Dalumat—in english ay?
Kind of worried about him
What office work?
Thanks for asking
Lalim kasi
Sad kasi
Paki-translate please?
He's still in the hospital
Mas malungkot kasi he doesn't respond
I mean admin matters?
Batis—source di ba?
Sa mga texts ko, sa kamusta
Wish I could still be one of your
Paglalagom—analysis ba?
I thought last day in
Ganun ba talaga kayo?
What's pagsagka?
Nob 29, 2012
On Dante's Inferno and Bergvall's "VIA"
Read or listen to Caroline Bergvall's "VIA (48 Dante Variations)"
—
DE— But to be now the pop culture cultist (remember SpongeBob!), Bergvall reminds me of a scene in Nightmare on Elm St where the kids in the car wish to escape but find out through landmarks (statues, so forth, but in Bergvall, the words, the woods) that they're going on and on in circles. What's a lovely part of this scene is when a kid suggests that they refer to a road map. Clever kid, so one pulls out a road map and he/she unfolds it and it unfolds some more and there's no end to unfolding it, soon it swamps the passenger seat, threatening the driver's view. It's another Sisyphus thing, like Bergvall condemned the Dante persona to Hell even before he enters Limbo.
—
—
—
—
—
—
—
—
—
—
DE— It could be cyclical too, perhaps? Like we find/create a groove (settling in with a person or an ideology or an aesthetic, finding yourself in religion, or in the faithful exercise of civic or filial duties) only to find yourself on the road again, the splinter of the brain tearing past the old comfort zone only to create new ones later. In a larger view though, that's where you might find your "self" in VIA, in endless transition, staying and going, going to stay, staying to go, one liminal encounter after another, but always bound within the pages of your book. The more things change . . .
—
—
—
—
—
DE— I remember your work on the timing thread, and I think this fits! Dante also tried to figure himself here as in the midpoint of his life-span and at the mid-point of the cosmic life-span (if I remember correctly, which I doubt, his journey was taken halfway between creation and apocalypse or something).
—
—
—
—
AN— also: humans are always by definition works in progress. always crossing bridges, climbing up ladders, all fields attest to the human drive to escape its own bounds. whose grasp exceeds whose reach
—
—
—
—
—
DE— I love this delicate fan notion of yours. What a lovely way of putting it but, yes, that's how it seems to me now, after you've said it this way. I thought at first that this image clashes with my own reading, one that hinges (perhaps loosely) around the idea of counsel in Dante. In this opening to the cantos, Dante had yet to find Virgil, his guide, and so it seems to me through Bergvall now how multiple and wasteful his steps are, how shadowy and treacherous (as translations so famously are) indeed these woods. Translations betray, we've so been often told, and translators make poor advisers, and it is of great significance to me that the main sin in Dante's Inferno is False Witness, the crime that makes a Satan of Lucifer, that feeds Brutus and Cassius and Judas (the most vile of counselors in his book) eternally into and out of the three mouths of this Satan
AN— this "fan" of translations could be damning us, if we read it now, again, through (whatever we believe of) dante
—
—
—
—
—
AN— i believe so too. but i've been toying around with the idea that VIA could likewise be a display of the super-adequacy of language, how something so remote and distant can be brought at the threshold of our thoughts in so many ways, perhaps always missing dante's idea, but also never losing sight of its shadowy shape, across the seven centuries
—
DE— I'm looking forward to the time comes when I can jog again, because I will seriously put Bergvall's audio on loop.
AN— bergvall's also among my great finds. i know most people want to see old favorites, but me, if they've got more armantrouts and perelmans, baums and bergvalls up their sleeves, I'd really really love to read them!
—
AN— thank you for this thread, and for the many worthy, engaging readings already found here.
DE— My own pet intertext would be Borges's "Pierre Menard, Author of Quixote," a fiction written in a shape of a review where the reviewer lists the accomplishments of this man of letters, Menard, up until he writes his opus, Don Quixote, which he doesn't translate but rewrites line per line by thoroughly immersing himself in the novel and in the life of Cervantes. There's an idea here which I will represent without the power of a Bergvall or Calvino or Borges: that sometimes, when we read, what we're doing is writing the novel or epic again in our mind. So that even something we're reading in the language of our birth is actually being translated by us right into our own psychologies, over our own situations, dreads and desires, which are almost never akin to the stirrings of the "originary" writer.
—
—
—
—
—
—
—
—
AN— in this school of poemfish, about to disperse
—
—
—
—
—
—
—
—
—
—
AN— gosh, indeed! these are the kinds of threads I wish to read. bergvall's sense of being in the same place and being all over the place is brilliant. borges, who was mentioned above, would have enjoyed VIA immensely, and I would not be surprised if he'd go so far as to envy it
—
—
—
—
—
AN— another thing i've thought to bring to this thread was something from kung fu tze: "“It's better to read one book a hundred times, than a hundred books one time." deftly rewritten by bruce lee: "I fear not the man who has practiced ten thousand kicks once. but I fear the man who has practiced one kick ten thousand times." fear bergvall, indeed!
—
—
AN— haunting. yes, that fits. that's the word i'm looking for. that's how it has been for me listening to this, reading it, then reciting it myself
—
DE— This pilgrim of a poem leads me back to Dante Alighieri's Comedy, to his desire there for guidance, not only from Virgil, but also from Marsyas and Apollo, from Beatrice herself. He was himself acting as a guide, showing his poetry as a reliable compass of the cosmos. Almost every other critter and demon and character likewise try to instruct Dante (often within the limitations of their damnation), for example his old mentor attends him, as does Ulysses. As it happens, some of these guides are proven false. Here comes Bergvall. She cuts Dante off at the first stanza. He can't get to any of the guides, his first step shown to be multiple, endless, like the line in Eleatic paradoxes where any given point cannot be defined and therefore cannot be traversed (and thus the idea that we are moving at all is an illusion, and in this first step, Dante has taken 700 years and still his foot has yet to fall). Maybe Bergvall undermines Dante by short-circuiting him, reciting him back to himself (an Echo upon a Narcissus), sealing him within his first stanza before he could summon any guide, before he could himself "counsel" any reader. In this sense perhaps, VIA is a critique of Dante and other poets or philosophers (or poetic systems) with such clear and solid ideas of how life must be led, how thought ought be formed and expressed.
