September 22, 2012

Katie Kingston

PRIMARY HUE

I want to read poetry, the kind that sheds its skin
and leaves translucence lying on the back step,
or read like starlings, excited birds that chatter endlessly
above my head, shuffling through pages of juniper.
I don’t know foreign alphabets or strange insects.
I only know the flutter at the window
when the light goes out,
                        and the moth has no center,
like my mother’s dementia. I remember my neck, she says,
propping her chin in the hammock of her hands,
while I compare the color red to the color red,
trace the burgundy lines of tallow waxed to the kitchen table,
read about medieval castles, their maroon tapestries
strung from doorposts.
                        I can read all the parts of red.
It starts with an open vein and ends in the Sangre de Cristo range
streaked with pale pink, burgundy, maroon, berry-berry,
classic red, double mocha until I think I am describing lipstick,
and choose process narration. I paint my mother’s nails
and her lips to match,
                        dip the brush in pink coral and stroke
its tiny bristles over her thumbnail, twist the tube marked rose
and stroke her upper lip. I don’t conceal anything,
just keep on stroking until I get cause and effect,
until the color of wine tints my memory, until the starling moth
clings to the night shade,
                        until nothing but red frames the blue opal
of her necklace, and the owl picks up the snake skins,
one by one, wings them away, and I am left
with a familiar alphabet stringing the margin,
the tenacious feet of frail insects clutching the screen.

from Rattle #23, Summer 2005

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August 9, 2012

Diana M. Raab

THE SEARCH FOR HAPPINESS

On the scrolls
of the twelve step program
is the assignment for daily affirmations
and mine today

is the decision to be happy,
as I wonder if this
is a conscious decision
within the realm of our abilities.

Whatever happens on our earth,
good or bad, is based on
the quest for happiness.
So why don’t we go after it

like a spear into the back of a whale,
why do we sit back
and weep in sadness.
Is it that the hunt for joy

makes it interesting?
This morning poses
so many questions
and even glances

into the depths of my ocean
do not provide answers.
I want to be happy but
linger in oblivion

as to what brings it on,
and I think back
to my publicist’s question
to reflect upon the previous year

and my happiest moments
as clues to future joys.
While sucking my right thumb
I realize my happiest moments

are when being stroked
and loved and cared for,
as I sit alone and lonely
craving all that is gone.

from Rattle #36, Winter 2011
Tribute to Buddhist Poets

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July 29, 2012

Bruce McBirney

MIDNIGHT

She lived with us for nearly eighteen years,
the quiet cat—the only one we had
who never sprayed outside the litter box,
or drank out of the sink, or clawed the sheers
behind the curtains. Others got a “Bad!”
or “Good cat!” She just got her share of lox
and cat treats, but remained (most times at least)
below the radar, cuddling with a kid
at night or sunning outside on the deck.
The kids grew up. Our long-haired panther beast
with yellow eyes grew old. She often hid
in closets, under beds or, what the heck,
behind the TV—any place unseen
for napping undisturbed. She outlived all
her peers, accepting newcomers who came
to take each place, a quiet feline queen.
In slow degrees her health began to fall,
kidney disease, her rear legs getting lame.
One night she came, I thought, to say goodbye,
staying the night up on our bed, though that
was not her custom. Then she disappeared
for two, three days, preferring just to lie
beneath a bed deep in the darkness, flat
beside the wall, not eating much. We feared
this was her time to yield to fate and reason.
And yet she didn’t. Protests not availing,
we hauled her out to take her to the vet,
and nursed her back to life another season.
This she accepted gratefully—no wailing
at shots of fluids twice a day to get
her urine flowing, which we learned to give
with sterile needles, tubes, and IV bags;
the special diet; anti-phosphate powder.
A bond was forged from how she wished to live.
Each room had special bedding, towels and rags
laid out for her with care. Her voice got louder
(or better noticed now) and called hello
whenever we came in her field of view.
Each night she scaled our bed and licked our faces
till they were raw and gently we laughed, “No!”
She liked when we forgot that bills were due
and took her outside into sunny places.
She’d been our kitten; now she was an elder
who nudged our palms to stroke her head and back
or draped her paw on hand with purring charms.
She best liked when we picked her up and held her
as breath came harder, energy a lack.
She died last night. I held her in my arms.
I’m generally reserved, avoid what sounds
dramatic (though my wife’s a saintly nut
for anything with feathers, fur or scales).
I don’t like maudlin odes for hunting hounds
who help the writer blast things in the gut.
But if there is a God who never fails
to save what’s beautiful from death and strife,
I put it to you—which has more a soul:
a creature grateful for a sip of water,
showering affection for a day of life?
Or bored and jaded men out to control
more land, more wives, more wealth?
Godspeed, dear daughter.

