VIEW OF THE MISSISSIPPI FROM FORT HILL AT VICKSBURG BATTLEFIELD NATIONAL PARK AND CEMETERY

From the wide meandering drive
you look away, beyond the lines
of white anonymous markers,
down to where the barges
are pushing past the piers,
each as slow as the hour hand of a clock,
while tiny speedboats whine
like mosquitoes as they skip up and down,
skimming the water
to better their times.

The tape-recorded tour guide at Fort Hill
makes it a point to say
that the River isn't what you see
—“the River” around here
always means the Mississippi—
but the Yazoo Diversion Canal,
an artificial waterway
created by the Army Corps of Engineers
after the River shifted away
and left Vicksburg behind.

The real Mississippi winds,
like a snake uncoiling, on the other side
of the shifting sandbars and temporary islands
that lie in the distance,
looking like solid ground
crowded with scrub-oak, cypress, willow, and pine.

Several hours further down,
at New Roads in the Parish of Pointe Coupée,
the River once twisted itself out this way.
On the Louisiana side
they made the old bed into a resort,
a playground for aquatic sports,
called False River Lake.
They have sail-boating and water-skiing there,
and trolling and fishing from the shore
lined now with substantial real estate.

It all sounds pretty dull and safe,
and perhaps it is.
Perhaps there’s a point to be made
for complacency, though: The Chinese say,
with Mandarin politesse,
“May you live in interesting times,”
—when they don’t mean to bless.

More than once the River has
struck at a town;
of that rip-roaring sinful place,
Natchez-under-the-Hill,
there isn’t much left now;
and at Grand Gulf,
half an hour south of here,
fifty-six blocks of busy, sleepy people
sloughed off into the water
bit by bit, without a sound.

Only a few minutes away,
antique and beautiful,
the clock-faced steeples of Port Gibson wait,
set back decorously not-too-near
the soft slopes of the Little Bayou Pierre,
a minor tributary that every one there
calls “By a Pier.”
They watch the town’s two bridges—
the skeletal old one, mostly sucked down
in the great storm of ’Fifty-Four,
and the squat ugly new one, that brute mass and weight
have held in place so far.
_________________________________
Photo from http://www.toptenz.net/top-10-most-powerful-rivers-in-the-world.php

OUT OF THE SIXTIES

Oh, look! Look! Here they come,
with beads and braids and tie-dyed feathers,
the hippie happie demonstrators
marching against the world’s Darth Vaders,
laughing and singing and loving each other,
blithe go-fors for somebody’s alternate kingdom,
marching, dancing, turn up the speakers,
into the rainbow, into the visions, 
the sacred weed, the magic mushroom,
into the Happy Place, Walden, Eden,
the compound ruled by the loving leader,
the sex and the sweats and the screams of laughter,
and into the night of the trussed pigslaughter,
the barren tears, the begging and pleading,
the belly ripped open, a bloody melon,
wasting, wasting, all fall down,
—Trust me, trust always and only the young.



_____________________________________

Photo from http://inspirement.tumblr.com/post19730831916/

HAIKU, Group 3

Reading a book on haiku, the tradition and the lives of masters, has led me to try to record a certain transience and pathos in a few. The following are winter poems.

The park is sunny, windy and cold;
What's that whipped and whirling thing--
An oak leaf or a sparrow?

On a bare black branch, a crow
Hunches against the pale
Yellow sky of sunset.

Thunderstorms break the night;
Lightning strobe-lights the flat bedroom,
Outlining everything in black.

BOOK REVIEW BY AN ANONYMOUS BRITISH REVIEWER IN THE TIMES

BOOK REVIEW BY AN ANONYMOUS BRITISH REVIEWER

IN THE TIMES

An Anthology of French Poetry from Nerval to Valéry, in English Translation. Edited by Angel Flores. Garden City, N. J.: Doubleday Anchor Books, 1958.