—
DE— Maybe among those cute guys is a Dante in search of Beatrice? Haha, and scholars, indeed should be able to laugh together. Dante generates lots of differences, heated arguments, scholastic cold shoulders, and it's amazing how Bergvall could put a word in without putting any of her own words in! Shared laughter, of the non-ridicule, non-sarcastic variety, should be very welcome.
—
—
DE— I think VIA could handle both and many other readings, could be a critique when viewed from one aspect, homage in another, and definitely as metapoetry. The woods, yes, (like the story-trees of Armantrout's own VIA) a horrible or delightful place to get lost in, or find the self. Bergvall was remarkably silent here, and I think this silence enables us to look at VIA every which way. Even her arrangement was a surrender of her poetic ego: she alphabetized! Maybe she's counterpoising her circularity to Dante's quest, her surrender of ego to his embrace of ego. Maybe it's like Dickinson's Sicily poem. You may proceed up that mountain Dante, the first (half-)step is enough of a cosmos, "infinity in a grain of sand," says Blake, "eternity in an hour." VIA could be seen as condemning us readers and translators to hell (or "saying" it was Dante who condemned us there) of reading and re-reading without coming any closer to seeing the Beatific Face. Perhaps VIA also condemns poets (Dante and others like him) who dwell in their configurations exactly because these would not exist apart from their craft, or belief. Or maybe it's a tribute to Dante's 700 years, and at heart, VIA celebrates the inherent capacity of poets/ poetry to survive, to reproduce and remain.
—
DE— Thank you. Despite the "darkling woods," and the "damning" repetition, I still would like to believe the celebratory aspect of this Bergvall piece. As has been mentioned before, the poet also "finds himself" in the process.
—
—
AN— i did not know eliot had those lines, but yes they are very fitting for VIA. i like how this poem brings us to the multiple, protean quality of language
—
DE— Yes. I believe that losing your bearings, while almost never a pleasant experience, can be counted on to expand our horizons—though your third sentence here is more eloquent on this point. I love this lesson on "re-viewing," revisiting, on dwelling again and again (via VIA). If this has taught me anything, it's how to enjoy getting lost in poetry, losing yourself in multiple possibilities, in a renewed sense of vastness.
—
DE— Thank you. It was a perfect convergence of material and technique, in my view. That's possibly why this "darkling wood" has become so fertile for questions and ideas.
—
DE— But to be now the pop culture cultist (remember SpongeBob!), Bergvall reminds me of a scene in Nightmare on Elm St where the kids in the car wish to escape but find out through landmarks (statues, so forth, but in Bergvall, the words, the woods) that they're going on and on in circles. What's a lovely part of this scene is when a kid suggests that they refer to a road map. Clever kid, so one pulls out a road map and he/she unfolds it and it unfolds some more and there's no end to unfolding it, soon it swamps the passenger seat, threatening the driver's view. It's another Sisyphus thing, like Bergvall condemned the Dante persona to Hell even before he enters Limbo.
—
—
—
—
—
—
—
—
—
—
DE— It could be cyclical too, perhaps? Like we find/create a groove (settling in with a person or an ideology or an aesthetic, finding yourself in religion, or in the faithful exercise of civic or filial duties) only to find yourself on the road again, the splinter of the brain tearing past the old comfort zone only to create new ones later. In a larger view though, that's where you might find your "self" in VIA, in endless transition, staying and going, going to stay, staying to go, one liminal encounter after another, but always bound within the pages of your book. The more things change . . .
—
—
—
—
—
DE— I remember your work on the timing thread, and I think this fits! Dante also tried to figure himself here as in the midpoint of his life-span and at the mid-point of the cosmic life-span (if I remember correctly, which I doubt, his journey was taken halfway between creation and apocalypse or something).
—
—
—
—
AN— also: humans are always by definition works in progress. always crossing bridges, climbing up ladders, all fields attest to the human drive to escape its own bounds. whose grasp exceeds whose reach
—
—
—
—
—
DE— I love this delicate fan notion of yours. What a lovely way of putting it but, yes, that's how it seems to me now, after you've said it this way. I thought at first that this image clashes with my own reading, one that hinges (perhaps loosely) around the idea of counsel in Dante. In this opening to the cantos, Dante had yet to find Virgil, his guide, and so it seems to me through Bergvall now how multiple and wasteful his steps are, how shadowy and treacherous (as translations so famously are) indeed these woods. Translations betray, we've so been often told, and translators make poor advisers, and it is of great significance to me that the main sin in Dante's Inferno is False Witness, the crime that makes a Satan of Lucifer, that feeds Brutus and Cassius and Judas (the most vile of counselors in his book) eternally into and out of the three mouths of this Satan
AN— this "fan" of translations could be damning us, if we read it now, again, through (whatever we believe of) dante
—
—
—
—
—
AN— i believe so too. but i've been toying around with the idea that VIA could likewise be a display of the super-adequacy of language, how something so remote and distant can be brought at the threshold of our thoughts in so many ways, perhaps always missing dante's idea, but also never losing sight of its shadowy shape, across the seven centuries
—
DE— I'm looking forward to the time comes when I can jog again, because I will seriously put Bergvall's audio on loop.
AN— bergvall's also among my great finds. i know most people want to see old favorites, but me, if they've got more armantrouts and perelmans, baums and bergvalls up their sleeves, I'd really really love to read them!
—
AN— thank you for this thread, and for the many worthy, engaging readings already found here.