from Rattle #36, Winter 2011

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July 28, 2012

Charles Manis

FLU SEASON AND A LIVING WILL

 
I.

I have a scratch in my throat—they say that’s the first sign.

Or the flutter of the sphincter, the sweat that smells of green onion,
singed cuticle, shed eyelashes.

I climb up the stone stairs from my apartment
and my nostrils blister dry, the wind flinging ice in my eyes.

I wake to frost each morning. I wake
to my rattling radiator. It dry heaves tepid air. My cinder block walls
ice my apartment—I open my books with a pick.

My mother’s living will names me “executioner,”
she and my sisters joke. I have forsaken scarves and gloves, hot tea and soup.

I walk in the traffic-grey slush alongside the road and it soaks me to my knees.

 
II.

The motherfuckers don’t wash their hands, is the problem.
Shit-stained doorknobs and jism-stroked water fountains, is the problem.
Snot wiped on the bottoms of tables and spit-palmed handshakes.

Twice a week they fuck a stranger in the shower
and neglect to brush their teeth.

I am sick of your breath in the corridors.
I am sick of your hot crotches and beating eyelashes in the waiting rooms.
I am sick of your yellow-fungused tongue and your marbled skin.

Here comes our staph infection, our pink eye, our strep throat.
Here comes our cancer, growing on its platter.
My stomach strains for bile.

 
III.

All my loved ones have white blood cells gnawing on their ligament.
They are all chemically imbalanced. Their veins crumble. Their skins spot.

Let me rave with you.

This year I give up green vegetables,
eat gizzards fried in a high-walled cast iron skillet over my open mouth.

I eat tubers besotted with yellow clay.

My dozen sisters make for me wreaths of fingernails, a sand box full of my dry skin.
They bless me with fine ornaments.

They would like to know my medical history.
They scold me for the lumps I never told them I had, mark each aberration with red ink.

They would like a scalpel now.
We will take another glass of wine, the one with the poppy aftertaste.

Let me prod the oak carcass smoldering in the fireplace.
I steal another log from the spiders.

 
IV.

By February everybody coughs up bricks of ice.
They scrape the frozen spit from the corners of their mouths.

There is a four-inch heel frozen in a pothole gritty with exhaust and gravel.
I chop the whole block free with my squared palm and carry it home,
where it stays frozen on my mantle.
I sleep with my feet uncovered and wait for a chill to take hold of me.

I would cough up blood.
I would beat my swollen hands against these perforated walls.
I would eat through the connective tissue that holds my muscle in the shapes that pump blood.

Let my marrow ravage me until I can’t walk, until I must crawl on my elbows, drag my ribs,
worm my way to the hospital bed, and I would still pull the plug,
but I would do it from the floor—I would do it choked on mucus.

 
V.

I’ll pull your plug too, Darling. Tell me where and when.

This is what I can do for you.
I believe in your right to die.

This is love, say my dozen sisters.
This is love, croons a stray dog in the long-frozen yard.

Where is my black hood? Where is my piano wire?
It is my deep love for you—the way it cuts my hands and your chafed throat.

from Rattle #36, Winter 2011

__________

Charles Manis: “My first semester in college, I crowded into an auditorium full of students, faculty, and various other folks around town who had come to hear Charles Simic read. After we filled up the seats and the floor, a line formed through the doors and into the hall outside the auditorium. That night I walked back to my dorm trying to hold onto lines that Simic had read to us, and the next semester I enrolled in my first courses in writing and reading poetry. I hope only to write something that somebody will want to remember.”