After due consideration,
I tried reading a translation
Of French poets from Nerval to Valéry;

And although the Gallic nation
Holds them all in veneration,
I confess that they are not my cup of tea.

Why, it’s as dreadful as the antics
Of the German High Romantics,
And they go about as far—about as deep

In that dark and bulgy wood
Where the moonlight drips like blood
Among trees that clutch at you and creep,

And where flowers that devour
Yawn open by the hour,
And monsters pursue you, and weep.

They were all full of spleen,
If you know what I mean,
And if you read the volume you will see

Forty stanzas of angoisse
Ladled out like vichyssoise
As the entrée to a long course of ennui;

And the endless, sad complainte
That the living are all dead
In the head,
And the dead …
really ain’t.

And their stories: Jules Laforgue
Ended up inside a morgue—
Couldn’t pay for a burial place;

And Stephan Mallarmé
Faded mystically away,
Like his symbols, into some inner space.

Enter Evil: Charles Baudelaire,
Who proclaimed himself the Heir
Of the Devil, after reading Edgar-Poe;

Worst of all, Paul Verlaine,
Like Van Gogh, went insane,
And tried to kill his lover Rimbaud.

(Save for jaunty, debonair
Prince Guillaume Apollinaire,
They are really not the sort you’d want to know.)

Now Baudelaire may have been
Quite a specialist in Sin,
And Rimbaud as Rambonctious as could be,

But after reading this anthology
I can say without apology,
It offers no Illuminations for me.

Author's Note:

The Reader, like the Author, should consider himself free

To side with the Reviewer, or with les poètes maudits.

Image from http://thisrecording.com/today/2009/12/9/in-which-we-begin-to-roar-with-laughter-at-paul-verlaine-and...html

THE POLITICALLY CORRECT "LITTLE RED RIDING HOOD"

The Politically Correct "_Little Red Riding Hood"_ was taken from http://www.danshort.com/pcred/ on 17 May 2010.

This version of the story is not new--it goes back at least to the 70's when the hysteria {hersteria?}was at one of its periodic peaks--but it is still good for a laugh, especially these days, when there is not much to make anyone smile.

I think that the satire is aimed less at modern reform movements such as the ecological, postcolonial, and feminist movements (although their extremes have provided a lot of material for it) than at the attempts to rewrite human culture, in reality a type of censorship... the agenda being to make it impossible for one to say or write--and therefore impossible for one to think--certain things that offend the reformers. In any case, the parody of the jargon is hilariously accurate.

I have made some minor editorial changes, indicated by curly brackets.

There once was a young person named Little Red Riding Hood who lived on the edge of a large forest full of endangered owls and rare plants that would probably provide a cure for cancer if only someone took the time to study them.

Red Riding Hood lived with a nurture giver whom she sometimes referred to as “Mother,” although she didn’t mean to imply by this term that she would have thought less of that person if a close biological link did not in fact exist. Nor did she intend to denigrate the equal value of nontraditional households, and she was sorry if this was the impression conveyed.

One day her mother asked her to take a basket of organically grown fruit and {distilled} mineral water to her grandmother’s house.

“But Mother, won’t this be stealing work from the unionized people who have struggled for years to earn the {exclusive} right to carry all packages between various people in the woods?”

Red Riding Hood’s mother assured her that she had called the union boss and gotten a special compassionate mission exemption form.

“But Mother, aren’t you oppressing me by ordering me to do this?”

Red Riding Hood’s mother pointed out that it was impossible for {wymyn} to oppress other {wymyn} because all {wymyn} were oppressed until all {wymyn} were free.

“But Mother, then shouldn’t you have my brother carry the basket, since he’s an oppressor, and should learn what it’s like to be oppressed?”

Red Riding Hood’s mother explained that her brother was attending a special rally for animal rights, and besides, this wasn’t stereotypical {wymyn’s} work, but an empowering deed that would help engender a feeling of community.