DE— My own pet intertext would be Borges's "Pierre Menard, Author of Quixote," a fiction written in a shape of a review where the reviewer lists the accomplishments of this man of letters, Menard, up until he writes his opus, Don Quixote, which he doesn't translate but rewrites line per line by thoroughly immersing himself in the novel and in the life of Cervantes. There's an idea here which I will represent without the power of a Bergvall or Calvino or Borges: that sometimes, when we read, what we're doing is writing the novel or epic again in our mind. So that even something we're reading in the language of our birth is actually being translated by us right into our own psychologies, over our own situations, dreads and desires, which are almost never akin to the stirrings of the "originary" writer.
—
—
—
—
—
—
—
—
AN— in this school of poemfish, about to disperse
—
—
—
—
—
—
—
—
—
—
AN— gosh, indeed! these are the kinds of threads I wish to read. bergvall's sense of being in the same place and being all over the place is brilliant. borges, who was mentioned above, would have enjoyed VIA immensely, and I would not be surprised if he'd go so far as to envy it
—
—
—
—
—
AN— another thing i've thought to bring to this thread was something from kung fu tze: "“It's better to read one book a hundred times, than a hundred books one time." deftly rewritten by bruce lee: "I fear not the man who has practiced ten thousand kicks once. but I fear the man who has practiced one kick ten thousand times." fear bergvall, indeed!
—
—
AN— haunting. yes, that fits. that's the word i'm looking for. that's how it has been for me listening to this, reading it, then reciting it myself
—
DE— This pilgrim of a poem leads me back to Dante Alighieri's Comedy, to his desire there for guidance, not only from Virgil, but also from Marsyas and Apollo, from Beatrice herself. He was himself acting as a guide, showing his poetry as a reliable compass of the cosmos. Almost every other critter and demon and character likewise try to instruct Dante (often within the limitations of their damnation), for example his old mentor attends him, as does Ulysses. As it happens, some of these guides are proven false. Here comes Bergvall. She cuts Dante off at the first stanza. He can't get to any of the guides, his first step shown to be multiple, endless, like the line in Eleatic paradoxes where any given point cannot be defined and therefore cannot be traversed (and thus the idea that we are moving at all is an illusion, and in this first step, Dante has taken 700 years and still his foot has yet to fall). Maybe Bergvall undermines Dante by short-circuiting him, reciting him back to himself (an Echo upon a Narcissus), sealing him within his first stanza before he could summon any guide, before he could himself "counsel" any reader. In this sense perhaps, VIA is a critique of Dante and other poets or philosophers (or poetic systems) with such clear and solid ideas of how life must be led, how thought ought be formed and expressed.
—
DE— Maybe among those cute guys is a Dante in search of Beatrice? Haha, and scholars, indeed should be able to laugh together. Dante generates lots of differences, heated arguments, scholastic cold shoulders, and it's amazing how Bergvall could put a word in without putting any of her own words in! Shared laughter, of the non-ridicule, non-sarcastic variety, should be very welcome.
—
—
DE— I think VIA could handle both and many other readings, could be a critique when viewed from one aspect, homage in another, and definitely as metapoetry. The woods, yes, (like the story-trees of Armantrout's own VIA) a horrible or delightful place to get lost in, or find the self. Bergvall was remarkably silent here, and I think this silence enables us to look at VIA every which way. Even her arrangement was a surrender of her poetic ego: she alphabetized! Maybe she's counterpoising her circularity to Dante's quest, her surrender of ego to his embrace of ego. Maybe it's like Dickinson's Sicily poem. You may proceed up that mountain Dante, the first (half-)step is enough of a cosmos, "infinity in a grain of sand," says Blake, "eternity in an hour." VIA could be seen as condemning us readers and translators to hell (or "saying" it was Dante who condemned us there) of reading and re-reading without coming any closer to seeing the Beatific Face. Perhaps VIA also condemns poets (Dante and others like him) who dwell in their configurations exactly because these would not exist apart from their craft, or belief. Or maybe it's a tribute to Dante's 700 years, and at heart, VIA celebrates the inherent capacity of poets/ poetry to survive, to reproduce and remain.
—
DE— Thank you. Despite the "darkling woods," and the "damning" repetition, I still would like to believe the celebratory aspect of this Bergvall piece. As has been mentioned before, the poet also "finds himself" in the process.
—
—
AN— i did not know eliot had those lines, but yes they are very fitting for VIA. i like how this poem brings us to the multiple, protean quality of language
—
DE— Yes. I believe that losing your bearings, while almost never a pleasant experience, can be counted on to expand our horizons—though your third sentence here is more eloquent on this point. I love this lesson on "re-viewing," revisiting, on dwelling again and again (via VIA). If this has taught me anything, it's how to enjoy getting lost in poetry, losing yourself in multiple possibilities, in a renewed sense of vastness.
—
DE— Thank you. It was a perfect convergence of material and technique, in my view. That's possibly why this "darkling wood" has become so fertile for questions and ideas.
Nob 28, 2012
Blue Roses bago Mag-Undas
nagpapaantok pa ako
alcohol, zonrox, surf, floorwax, biscuits, chicken
kaya alagaan mo sarili mo kasi
pink) stargazers and yellow wind
I watched Ina Kapatid Anak
PAGASA: cooler days ahead
take issue with your condescension
kasi magkikita pa tayo pag
tomorrow yung mag-iskoba ng papag
are not my parent after all
ngayon may play area para sa mga bata
at mag-agiw, pahugasan ko rin platera
to be free to make decisions
looking at your pics dito sa album
nuggets, juice, snacks, zesto
blue roses) now available for delivery
pag uugod-ugod na tayo at
naibilad na namin mga unan at mga kutson
katulad kay anti, alone
gaganda nyo
hello! everyone! order now!
naglaga ng karne na may mais
wrong or not without fearing
at hindi na awkward
maaraw naman thanks
fearing your reprisals
cheap na lighter na lang
palit ng kurtina yung sa sala, kulay cream at blue
sana wala nang ulan
better daw na wala munang kontak kay
dadalhan ka ng sabaw
looking at some albums
hear a sincere apology, no ifs and buts
what size candles?