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June 2, 2012

Dick Allen

KNOCK ON THE SKY AND LISTEN TO THE SOUND:
ON ZEN BUDDHISM & POETRY

1

The bear went over the mountain,
The bear went over the mountain,
The bear went over the mountain
       To see what he could see

       To see what he could see,
       To see what he could see.

The other side of the mountain,
The other side of the mountain,
The other side of the mountain
       Was all that he could see.

       Was all that he could see,
       Was all that he could see,
The other side of the mountain,
       Was all that he could see!
             —Author Unknown

2

I’m fourteen, just having crossed a sunlit meadow in upstate New York. Now, I’m climbing down a gully to the shallow Kayaderosseras Creek below.

I pause.

Not my feet, but everything else shifts—as if I’d been watching a slide show and someone had inserted a totally different slide than the ones I’d seen.

And I lose myself. Rather, I lose my individualistic Self.

No separate meadow. No gully. No Kayaderosseras Creek. No me. No distinctions between me and everything that a moment before was Other …

The slides abruptly shift again and I’m back. Me. Fourteen. Descending a mundane gully to a mundane creek with a Budweiser can floating in it. White pines lining the gully. A crow’s caw. Slap at a black fly trying to bite my arm.

It’s an experience had by most humans at one time or another.

3

The Numinous, or the Mysterium tremendum et fascinans (“fearful and fascinating mystery”) is the term coined by Rudolph Otto in The Idea of the Holy.

4

For now we see through a glass, darkly; but then face
to face: now I know in part; but then shall I know
even as also I am known.
       —1 Corinthians 13:12

In Buddhism, unlike in monotheistic religions, it’s not a glimpse or gaze but an immersion. There’s no glass, no other side. As Buddhists experience it, they at least for the brief period realize both Wholeness and Holiness, Yin and Yang simultaneously.

It’s the basic Buddhist and Eastern belief in Non-Dualism.

5

Literally millions and millions of poems seek to capture the unholdable experience of Mysticism. Some will compare it to the experience of “the Other,” but it’s not that. Buberians might say it’s the “I-Thou” experience, but it’s not that. William James would call it the core religious experience, as would Evelyn Underhill. Even at its most mundane, it’s the “runner’s high” when the runner enters a trance of homeostasis. Aspects of Mysticism provide the commonality shared by all religions, both East and West.

6

A first and primary characteristic of Zen Buddhist poetry is an assumption that (this is how Gerard Manley Hopkins would put it) “The world is charged with the grandeur of God,” only in this case it’s not the Western Civilization monotheistic God but the Eastern and Buddhist way of using “God” to mean “All” or “holiness” or “Numinous” pervading everything, including what we blindly think of as our individual Selves as separate from other Selves or kinds of Selves.

7

To see a World in a Grain of Sand
And a Heaven in a Wild Flower,
Hold Infinity in the palm of your hand
And Eternity in an hour.
       —William Blake from Auguries of Innocence

8

Whenever I think about the realization that it’s impossible, incredible, wondrous, unfathomable to be alive, and that no matter how hard I try I can’t hold this realization for very long, lines from T.S. Eliot’s “The Wasteland” come into my head:

Who is the third who walks always beside you?
When I count there are only you and I together.
But when I look up the white road
There is always another one walking beside you …

In his Notes to the poem, Eliot references a delusion experienced by exhausted Antarctic explorers. And most critics identify the presence of the third figure as Christ. For me, the lines evoke what Zen Buddhists would call the “True Self ” that’s always there but is also almost always unrecognized in our daily clouded lives.

9

Attempting to arrive at commonalities shared by Zen Buddhism and poetry influenced by Zen Buddhism, I’ve found these words: Wholeness or Holiness, Is-Ness, Mindfulness, Reasonlessness, Calmness, Presentness.

10

Buddhist or Buddhist-influenced or oriented poetry is the antithesis of Confessionalist Poetry, that I-stressing dominant poetic sensibility and form of the second half of the 20th Century which has continued into the first part of the 21st Century. At its best, Confessionalism illuminates the turmoils of the individual “I” as representative of other individual humans; at its worse it turns narcissistic and self-pitying, even into a kind of glorification of suffering and desire.