“But won’t I be oppressing Grandma, by implying that she’s sick and hence unable to independently further her own selfhood?”

But Red Riding Hood’s mother explained that her grandmother wasn’t actually sick or incapacitated or mentally handicapped in any way, although that was not to imply that any of these conditions were inferior to what some people called “health.” Thus Red Riding Hood felt that she could get behind the idea of delivering the basket to her grandmother, and so she set off.

Many people believed that the forest was a {sinister} and dangerous place, but Red Riding Hood knew that this was an irrational fear based on cultural paradigms instilled by a patriarchal society that regarded the natural world as an exploitable resource, and hence believed that natural predators were in fact intolerable competitors.

Other people avoided the woods for fear of thieves and {"psychopaths"}, but Red Riding Hood felt that in a truly classless society all marginalized peoples would be able to come out {of the woods} and be accepted as valid lifestyle role models.

On her way to Grandma’s house, Red Riding Hood passed a {woodcutter}, and wandered off the path, in order to examine some flowers. She was startled to find herself standing before a Wolf, who asked her what was in her basket. Red Riding Hood’s teacher had warned her never to talk to strangers, but she was confident in taking control of her own budding sexuality, and chose to dialogue with the Wolf.

She replied, “I am taking my Grandmother some healthful snacks in a gesture of solidarity.”

The Wolf said, “You know, my dear, it isn’t safe for a little girl to walk through these woods alone.”

Red Riding Hood said, “I find your sexist remark offensive in the extreme, but I will ignore it because of your traditional status as an outcast from society, the stress of which has caused you to develop an alternative and yet entirely valid world view. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I would prefer to be on my way.”

Red Riding Hood returned to the main path, and proceeded towards her Grandmother’s house. But because his status outside society had freed him from slavish adherence to linear, Western-style thought, the Wolf knew of a quicker route to Grandma’s house.

He burst into the house and ate Grandma, a course of action affirmative of his {natural role} as a predator. Then, unhampered by rigid, traditionalist gender role notions, he put on Grandma’s nightclothes, crawled under the bedclothes, and awaited developments.

Red Riding Hood entered the cottage and said, “Grandma, I have brought you some cruelty-free snacks to salute you in your role of wise and nurturing matriarch.”

The Wolf said softly, “Come closer, child, so that I might see you.”

Red Riding Hood said, “Goddess[es]! Grandma, what big eyes you have!”

“You forget that I am optically challenged.”

“And Grandma, what an enormous, er, what a fine nose you have.”

“Naturally, I could have had it {enhanced} to help my acting career, but I didn’t give in to such {superficial, sexist} societal pressures, my child.”

“And Grandma, what very big, sharp teeth you have!”

The Wolf could not take any more of these species-ist slurs, and, in a reaction appropriate for his accustomed {function in his natural niche in the ecosystem}, he leaped out of bed, grabbed Little Red Riding Hood, and opened his jaws so wide that she could see her poor Grandmother cowering in his belly.

“Aren’t you forgetting something?” Red Riding Hood bravely shouted. “You must request my permission before proceeding to a new level of intimacy!”

The Wolf was so startled by this statement that he loosened his grasp on her. At the same time, the {woodcutter} burst into the cottage, brandishing an axe.

“Hands off!” cried the {woodcutter}.

“And what do you think you’re doing?” cried Little Red Riding Hood. “If I let you help me now, I would be expressing a lack of confidence in my own abilities, which would lead to poor self-esteem and lower achievement scores on college entrance exams.”

“Last chance, Sister! Get your hands off that endangered species! This is an FBI sting!” screamed the {woodcutter}, and when Little Red Riding Hood nonetheless made a sudden {movement}, he swung the axe and sliced off her head.

“Thank goodness you got here in time,” said the Wolf. “The {juvenile} and {the older female} lured me in here. I thought I was a goner.”