blue na bulaklakin
kasi mamaya tulog na din
tapos na kami ni dad
kidz kit 2, enfagrow at enfakid, absolute
naku nag-iisa ka pala
ingat sa pag-uwi
alcohol, zonrox, surf, floorwax, biscuits, chicken
kaya alagaan mo sarili mo kasi
pink) stargazers and yellow wind
I watched Ina Kapatid Anak
PAGASA: cooler days ahead
take issue with your condescension
kasi magkikita pa tayo pag
tomorrow yung mag-iskoba ng papag
are not my parent after all
ngayon may play area para sa mga bata
at mag-agiw, pahugasan ko rin platera
to be free to make decisions
looking at your pics dito sa album
nuggets, juice, snacks, zesto
blue roses) now available for delivery
pag uugod-ugod na tayo at
naibilad na namin mga unan at mga kutson
katulad kay anti, alone
gaganda nyo
hello! everyone! order now!
naglaga ng karne na may mais
wrong or not without fearing
at hindi na awkward
maaraw naman thanks
fearing your reprisals
cheap na lighter na lang
palit ng kurtina yung sa sala, kulay cream at blue
sana wala nang ulan
better daw na wala munang kontak kay
dadalhan ka ng sabaw
looking at some albums
hear a sincere apology, no ifs and buts
what size candles?
blue na bulaklakin
kasi mamaya tulog na din
tapos na kami ni dad
kidz kit 2, enfagrow at enfakid, absolute
naku nag-iisa ka pala
ingat sa pag-uwi
P—
Huwag ka sanang maasar pero paano kung mas mabuti na nga ang ganiyan, diyan, kung saan wala nang magsasabi sa iyo na alam niya ang iyong pinagdaraanan. Mga nagmamarunong na hindi na nagsawa, mga iritadong walang perlas. Paano mo sila pinaalalahan? Banayad ka bang nagsalita, o nag-inom na lamang kung saan, nag-confide kung kanino, nagtimpi?
Wala na ang mga bubulong tungkol sa estado mo, sa kung sinong ama, at kung nasaan, kung kanino. Sabay ngiti, beso-beso. Wala nang mang-iinsulto sa iyo, pabalang, habang kalong-kalong niya ang iyong anak. Dahil estupida ka, anak mo lamang ang sadya, hello, gaga. Et, sa, pwe, ra.
Wala nang manunumbat dahil nasingil na sa iyo ang lahat nang maaaring singilin.
Sa amin na lamang itong daigdig at anumang nais nitong palabasin. Itong daigdig naming mga nagmamaangmaangan at pumapagitna. O tatanggapin mo bang muli ang lahat nang ito, kapalit ng iyong kung saan?
Wala na ang mga bubulong tungkol sa estado mo, sa kung sinong ama, at kung nasaan, kung kanino. Sabay ngiti, beso-beso. Wala nang mang-iinsulto sa iyo, pabalang, habang kalong-kalong niya ang iyong anak. Dahil estupida ka, anak mo lamang ang sadya, hello, gaga. Et, sa, pwe, ra.
Wala nang manunumbat dahil nasingil na sa iyo ang lahat nang maaaring singilin.
Sa amin na lamang itong daigdig at anumang nais nitong palabasin. Itong daigdig naming mga nagmamaangmaangan at pumapagitna. O tatanggapin mo bang muli ang lahat nang ito, kapalit ng iyong kung saan?
Nob 22, 2012
2 Taong Gulang
Kailangan kang bilog
bilang ulo o kataga
at anumang ukol sa iyo'y
iyong palilibutan lamang
ng mga buwitreng sanggol
mga halina ng halika ng
kung ilang bukas pa bukas
kung sa diksyunaryong ano o
sa bibliya ba aba
ililigpit ang unang gupit ng
iyong buhok ay halaga
ng hindi saan ka magmumula
ni saan ka nagtungo kundi
kung ilan at alin
ang iyong pupunitin at kum-
bakit ka hahalakhak.
bilang ulo o kataga
at anumang ukol sa iyo'y
iyong palilibutan lamang
ng mga buwitreng sanggol
mga halina ng halika ng
kung ilang bukas pa bukas
kung sa diksyunaryong ano o
sa bibliya ba aba
ililigpit ang unang gupit ng
iyong buhok ay halaga
ng hindi saan ka magmumula
ni saan ka nagtungo kundi
kung ilan at alin
ang iyong pupunitin at kum-
bakit ka hahalakhak.
Nob 21, 2012
Kamatayan ang Pagkilo ng Kalsada
ni Fernando Pessoa
aking salin
Kamatayan ang pagkilo ng kalsada, at ang mamatay
Ay walang iba kundi pagkawala sa tanawin, gayon lamang.
Naririnig ko, ganitong totoo ako,
Ikaw, na nagpapatuloy sa dati.
Ang daigdig ay yari sa langit.
May mga pugad ang mga kasinungalingan? Hindi.
Kailanma'y wala pang nawawala.
Ang lahat ay katotohanan at landas.
aking salin
Kamatayan ang pagkilo ng kalsada, at ang mamatay
Ay walang iba kundi pagkawala sa tanawin, gayon lamang.
Naririnig ko, ganitong totoo ako,
Ikaw, na nagpapatuloy sa dati.
Ang daigdig ay yari sa langit.
May mga pugad ang mga kasinungalingan? Hindi.
Kailanma'y wala pang nawawala.
Ang lahat ay katotohanan at landas.
Nob 19, 2012
Mula sa Nouvelles en trois lignes
ni Félix Fénéon
aking salin
Dala ng layuning masaliksik ang epekto ng mga daloy sa sardinas, isang ekspedisyong oseanograpiko ang naglayag mula sa Bordeaux lulan ng Andrée.
aking salin
Dala ng layuning masaliksik ang epekto ng mga daloy sa sardinas, isang ekspedisyong oseanograpiko ang naglayag mula sa Bordeaux lulan ng Andrée.
