shape of a woman,

a bank of swollen clouds surging over the 
   tree-line,
a word basipitally descends
break it open: how pome
and granate

meet in dense honeycombs, red seeds erupting 
   inside a mouth.
And though we lose eleven eyelashes a day
by blinking alone we cannot enter
the Kingdom,

nor can we move sideways, high on this narrow 
   goat-path,
without the proper footgear; a pebble’s kicked 
   loose,
and the echo returning
from the ravine

sounds like an avalanche, and is. Put on your 
   helmet.
Take off your clothes. If anyone even thinks
about laughing
it will be

the end of us—Rita, hand over the kazoo. Thank 
   you.
Now hand over the other one. Good.
And in case of an emergency
realize, quickly,

there is no emergency and move on. Like a thief in 
   the night
the day came. Then night came,
and emptied out its thieves
into the furious sunlight. 


        reprinted by permission from The Book of Funnels (Wave Books, 2006)

Review copies of several poetry books have found their way to my desk this month, and I wanted to mention a few I’ve enjoyed. I remember how greedy I was for books in high school, when the $15 cover price of a slim volume seemed impossibly extravagant. I read the same few authors repeatedly: Auden, Sexton, Eliot, Robert Hass, Mark Strand. Now I can hardly do justice to the many books that I get in the mail, and I don’t have the luxury of rereading. Something is wrong with this picture. It’s probably the same character flaw that’s responsible for my novel’s excess of subplots. Too many competing priorities.

Some books worth slowing down for: I was very pleased to discover a new publisher from England, Templar Poetry, which runs a chapbook contest with a good-sized prize and better-than-average book design. A lot of chapbooks look like they were xeroxed and stapled together at Kinko’s (the name does mean “cheap book,” after all). Templar’s have full-color covers with French flaps, and are printed on nice ivory matte paper. So far I’ve read and admired two of last year’s winners, Angela Cleland’s Waiting to Burn and Judy Brown’s Pillars of Salt.

Cleland is a masterful writer who never over-explains her meaning. Like Robert Frost, she writes poems that work on many levels. The surface narrative is quite clear, but the more you study it, the more you see that she is using that narrative as an extended metaphor for something more important. Where a lesser poet might say, “X is like Y,” Cleland spends the whole poem telling the story of “X”, but with such subtly loaded language that the reader makes the connection to “Y” on his own. Take for instance her opening poem, “A Guided Tour”:

We asked to see the mechanism.
Asked if he would show us how
it worked, this exquisite machine.

Cogs turned, clean and golden;
oiled springs, fine-coiled stamen
quivered in our minds as we imagined.

But he frowned, his brow like
the sky, and with huge, jealous,
delicate hands, he hid his design,
as if afraid we might cheapen it
with ham-fisted home-made attempts.

Behind his hands the catch snapped
shut. It echoed round his workshop,
rattled screws in the countless devices
that spun and circled us like questions.

One of us nodded. We all nodded,
agreed, of course, this was for the best,
each one with his hand in his pocket,
each one fingering his lock-pick.

Far away in the real countryside
I was slimmer
and one thing led to another.

But here and now
at the edge of a deserted golf course at dusk,
we lay spikily in unattractive positions.

Your unhappiness and my unhappiness
lay between us like two of my relatives.

…When I lifted my hand, it fell, a diamond

from the devil’s spittoon, onto the crested paper,
the nailtip of a stalactite breaking.

Did I feel alone without my tough glass star,
its chunk of crystal shining by the bone?

It had brought me more darkness than light
so, for all our long companionship, I let it go.

The other review copies I’ve been reading are from the Kore Press First Book Award series. Kore Press is a well-regarded publisher in Tucson that specializes in poetry by women. I am still trying to find something intelligent to say about Sandra Lim’s Loveliest Grotesque. Her language is beautiful and fascinating, but so nonlinear, so anti-narrative, that I often can’t figure out “why this word and not another?” So far, about one-quarter through the book, I’m most enamored of the title poem and “The Horse and Its Rider”. The latter’s mood reminds me of all those great old ballads about the girl who’s swept away by the sexy bandit. Here are the last lines (the line-break slashes are part of the poem):

someone who belongs to another / what difference does it make to be here alone?
/ take this street, take this hand / eros has a thousand envoys /

now / now / wait for all the arrows to hit their mark / now / now I am going to be
happy / conditional / hardly birthright / strange, worn, contented dolls /

the piano nobile / an endless pageantry / now / let you be lifted / as a frost, old age
will take us /

cleave then / which way

The title, of course, made me picture a literal horseman, but it could also be an allusion to the classical image of reason as the charioteer who masters the horses of passion. Evidently, from the emotions and disjointed style of the poem, the horse is the one in control here. “Which way?” It doesn’t matter; the speaker is along for the ride, even if it ends badly (“as a frost, old age will take us”).

Another Kore Press winner, Elline Lipkin’s The Errant Thread, is quite different. She writes clear, controlled narrative poetry with a deep awareness of connection to history — mostly European history and culture, but also the mythic figures who symbolize women’s struggle in a man’s world: Philomela, Dickens’ Miss Havisham, and in this poem (my favorite from the collection), the Maiden Without Hands from the Grimms’ fairy tale.