11

In our century, it’s important to note that the “I” used in Buddhist-oriented poems is not the Confessional “I,” but the “I” that’s more a persona, an “I” that stands for almost anyone.

12

I’m often tempted to say Mindfulness is Poetry and Poetry is Mindfulness. Still, that’s not quite true. Mindfulness—that quality of acute attention to the Now, to precisely and specifically to what one is seeing, hearing, touching, smelling, tasting, thinking, feeling right Now—is at once a technique, a purpose and a result of Poetry. It is contained within but not the main stress of types of poems such as narrative, dramatic and epic. It is, however, the main stress of lyric and meditative poetry, our century’s hugely dominant types.

13

The primary stress on Mindfulness in modern and contemporary poetry comes from Imagism, particularly as used by Ezra Pound and exemplified by his famous haiku-inspired poem, “In the Station of the Metro”:

The apparition of these faces in the crowd;
Petals on a wet black bough.

14

No ideas but in things.
       —William Carlos Williams

William Carlos Williams’ “The Red Wheelbarrow” has become equally important for modern and contemporary poetry. This tiny poem is actually a fragment from a longer poem and was given its title by others. The fragment states that “so much depends” upon a rain-water glazed wheelbarrow beside white chickens. When the conundrum the poem poses is answered or understood—that is, what is this “so much”?—the student’s face may break into a look of dawning revelation. Not a breakthrough into Satori, but close.

15

Satori. Sudden enlightenment and a state of consciousness attained by intuitive illumination representing the spiritual goal of Zen Buddhism. Rhymes with Satori: backstory, centaury, clerestory, fish story, ghost story, John Dory, Noyori, Old Glory, outlawry, self-glory, short story, sob story, vainglory, war story.
       —Merriam-Webster Online Dictionary

16

Everything depends on one’s ability to realize a thing for what it is, not to think about the red wheelbarrow, not to read the poem as symbolic, but just to see the thing itself. Ideally, if one can do this, she or he will be mindfully in the Present, desireless, at least momentarily free from suffering.

17

The main admonition given by almost all poets and poetry writing teachers in the last one hundred years: “Show, don’t tell.”

18

The entirety of Buddha’s Flower Sermon was Buddha simply holding up a flower and smiling at the assembled audience.

19

Poetry is a way of revealing the strangeness in the ordinary and the ordinary in the strange. For this, Mindfulness or acute attention is necessary.

20

From “Sandpiper” by Elizabeth Bishop:

The beach hisses like fat. On his left, a sheet
of interrupting water comes and goes
and glazes over his dark and brittle feet.
He runs, he runs straight through it, watching his toes.

Watching, rather, the spaces of sand between them
where (no detail too small) the Atlantic drains
rapidly backwards and downwards. As he runs,
he stares at the dragging grains.

21

From “Hamlen Brook,” by Richard Wilbur, in which a trout swims …

Beneath a sliding glass
Crazed by the skimming of a brush
Of burnished dragon-flies across its face
In which deep cloudlets pass
And a white precipice
Of mirrored birch trees plunges down.

22

From “Spiderweb,” by Kay Ryan:

From other
angles the
fibers look
fragile, but
not from the
spider’s always
hauling coarse
rope, hitching
lines to the
best posts
possible.

23

Acute seeing and describing is transformational. A poem, one might say, can be a locking device, catching and holding something in a certain way for all time, so that one can never look at a familiar thing the same way again.

24

Buddhism calls for this way of experiencing, also, with such famous admonitions as (before enlightenment), “Chop wood, carry water” (after enlightenment), “Chop wood, carry water.”

25

Always the specific. To do things with great attention to the smallest detail, to the sacredness of things, which is also the mark of true craft in Zen Buddhism, in poetry, and in living.

26

As for finding the Familiar in the Strange, over and over poems seek to illuminate. Marianne Moore’s “Poetry” asked for “imaginary gardens with real toads in them.” In Emily Dickinson, it’s the fly “with blue, unstumbling buzz” in the deathbed room. And what is more strange than Death.