And by no man, these verses
cAnto
Pound
archive hOme newsletters my
Up
& amp; Ndash; login poetry
calleD
(versiOn
Flash
Free
"transparent"); so.addparam("aLlowscriptaccess",
"Ezra
Sorry
copyrigHt
I generated this mesostomatic by using an online program on Pound's Canto XLIX, or, more specifically, a particular webpage that displays the poem along with a bibliographical note on Ezra Pound.
What was my involvement? I inputted the choice of poem, which webpage to use. Aside from this seed text, I also thought of what spine to put in, and after many tries, I came upon a possible (perhaps petty) application of Shakespeare upon Ezra's name (A Pound of Flesh). The computer generated ten possibilities (and though I was aware that you could mix and match the generated lines to come up with permutations, I saw that one of the ten was the best for me and immediately extracted it).
I decided to cut the four parts ("A" "POUND" "OF" "FLESH") into couplets ("A" "PO" "UN" "DO" "FF" "LE" "SH"). While playing around with the program, I wanted to use Pound not only out of (an unrequited) love for his Pisan Cantos, but because Pound was himself a heavy "borrower," credited (Wikily) for opening up "American poetry to diverse influences, including the traditional poetries of China and Japan." I chose this particular canto because I read those "traditional poetries" in here, and also because it was one of the few cantos available online. (That's convenient! Convenient too that XLIX leads with a telling line "For the seven lakes, and by no man these verses" which echoes this project).
I picked this particular mesostomatic product from among the other results because of the "meta," almost every couplet reflecting (like seven lakes) the project of mesostics and mesostomatics. Let's look at this per line to see how that works out.
The article "A" became "cAnto" which was just fitting, almost a title, very much an assertion of the poem as an identity (as Pound's own cantos likewise asserted their structure against Dante's). "Pound" then becomes byline, but also the unit of measure, and most happily a verb acting upon "archive hOme newsletters my". And what pleasure too that this O homed in on "hOme," for this was where the action was (along with "archive" and "newsletters"), where I was doing my work, and it was also a driving question in deliberating Pound as a biography: which, in the end, was home to him? Italy or the States? Or must we resort to a formula, the true man "of letters" resides nowhere else, nowhere outside "his verses".
However: "my"? Strictly speaking, these words ("hOme," archive," and "newsletters"), do not belong to Pound (if any word could be said to "belong" to him), nor to myself, despite all my choosing. If anything, they belong to the website, to the usual language of links and headings. Thus, we've multiplied possibilities for appreciating these serendipitous intersections.
The next couplet furthers this insight. In my mind, "Up/ & amp;Ndash" follow "Pound" as verb, but this velocity could also be taken as reflective upon the reader, the computer, and the "writer".
Originally, I intended "calleD// (versiOn" as a couplet for symmetric and metapoetic reasons. However, the copy-paste process somehow wouldn't allow them to stick together no matter what program I used (Word, Notepad, Rich Text, this text field). I decided they're better off that way: separate. I charged it too to the roll of the dice, and even in this casting, I found myself lucky: for "calleD" thus abstracted from "versiOn" somehow gravitates toward "poetry," especially "login poetry" and has for me the sense of the word calling as an oracular or gospel notion (many are called, few are chosen) that resonate, again with the project. "Flash/ Free" that's how this whole thing feels, not only the luck of the draw, but also this writing about the luck of the draw (using the luck of the draw).
I hear the spine word "FLESH" out of "Flash," which is a plus because this Shakespearean transgression is the "spinal" metaphor anyway: Pound's "Flesh" on the scales, along with ours, and the poetries involved, and chance itself.
More machinespeak in "transparent"); so.addparam("aLlowscriptaccess"," yes, but also the ideas of transparency (the poem/s, the lakes, this essay vis-a-vis Pound's obscurities and conceits), along with the parameters (of this project, of Pound's, Dante's as well, perhaps Shakespeare's) making clear through "aLlowscriptaccess" the dream and aleatory processes that inform all literature, and how some literature (such as this and Cage's, MacLow's) seek to emphasize how such unreadable things come into play in all human compositions.
"Ezra// Sorry/ copyrigHt" sealed the deal for me. When I saw the computer apologizing, I said hey, this is "my" poem! I hope you find it "yours" as well.
Nob 16, 2012
[Might]
Robert Kennedy:
“Our brave young men are
dying in the swamps of Southeast Asia.
Which of them might have
[killed someone who might have]
written a poem?
Which of them might have [killed
someone who might have] cured
cancer? Which of them might have
[killed someone who might have] played in
a World Series or given us the gift of
laughter from the stage or
helped build a bridge or
a university? Which of them would have taught
[someone to kill someone who might have taught]
a child to read?
It is our responsibility to let these men live...
It is indecent if they die
[killing]
because of the empty
vanity of their country.”
“Our brave young men are
dying in the swamps of Southeast Asia.
Which of them might have
[killed someone who might have]
written a poem?
Which of them might have [killed
someone who might have] cured
cancer? Which of them might have
[killed someone who might have] played in
a World Series or given us the gift of
laughter from the stage or
helped build a bridge or
a university? Which of them would have taught
[someone to kill someone who might have taught]
a child to read?
It is our responsibility to let these men live...
It is indecent if they die
[killing]
because of the empty
vanity of their country.”
Sipi mula sa isang palitan hinggil sa "Freeze"
—O! Nabawasan pa si "Pride and Joy," bakit kaya hmm? Kung heto kayang "Freeze" ang ipinabasa ko, mas matatanggap kaya ninyo si Etgar Keret? Ayaw ko sanang ipabasa kasi baka sabihin ninyo censored.
—
—parang may ganoong eksena rin sa invention of lying, yung may sinabihan siyang 'end of the world'
—
—done. see you later. masaya ang 1st slide ng powerpoint
—
—natuwa ako na naroon ang kanyang nanay, at na nasira nito yung diskarte niya. sa palagay ko tagisan ito ng kagustuhan nating maimpluwensyahan o makontrol ang ating kapwa vs. magustuhan nila tayo (o lumapit sila sa atin) para sa ating mga angking katangian (ganda, husay, atbp). mula rito lumalabas ang dalawang nosyong ideyal ng pag-ibig, sa isa dapat "todo effort" at sa kabilang banda dapat "effortless". palagay ko may pagkakapares ang pagkakayari nung huling mga pangungusap sa "the laugher".