“No, I think I’m the real victim, here,” said the {woodcutter}. “I’ve been dealing with my anger ever since I saw her picking those protected flowers earlier. And now I’m going to have such a trauma. Do you have any aspirin?”

“Sure,” said the Wolf.

“Thanks.”

“I feel your pain,” said the Wolf, and he patted the woodchopper on his firm, {tight backside}, gave a little belch, and said “Do you have any {natural, organic antacid}?”

MORE HAIKU

Heat presses on my skin,
Sweat trickles, summer rain on glass.
A mosquito wants to drink.


A night wind stirs the oaks,
The pale moon rounds a ledge of cloud...
Torn shadows streaming past.


Midnight, clear and chill,
An empty winding road... Black mountains
Move to hide the moon.

ILLUMINATION

I floated down, trailing my luminous clouds
into the hot dusty square, and landed among people
who were happily wallowing in the dirt
with their dogs, pigs, and chickens.
They stopped rolling over each other
and began to throw stones, shouting
that I was dragging bloody rags and that I stank.
As the crowd surged toward me,
I picked up a stone, threw it,
and fled down a narrow, dirty alley.

REGRESSIVE SONNET

W. S., to himself


Your old catastrophes queued to recur,
And vital fire contracted to a hole,
Can you go back in dreams to what you were,
And try anew the unenacted role?

Dead pleasures fading to a wasted blur,
Desire perversely lives, a glowing coal
That stale regret but pricks you on to stir,
Revision of the past your only goal.

So little left could hardly come to less:
The clinging succubus that made you prey,
And yet possesses you, makes you regress;

The sleepless demon that forced you to say
"Yes" when you meant "No," "No" when you meant "Yes,"
Still makes a day of night, a night of day.





Portrait of Shakespeare from http://quotationsbook.com/quotes/author/photos/6633


x

THIS IS JUST TO SAY (to My Ex-Girlfriend)

I have moved
you
out of my
life

which you were 
probably thinking you had

taken over

Forgive me
you were disastrous
so mean
and so cold

FOUR HAIKU

Recently I happened to see a group of translations of Japanese haiku in a textbook, and was reminded that there had been a great vogue for haiku when I was an undergraduate. Like many others, I tried my hand at writing haiku, but I thought then, and have continued to think, that the requirement of limiting oneself to five- and seven-syllable lines is unrealistic for the English language.

According to the two basic-Japanese textbooks that I have seen, English grammar is very different from the Japanese, and so are the time values of English syllables (and therefore English rhythms), and so is English intonation; and the times that I have heard Japanese spoken confirm this judgement. Because of these differences, the five- and seven-syllable lines of haiku in English sound excessively constrained---I would even say mannered, affected.

At different times I experimented with restrictions such as five, seven, and five words, and later five, seven, and five grammatical parts of speech (infinitives and phrases like "out of" counting as one part), but I did not find them satisfactory.

Then I hit on writing lines that approximated trimeter, tetrameter, and trimeter--and I liked the results. The form suggests the brevity of Japanese haiku, but not the artificial truncation required by syllabic haiku in English, and it appropriately awakens echoes of English lyric poetry just as Japanese haiku are intended to evoke well established Japanese literary associations.

Should anyone object that the results are not really haiku, I remind them that syllabic haiku in English are not really haiku either, but mechanical imitations. They are more abbreviated in relation to their language and culture than the Japanese; and they lack--because native speakers of English, writers as well as readers, lack--the cultural values and the associations, especially those of Buddhism, essential to the Japanese tradition.

The following poems are examples of natural-sounding haiku in English.

Below the thorny stem,
Fallen petals make another
Rose, a broken fan.
3.ii.10

Less than a minute’s rain!
Among the pebbles on the beach
The small drops darken, then fade.
3.ii.10

A full moon overhead:
Oculus lighting a cobalt dome,
Or just a perfect pearl?
5.ii.10

Creek water swift and clear,
Shifting sand-ripples under my feet,
Which of us travels farther?
5.ii.10