27

In a poem we might identify as Zen Buddhist there’s forever an element of actual calm or stillness or silence. The entire poem may create such a sense, as do many haikus, and many of Arthur Waley’s great translations.

28

IN THE MOUNTAINS ON A SUMMER DAY

Gently I stir a white feather fan,
With open shirt sitting in a green wood.
I take off my cap and hang it on a jutting stone;
A wind from the pine-trees trickles on my bare head.
       —Li Po, translated by Arthur Waley

29

In Arthur Waley’s translations, which could be called versions and are sometimes regarded as poems by Waley as much as by the poet he’s translating, a part of the stillness and calm is created by the use of end\ stops, many lines being complete sentences. Enjambment is used infrequently. Such handling of lines creates a quiet painting effect, as if after each line is painted (here we are close to Asian languages’ use of calligraphy) the artist steps back, considering, before he or she adds another brushstroke line.

30

James Wright used a similar technique in “Lying in a Hammock at William Duffy’s Farm in Pine Island, Minnesota” (note how the poem’s title echoes titles of Chinese and Japanese poems and paintings). This is from that poem’s closure:

I lean back, as the evening darkens and comes on.
A chicken hawk floats over, looking for home.
I have wasted my life.

31

Slow down, you move too fast.
Got to make the morning last.
       —from “59th Street Bridge Song,” by Simon and Garfunkle

32

When I find myself in times of troubles, mother Mary comes to me,
Speaking words of wisdom, let it be.

Let it be, let it be, let it be.
Whisper words of wisdom, let it be.
       —from “Let It Be,” by The Beatles

33

The famous way of jarring a Zen Buddhist disciple, or anyone for that matter, into Satori is with a koan. The most famous one:

Two hands clap and there is a sound.
What is the sound of one hand?
       —Hakuin Ekaku

34

The “key” to “answering” a koan is to discard reason, discard all attempts to find a rational answer to the question and simply let the answer happen. For some, the answer to the koan of the one hand clap might be “Libby’s Peaches!” or “The man fell off the cliff ” or “You forgot to feed the cat.” Whatever it is, the one posing the question will immediately know if the answer is “right,” as will the person who provides the answer.

35

I am doing the impossible, trying to explain the irrational.

Which can’t be explained. But of course it can be.

36

Here is a basic assumption: As in the Book of Job and to some extent in Ecclesiastes, the Nature of the Universe is unknowable except by God (as narrowly or widely defined). There are no Absolutes, but since the saying of this is itself an Absolute, it has to be phrased differently: There both are and are not Absolutes. Yet even that can be construed as an Absolute statement, so maybe the closest we can come is There are and are not Absolutes and this statement seems to be both true and untrue.

37

The Heisenberg Uncertainty Principle (italics below are mine):

uncertainty principle, physical principle, enunciated by Werner Heisenberg in 1927, that places an absolute, theoretical limit on the combined accuracy of certain pairs of simultaneous, related measurements. The accuracy of a measurement is given by the uncertainty in the result; if the measurement is exact, the uncertainty is zero. According to the uncertainty principle, the mathematical product of the combined uncertainties of simultaneous measurements of position and momentum in a given direction cannot be less than Planck’s constant h divided by 4π. The principle also limits the accuracies of simultaneous measurements of energy and of the time required to make the energy measurement. The value of Planck’s constant is extremely small, so that the effect of the limitations imposed by the uncertainty principle are not noticeable on the large scale of ordinary measurements; however, on the scale of atoms and elementary particles the effect of the uncertainty principle is very important. Because of the uncertainties existing at this level, a picture of the submicroscopic world emerges as one of statistical probabilities rather than measurable certainties. On the large scale it is still possible to speak of causality in a framework described in terms of space and time; on the atomic scale this is not possible. Such a description would require exact measurements of such quantities as position, speed, energy, and time, and these quantities cannot be measured exactly because of the uncertainty principle. It does not limit the accuracy of single measurements, of nonsimultaneous measurements, or of simultaneous measurements of pairs of quantities other than those specifically restricted by the principle. Even so, its restrictions are sufficient to prevent scientists from being able to make absolute predictions about future states of the system being studied. The uncertainty principle has been elevated by some thinkers to the status of a philosophical principle, called the principle of indeterminacy, which has been taken by some to limit causality in general.
       —Columbia Encyclopedia

38

The medium is the message.
       —Marshall McLuhan

39

Popularized understandings of contemporary physics and quantum mechanics theories are in effect Memes which point to Non-Dualism rather than Dualism as being the basic nature of the universe. The basic tenets of the West’s three major monotheistic religions, Christianity,
Judaism and Islam, are dualistic, whereas the basic tenets of Buddhism are not.