—
—palagay mo?
—
—will be glad to hear your thoughts. good night!
—
—parang may ganoong eksena rin sa invention of lying, yung may sinabihan siyang 'end of the world'
—
—done. see you later. masaya ang 1st slide ng powerpoint
—
—natuwa ako na naroon ang kanyang nanay, at na nasira nito yung diskarte niya. sa palagay ko tagisan ito ng kagustuhan nating maimpluwensyahan o makontrol ang ating kapwa vs. magustuhan nila tayo (o lumapit sila sa atin) para sa ating mga angking katangian (ganda, husay, atbp). mula rito lumalabas ang dalawang nosyong ideyal ng pag-ibig, sa isa dapat "todo effort" at sa kabilang banda dapat "effortless". palagay ko may pagkakapares ang pagkakayari nung huling mga pangungusap sa "the laugher".
—
—palagay mo?
—
—will be glad to hear your thoughts. good night!
Nob 11, 2012
Mga Pagninilay-nilay Hinggil sa Kasalanan, Pasakit, Pag-asa, at ang Tunay na Landas #1
ni Franz Kafka
aking salin
Naglalandas ang tunay na daan sa isang batak na lubid na hindi naman kataasan ang pagkakalagay, kung tutuusi'y halos angat lamang ito nang kaunti sa lupa. Mukhang mas ginawa pa ito para matisod ang mga tao kaysa upang lakaran.
aking salin
Naglalandas ang tunay na daan sa isang batak na lubid na hindi naman kataasan ang pagkakalagay, kung tutuusi'y halos angat lamang ito nang kaunti sa lupa. Mukhang mas ginawa pa ito para matisod ang mga tao kaysa upang lakaran.
Eleven Eleven Twelve
SR. SOL— Of two things which would you choose: poor advice followed by silence or poor advice followed by talk?
ANATH— Words, Sr. Always words.
SR. SOL— With words the counselor would possess the means to justify himself.
ANATH— With silence the counselor would retain the desire to justify himself as well as the means to poison me — the badly counselled, my children on the line — with wonder.
SR. SOL— With reports the counselor could take your time, distract your ideas, provide more poorly chosen words.
ANATH— With silence I suffer the loss of energy, the indigestion of dreams, the amplification of the weight of the original ill-intentioned word.
SR. SOL— Would you rather I say sorry?
ANATH— What curious red bird is this, in the middle of a smoky garden, asking for bad advice in bad taste?
SR.SOL— This conversation! If you're looking for bad taste, listen to yourself, come on!
ANATH— What I want is for you to stand yourself on your head, butt against the wall, feet in the air, Sr. Cry in said position.
SR.SOL— Honestly—
ANATH— That your hair may also, for once, weep.
SR.SOL— Should I record? Must I upload video?
ANATH— I must never know because your contrite heart means nothing to me. The rug on the children's clinic means more to me, I nod gravely, it bids welcome.
SR.SOL— But I was certain! I even asked around. There was no malice—
ANATH— All certainty is malice, had you entertained doubt, doubt would have been amused.
SR.SOL— You will not have any evidence.
ANATH— Please forgive me for coming to you with the lungs of my daughters, asking for intelligence. Wearing my shoes on your carpet.
SR.SOL— I was really busy that day, you know. But very well, okay. Life wants to go on—
ANATH— Yes, Sr., it e-mailed me—
SR.SOL— But I don't forget easy! I live and breathe grudges, that's what you should keep in mind about me. That, and my general brilliance.
ANATH— Words, Sr. Always words.
SR. SOL— With words the counselor would possess the means to justify himself.
ANATH— With silence the counselor would retain the desire to justify himself as well as the means to poison me — the badly counselled, my children on the line — with wonder.
SR. SOL— With reports the counselor could take your time, distract your ideas, provide more poorly chosen words.
ANATH— With silence I suffer the loss of energy, the indigestion of dreams, the amplification of the weight of the original ill-intentioned word.
SR. SOL— Would you rather I say sorry?
ANATH— What curious red bird is this, in the middle of a smoky garden, asking for bad advice in bad taste?
SR.SOL— This conversation! If you're looking for bad taste, listen to yourself, come on!
ANATH— What I want is for you to stand yourself on your head, butt against the wall, feet in the air, Sr. Cry in said position.
SR.SOL— Honestly—
ANATH— That your hair may also, for once, weep.
SR.SOL— Should I record? Must I upload video?
ANATH— I must never know because your contrite heart means nothing to me. The rug on the children's clinic means more to me, I nod gravely, it bids welcome.
SR.SOL— But I was certain! I even asked around. There was no malice—
ANATH— All certainty is malice, had you entertained doubt, doubt would have been amused.
SR.SOL— You will not have any evidence.
ANATH— Please forgive me for coming to you with the lungs of my daughters, asking for intelligence. Wearing my shoes on your carpet.
SR.SOL— I was really busy that day, you know. But very well, okay. Life wants to go on—
ANATH— Yes, Sr., it e-mailed me—
SR.SOL— But I don't forget easy! I live and breathe grudges, that's what you should keep in mind about me. That, and my general brilliance.
Nob 10, 2012
Sample Exploratory
What is?
What group of belongs to our scope of?
Are concerned only with the or other young?
Are concerned about the involved in suicidal
or only on the itself?
Are going to include the of other type of or only our?
What is the?
What are the possible of this?
What runs through the of a suicidal
before doing the?
What are the
of different of a in the of among young?
What are the of the increasing of of?
Is financial is one of the?
Can the academic of cause?
Is the emotional of a included?
What are the if
among young persist?
What should do to arrive at a suitable?
Do intend to fully stop on young?
Do want to familiarize about the
of the different of the
Suggested of
will help if make feel all their
and loves?