Conversation With My Father

After we speak I go to the hardware store
to decide on a drill, feel each black–packaged tool
bristle with its will to do harm. I interlope
among bit sets, arrays of blade and shaft,
gun–like metal shapes that brag of power.
The word–whir of our talk still buzzes its drone
a hot saw always left in the corner, ready to hack.
Important — safety instructions flutter then drop.
I follow your advice on what’s needed to needle
a skin of paint, the force it takes to punch the wall.

How much better if I could have been like Athena,
springing clear as a doe, neat as a sum, blasted out
of your head like a sweep of clean logic. If only I could
have been pure as a product of the mind’s mitosis,
justified as when ‘if’ begets ‘then,’ and ‘a’ equals ‘c,’
each chamber of reason I passed smelting an iron–ore
layer over my breast. How alike we could be when
I emerged, balanced as an axiom, threaded straight
as a theory, and born armed, with bow and arrow in hand.

Instead, in your grip, I was Thumbelina, a glass angel,
a set of porcelain arms crossed behind a back.
My hand was to stay undissolved as a spun–sugar
lump until asked for, approved of, then towed down
an aisle. But I’ve told you I can’t be good as
Grimm’s girl, when we stand near the ax I draw
my wrists back. Each pointed finger is my true weapon.
I won’t let you bronze the cut cups of my palms.

Cyclamens and Swords, a new book from Israeli poets Helen Bar-Lev and Johnmichael Simon, has just been published by Ibbetson Street Press. This beautifully designed book is illustrated with Helen’s watercolors and sketches of Israeli landscapes, which someday I will acquire the technical ability to reproduce on this website. Meanwhile, she’s kindly allowed me to reprint two poems below:

The Map on the Back of the Shower Curtain

The world appears pale and backwards
and indeed a bit obsolete,
on the opposite side
of the shower curtain

I search for you my country,
little mapspeck
amongst plastic folds
perhaps three other nations
have the distinction
of being smaller than you,
but that is all

I compare your pinkness
with the enormous expanses
of greens and browns,
yellows and oranges

And am amazed at the fuss
the world makes over you
as though Madam Justice
put you on one scale
and the rest of the world on the other,
to balance things out

Everyone wants you,
little lovely country,
and I who love you
with the passion of unreason,
with the naturalness of one who lives in and for you,
am able to understand this

But they,
they cannot know


   ********

A Hot Cup of Corn Soup

She was skinny as a skeleton
her age disappeared into her thinness,
did not disclose itself;
neither young nor old,
she was a woman eternal

We met each morning,
she on her way into the building
inside my painting,
a nod and a pleasant shalom
and our days continued separate

It was seven degrees below zero
in Jerusalem and there I was as usual,
weaving branches into my watercolour,
with fingers which would not stop freezing,
too imbued with the need to create
than to heed the wisdom of remaining
at home in front of the heater –
even water tanks cracked on roofs
cascaded their contents
over buildings, onto streets,
then froze there, treacherous

At ten a.m. that day she brought me a cup
of hot corn soup – a gesture unexpected,
unprecedented, through those many winters
I had sat on the ground, painting Jerusalem
we chatted, I asked her age,
her history of six and one half decades
spilled out onto my page into my heart
unwilling to believe, down from the roof
of the twenty-storey building where her
son, ten, ben z’kunim* and friends had been playing
when he fell, fell, into her grief
into her thinness, into this place
where she was working when her older sons
came to tell her, down down onto the couch
of the analyst who said
life doesn’t continue forever,
one day you’ll be with him again

One session, no more, then she went on
into her thinness, waiting for the reunion with her son,
until then, knowing he was watching,
approving, she continued doing kindnesses,
such as bringing a cup of hot corn soup
to a freezing artist on a February morning
in Jerusalem


* ben z’kunim = a child born to parents late in life 

   ********

Cyclamens and Swords can be ordered through Lulu.com or by emailing

hb*****@ne*******.il











or

j_*****@ne*******.il











. Prices are 65 NIS (including postage to Israel), US$18 (including postage to US or Canada), 14 euro (including postage to Europe or Australia), or 10 pounds sterling (including postage to the UK). Payment accepted by cash, check or PayPal.

Trees leaf out—roses and lilacs
sequin with buds. Smooth tense skins
tighten like a promise. We’ll break them down.
We’ll press them, force them flat
for a record. Press them within the pages
of an unabridged dictionary, the RHS
encyclopedia of gardening. Let them feel
the weight of the language we have heaped
upon them. The weight is heavy indeed:
philosophy, the bible, a dictionary,
a Rookwood pot—terra cotta, urn-shaped,
paperbacks stuffed inside, the weight
of more learning and cultural import
to crush the color of a tulip flat, a tulip
that had come a long time down to this,
pushed in a towel in a dictionary under a pot,
this blossom of Dutch monarchs, this Mercedes
of mercantilism, this blossom to kill a king for, this
delicate gem of no facets. We write the tags,
take their names and learn them,
speak them in our home, teach their curves
to our tongue and teeth, feel
language work even here, simply by its
accumulated weight. In this way,
syllables blossom, the names lose
their context of weeds, keep the color
slipped from the sun.


Read more poems from Welsch’s book Dirt and All Its Dense Labor (WordTech Editions, 2006) here.