However, the core mysticism elements in Western religions are non-dualistic.

40

The double-slit experiment, sometimes called Young’s experiment, is a demonstration that matter and energy can display characteristics of both waves and particles. In the basic version of the experiment, a coherent light source such as a laser beam illuminates a thin plate pierced by two parallel slits, and the light passing through the slits is observed on a screen behind the plate. The wave nature of light causes the light waves passing through the two slits to interfere, producing bright and dark bands on the screen—a result that would not be expected if light consisted strictly of particles. However, at the screen, the light is always found to be absorbed as though it were composed of discrete particles or photons. This establishes the principle known as wave–particle duality.
       —Wikipedia

A quote I may have somewhat disremembered from the original Hawaii Five-O, as said by Jack Lord: “That’s the Yin and Yang of it, Dann-0.

41

       E=mc2

42

From the t-shirt advertisement, “Does Schrödinger’s Cat Live?”:

Every student of physics knows that Schrödinger’s 1935 paper regarding a hypothetical paradox involving a cat has perplexed and annoyed physics geeks for years. The basic idea; If the outcome of a circumstance is presently unknown and by observing the circumstance you will disrupt it, then it exists in all possible states simultaneously … Don’t get it? We propose the following thought experiment: Give your friend enough money to purchase the “Schrödinger’s Cat” shirt (don’t forget the shipping). Tell your friend to take the money and lock himself in a room with a cigarette lighter. Let your friend know that once in the room he is to randomly choose either to burn the money, or return in five minutes with the money intact. We emphasize that this must be completely random (aka, impossible for a human to determine, but bear with us). Your friend must then stay in this box for eternity. Hey, that’s how thought experiments work. Hopefully he/she is OK with that. Since you have no idea whether your friend will destroy the money, you will simultaneously either lose or recover that money. So in a quantum sense, if you extend that logic, you will simultaneously either be able to purchase or not purchase this very t-shirt which enabled you to make the choice in the first place. Isn’t physics fun? 100% cotton heavyweight t-shirt in black with “Schrödinger’s Cat is Dead” on the front and “Schrödinger’s Cat is Not Dead” on the back …
       —ThinkGeek, Online

43

The Observer in the act of observing affects that which is being observed.

O chestnut-tree, great-rooted blossomer,
Are you the leaf, the blossom or the bole?
O body swayed to music, O brightening glance,
How can we know the dancer from the dance
       —from “Among School Children” by W.B. Yeats

44

Even though the Heisenberg Uncertainty Principle, the Double-Split Experiment and the Schrödinger’s Cat Experiment apply to microcosms and not really to macrocosms, the metaphors they provide significantly affect human consciousness concerning the Truth of Existence.

45

The Heisenberg Uncertainty Principle, the Double-Slit Experiment, and the Schrödinger’s Cat Experiment, as popularly somewhat understood, lead to the 21st Century’s increasing assumption that the basic nature of the universe is unknowable, absurd, chaotic, random, governed by chance and whim.

Or Zen.

46

Add Chaos and Complexity Theory: Edward Lorenz, Chaos Theory’s first experimenter, discovered and proved that small changes in initial conditions, such as a butterfly flapping its wings in southern Iowa, produce large changes in long term outcomes. Whether or not the butterfly flaps its wings causes, ten days later, a lightning and thunderstorm in Connecticut on a previously balmy day. Or not.

47

Chaos theory may also apply to cause and effect, or karma.

48

Chaos theory, some say, may explain the occurrences of wars.