Will help if established in their
that there are so many
that may experience in our
especially in the
help encourage to have in our Almighty
and always ask if have a?
Will help if launch some regarding the
and enlighten their
on what will happen if commit?
How does each fit our?
Which among our is the most feasible to do?
of the best
In what way can establish the best for the?
What will be some of the assessment
that can do?
What group of belongs to our scope of?
Are concerned only with the or other young?
Are concerned about the involved in suicidal
or only on the itself?
Are going to include the of other type of or only our?
What is the?
What are the possible of this?
What runs through the of a suicidal
before doing the?
What are the
of different of a in the of among young?
What are the of the increasing of of?
Is financial is one of the?
Can the academic of cause?
Is the emotional of a included?
What are the if
among young persist?
What should do to arrive at a suitable?
Do intend to fully stop on young?
Do want to familiarize about the
of the different of the
Suggested of
will help if make feel all their
and loves?
Will help if established in their
that there are so many
that may experience in our
especially in the
help encourage to have in our Almighty
and always ask if have a?
Will help if launch some regarding the
and enlighten their
on what will happen if commit?
How does each fit our?
Which among our is the most feasible to do?
of the best
In what way can establish the best for the?
What will be some of the assessment
that can do?
Nob 8, 2012
An "Incident" Thread
—
—
AN— how nicely you put it. baraka's poem reminds me of a borges capsule story: "the witness". the killer and victim (and the witness) collapse into each other, their verbs and pronouns and viewpoints intermingling. they are all of one face. the killer is lost too, somehow dead too, or dead to language (we have no word) and not merely missing but made (by the poem) into a void
—
AN— and the poem is peppered with all these empty spaces, gaps in our knowledge, gaps maybe also in our desire to know? our capacity to know? and our willingness to respond?
—
DE— It's truly like those two characters of the earlier "Incident" (with a tongue and a word between them) have grown into these adults (with no word and just the bullet between them)
—
—
DE— I'm playing with the idea that the murderer and the murdered are so intertwined that they are almost two halves of a suicide, stewed in a common anonymity. The incident as a scandal is intriguing. Especially with all that (yes scandalous) repetition redundantly referring to elusive facts, blurred silhouettes. They appear too insignificant to be named, and that's a scandal in itself. It's also about being so much scandal out there that it might all amount to no scandal. Maybe the poem is also about how we are exposed to these newspaper(ed) deaths but can't absorb them all, can't feel for much of them, yet we retain traces that nibble at our nerves, replace these frayed ends with blind spots, numbnesses. That is, unless we try Baraka's path, which is to put our finger over these "slain universes" write over it the line "We have no word". Which are still words, and is much better (as hope and thought and affirmation goes) than truly having nothing to say about a man found killed, the killer lost to the wind.
—
AN— that's just too depressing. but it's true. poetry and art must be in the forefront of various efforts to "re-sensitize" us. but who wants vulnerability to all that hurt?! vicarious or not!
—
AN— will it change us? yes, i believe. and i am reminded of sylvia plath (and her son) by "vulnerability to all that hurt"
—
—
DE— This must be what was referred to, earlier: "El Testigo" by Jorge Luis Borges. Maybe not in this story, but in others, Borges plays with the theme that the killer and the killed share destiny so intensely that they are like brothers or lovers or shadows of each other. So also in this poem of Baraka where the killed man is also dark of soul.
THE WITNESS
In a stable lying almost in the shadow of the new stone church, a man with gray eyes and a gray beard, stretched on the ground amidst the animal odors, meekly seeks death like someone seeking sleep. The day, faithful to vast secret laws, continuously displaces and confounds the shadows in the wretched stable. Outside stretch the tilled fields, a deep ditch filled up with dead leaves, and the tracks of a wolf in the black mud where the woods begin. The man sleeps and dreams, forgotten. The bells calling to prayer awake him. In the kingdoms of England, the sound of the bells is already one of the customs of the afternoon, but the man, while still a boy, had seen the face of Woden, had seen holy dread and exultation, had seen the rude wooden idol weighed down with Roman coins and heavy vestments, seen the sacrifice of horses, dogs, and prisoners. Before dawn he would be dead and with him would die, never to return, the last firsthand images of the pagan rites. The world would be poorer when this Saxon was no more.
We may well be astonished by space-filling acts which come to an end when someone dies, and yet something, or an infinite number of things, die in each death—unless there is a universal memory, as the theosophists have conjectured. There was a day in time when the last eyes to see Christ were closed forever. The battle of Junín and the love of Helen died with the death of some one man. What will die with me when I die? What pathetic or frail form will the world lose? Perhaps the voice of Macedonio Fernandez, the image of a horse in the vacant space at Serrano and Charcas, a bar of sulfur in the drawer of a mahogany desk?
—
AN— you beat me to it. all the same, i'm glad that "the witness" is here alongside "incident" to testify, show us how much pain we've consigned to oblivion, challenge the limits of our consciousness and compassion and how this can be proven by our language and our use of language
—
—
AN— baraka's first curtailed "shot" is interesting. we're used to it as a transitive verb, but here it becomes intransitive, and whoever follows "shot at" erased even before the bullet gets there. by the time we get to this "shot" you mention, we have no idea who's who, who's behind the gun, who fell before it
—
—
DE— Thank you for noticing!
—
AN— the confusion overwhelms, but it is sharpened somehow, by baraka, like a knife's edge
—
AN— never ends. perhaps we put up with it because we can't keep on feeling it
—
—
AN— how nicely you put it. baraka's poem reminds me of a borges capsule story: "the witness". the killer and victim (and the witness) collapse into each other, their verbs and pronouns and viewpoints intermingling. they are all of one face. the killer is lost too, somehow dead too, or dead to language (we have no word) and not merely missing but made (by the poem) into a void
—
AN— and the poem is peppered with all these empty spaces, gaps in our knowledge, gaps maybe also in our desire to know? our capacity to know? and our willingness to respond?