49

There was only one catch and that was Catch-22, which specified that a concern for one’s own safety in the face of dangers that were real and immediate was the process of a rational mind. Orr was crazy and could be grounded. All he had to do was ask; and as soon as he did, he would no longer be crazy and would have to fly more missions. Orr would be crazy to fly more missions and sane if he didn’t, but if he was sane he had to fly them. If he flew them he was crazy and didn’t have to; but if he didn’t want to he was sane and had to. Yossarian was moved very deeply by the absolute simplicity of this clause of Catch-22 and let out a respectful whistle.

“That’s some catch, that Catch-22,” he observed.

“It’s the best there is,” Doc Daneeka agreed.
       —Catch-22, Joseph Heller

50

Reasonlessness is important in Buddhism. We’re not to waste our time on the unknowable and unfathomable and must just accept it. If we can get out of the way the futile struggle to rationally explain the irrational, if we can accept that the Nature of the Universe is Absurd, we might be able to deal with more manageable matters, such as how to “eliminate” suffering through the application of the Eightfold Path.

Modern and contemporary poetry written with a Buddhist-like sensibility is greatly distanced from the likes of rational satires of Alexander Pope.

51

The use of Surrealism or New Surrealism in contemporary poetry, consciously or subconsciously on the part of the poet, reflects a basic assumption about unknowability. A surrealistic effect in a poem, albeit in a minor way, leads to a dissonance in the senses, a derangement that can cause the poem’s reader to suddenly see things in a new and different way.

52

Since in New Surrealism, the assumption is that the basic Nature of the Universe is absurd, satire is directed at those who don’t believe things have changed, at those who irrationally believe the world can be explained by rational means.

53

“There is a concatenation of all events in the best of possible worlds; for, in short, had you not been kicked out of a fine castle for the love of Miss Cunegund; had you not been put into the Inquisition; had you not traveled over America on foot; had you not run the Baron through the body; and had you not lost all your sheep, which you brought from the good country of El Dorado, you would not have been here to eat preserved citrons and pistachio nuts.”

“Excellently observed,” answered Candide; “but let us cultivate our garden.”
       —Candide, by Voltaire

54

And you know something is happening
But you don’t know what it is
Do you, Mister Jones?
       —from “Ballad of a Thin Man,” Bob Dylan

55

For Western readers, something as simple as the inclusion of an exotic word or phrase from China or Japan has the effect of deranging the senses, the use of the exotic suddenly plunging the poem’s reader into an alternate reality.

T.S. Eliot ends “The Wasteland” with “Shantih shantih shantih” or, as translated, “The Peace that passeth understanding.”

56

Version 1:

       Let us gaze off into the mountains
       Where mist is rising.

Version 2:

       Let us gaze off into the Quinling Mountains
       Where mist is rising.

Version 3:

       Let us gaze off into the Adirondack Mountains
       Where mist is rising.

Why is “Version 2” so much more moving than “Version 3”?

How can the feeling of “Version 2” be rendered in a contemporary American poem?

57

Seldom remarked upon but often present is how inexpensive and convenient poetry is. You can hear it for nothing. You can carry it around in your head—or on a small piece of paper if you wish—from place to place, state to state, country to country. You can memorize it and keep it forever. At the drop of a hat, you can say it out loud for its content, for its feeling, for how the words roll around upon and drop off your tongue.

58

Flower in the crannied wall,
I pluck you out of the crannies,
I hold you here, root and all, in my hand,
Little flower—but if I could understand
What you are, root and all, and all in all,
I should know what God and man is.
      —Alfred, Lord Tennison

THE RHODORA
On being asked, whence is the flower

In May, when sea-winds pierced our solitudes,
I found the fresh Rhodora in the woods,
Spreading its leafless blooms in a damp nook,
To please the desert and the sluggish brook.
The purple petals fallen in the pool
Made the black water with their beauty gay;
Here might the red-bird come his plumes to cool,
And court the flower that cheapens his array.
Rhodora! if the sages ask thee why
This charm is wasted on the earth and sky,
Tell them, dear, that, if eyes were made for seeing,
Then beauty is its own excuse for Being;
Why thou wert there, O rival of the rose!
I never thought to ask; I never knew;
But in my simple ignorance suppose
The self-same power that brought me there, brought you.
       —Ralph Waldo Emerson