—
DE— It's truly like those two characters of the earlier "Incident" (with a tongue and a word between them) have grown into these adults (with no word and just the bullet between them)
—
—
DE— I'm playing with the idea that the murderer and the murdered are so intertwined that they are almost two halves of a suicide, stewed in a common anonymity. The incident as a scandal is intriguing. Especially with all that (yes scandalous) repetition redundantly referring to elusive facts, blurred silhouettes. They appear too insignificant to be named, and that's a scandal in itself. It's also about being so much scandal out there that it might all amount to no scandal. Maybe the poem is also about how we are exposed to these newspaper(ed) deaths but can't absorb them all, can't feel for much of them, yet we retain traces that nibble at our nerves, replace these frayed ends with blind spots, numbnesses. That is, unless we try Baraka's path, which is to put our finger over these "slain universes" write over it the line "We have no word". Which are still words, and is much better (as hope and thought and affirmation goes) than truly having nothing to say about a man found killed, the killer lost to the wind.
—
AN— that's just too depressing. but it's true. poetry and art must be in the forefront of various efforts to "re-sensitize" us. but who wants vulnerability to all that hurt?! vicarious or not!
—
AN— will it change us? yes, i believe. and i am reminded of sylvia plath (and her son) by "vulnerability to all that hurt"
—
—
DE— This must be what was referred to, earlier: "El Testigo" by Jorge Luis Borges. Maybe not in this story, but in others, Borges plays with the theme that the killer and the killed share destiny so intensely that they are like brothers or lovers or shadows of each other. So also in this poem of Baraka where the killed man is also dark of soul.
THE WITNESS
In a stable lying almost in the shadow of the new stone church, a man with gray eyes and a gray beard, stretched on the ground amidst the animal odors, meekly seeks death like someone seeking sleep. The day, faithful to vast secret laws, continuously displaces and confounds the shadows in the wretched stable. Outside stretch the tilled fields, a deep ditch filled up with dead leaves, and the tracks of a wolf in the black mud where the woods begin. The man sleeps and dreams, forgotten. The bells calling to prayer awake him. In the kingdoms of England, the sound of the bells is already one of the customs of the afternoon, but the man, while still a boy, had seen the face of Woden, had seen holy dread and exultation, had seen the rude wooden idol weighed down with Roman coins and heavy vestments, seen the sacrifice of horses, dogs, and prisoners. Before dawn he would be dead and with him would die, never to return, the last firsthand images of the pagan rites. The world would be poorer when this Saxon was no more.
We may well be astonished by space-filling acts which come to an end when someone dies, and yet something, or an infinite number of things, die in each death—unless there is a universal memory, as the theosophists have conjectured. There was a day in time when the last eyes to see Christ were closed forever. The battle of Junín and the love of Helen died with the death of some one man. What will die with me when I die? What pathetic or frail form will the world lose? Perhaps the voice of Macedonio Fernandez, the image of a horse in the vacant space at Serrano and Charcas, a bar of sulfur in the drawer of a mahogany desk?
—
AN— you beat me to it. all the same, i'm glad that "the witness" is here alongside "incident" to testify, show us how much pain we've consigned to oblivion, challenge the limits of our consciousness and compassion and how this can be proven by our language and our use of language
—
—
AN— baraka's first curtailed "shot" is interesting. we're used to it as a transitive verb, but here it becomes intransitive, and whoever follows "shot at" erased even before the bullet gets there. by the time we get to this "shot" you mention, we have no idea who's who, who's behind the gun, who fell before it
—
—
DE— Thank you for noticing!
—
AN— the confusion overwhelms, but it is sharpened somehow, by baraka, like a knife's edge
—
AN— never ends. perhaps we put up with it because we can't keep on feeling it
—
Nob 4, 2012
Sipi mula sa talaarawan
ni Witold Gombrowicz
aking salin
Naglalakad ako sa Plaza Sarmiento isang bughaw na dapit-hapon. Kakaiba bilang banyaga sa kanila. Sa huli, sa pamamagitan nila, nagiging estranghero ako sa aking sarili: dito iginagala ko ang aking sarili sa paligid ng Goya na tila isang taong hindi ko kilala. Itinatayo ko siya sa isang sulok, pinapaupo siya sa isang silya sa kapihan. Inuutusan ko siyang makipagpalitan ng mga walang katuturang salita sa isang nakasalubong na kausap at pinakikinggan ang aking boses.
aking salin
Naglalakad ako sa Plaza Sarmiento isang bughaw na dapit-hapon. Kakaiba bilang banyaga sa kanila. Sa huli, sa pamamagitan nila, nagiging estranghero ako sa aking sarili: dito iginagala ko ang aking sarili sa paligid ng Goya na tila isang taong hindi ko kilala. Itinatayo ko siya sa isang sulok, pinapaupo siya sa isang silya sa kapihan. Inuutusan ko siyang makipagpalitan ng mga walang katuturang salita sa isang nakasalubong na kausap at pinakikinggan ang aking boses.
Nob 3, 2012
The Ax
My daughter wanted the story, but not the Fee-fi-fo-fum parts. What she cared less for was the logging scene. I gave her a pair of scissors, told her where to cut the book. As it was bedtime, I read very, very slowly.
Jack lives with his mother in a cottage. They are very poor.
They have a cow called Milky White.
She gives delicious milk, which they sell at the market.
One day Milky White gives no milk and they have to sell her.
End.
My daughter asked Where had all the beans gone? Social realism, I said. Can't we have the beans back they touch sky those bright eggs?
Here's the cow, I said, live with it!
I kissed her brow a light kiss. We shut her eyes good night.
Jack lives with his mother in a cottage. They are very poor.
They have a cow called Milky White.
She gives delicious milk, which they sell at the market.
One day Milky White gives no milk and they have to sell her.
End.
My daughter asked Where had all the beans gone? Social realism, I said. Can't we have the beans back they touch sky those bright eggs?
Here's the cow, I said, live with it!
I kissed her brow a light kiss. We shut her eyes good night.
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