59

Orientalism and mysticism. Emerson owned an extensive library of Oriental literature in translation and was well versed in the texts and sacred writings of Hinduism (the Vedas and Upanishads), Buddhism, Confusianism, and Islam. Thoreau was introduced to Oriental religion and literature at Harvard and maintained an avid interest in Eastern spiritual lore throughout his life. Whitman’s interest in the Orient, though less formal and disciplined, was just as keen as that of Emerson and Thoreau, as is evident from even a cursory reading of Leaves of Grass. In addition to their belief in cosmic unity, in the ultimate interconnection and harmony of all things, these authors also absorbed from their Oriental sources the view that the phenomenal world—Nature—is a sort of Mayan veil which partly reveals, partly conceals, an ultimate Oneness.
       —David L. Simpson, “Transcendentalism,” Online

60

Over and over, poetry calls attention to eternal things that don’t have to be purchased, particularly things in Nature such as Wordsworthian daffodils, the Frostian deer in Frost’s “Two Look at Two,” the trout in Elizabeth Bishop’s “The Fish.”

61

Easily recognizable is how Buddhism stresses desirelessness as it seeks to mitigate Dukkha (suffering) by its Seven Noble Truths. Buddhism identifies the cause for Dukkha as desire, craving, wanting things to be different from what they are, letting ourselves be attached to things.

Buddhism is often called a philosophy of non-Attachment.

62

I got plenty of nothin’
And nothin’ plenty for me
I got no car, got no mule,
And I got no misery

Seems with plenty,
That you sure got to worry
How to keep the devil away …
       —from Porgy & Bess, by Ira Gershwin and DuBose Heyward

63

The recognitions and acceptances of Wholeness, Reasonlessness, Mindfulness, Calmness as fundamental recognitions and acceptances of things for what they are rather than what can be read into them may lead to the further recognition and acceptance of Desirelessness.

64

A reason why meditation is so stressed in Buddhism, especially in zazen, is because it encourages the practitioner to become enraptured with only the Present. In meditation, thoughts—especially thoughts of the Past and the Future—are brushed away. The more they fade the more tranquility is achieved.

65

Many aspects common to Buddhism and poetry encourage the practitioner or reader (who may be the same) to live in the Present. True Mindfulness is only possible if all one’s attention is focused on the Present, for no one can fully and truly have the experience of plum tasting, for instance, without being all-at-once here.

66

From “This Is Just to Say” by William Carlos Williams:

I have eaten
the plums
that were in
the icebox

Forgive me
they were delicious
so sweet
and so cold

67

The word “Present” contains within itself both itself as a state of time and itself as a gift.

68

To stay in the Present is in some ways like letting a Lifesaver or small hard candy dissolve in your mouth. Initially, most can do this, sucking on the sweetness. Soon, however, as the lozenge is further dissolved and diminished, the impulse to use the teeth to crunch and chew it is almost irresistible. It requires either a major effort of will to allow the lozenge to become nothing or it requires an utter Calmness, acceptance of what is, a Desirelessness.

69

When I was just out of graduate school, my wife and I bought an inexpensive limited edition of a Giacometti print. It is an utterly simple line drawing of a tall, thin figure.

Easy, I scoffed, and sat about trying to draw an equivalent on the sketchpad I’d bought for that purpose.

Hundreds of attempts later, I gave up.

I could copy, I could approximate, but I couldn’t imbue my sketches with the feeling Giacometti had bought to his.

Anyone trying to draw an ensō will likely feel the same frustration.

69

Ensō is a Japanese word meaning “circle” and a concept strongly associated with Zen. Ensō is one of the most common subjects of Japanese calligraphy even though it is a symbol and not a character. It symbolizes the Absolute, enlightenment, strength, elegance, the Universe, and the void; it can also symbolize the Japanese aesthetic itself. As an “expression of the moment” it is often considered a form of minimalist expressionist art.

In Zen Buddhist painting, ensō symbolizes a moment when the mind is free to simply let the body/spirit create. The brushed ink of the circle is usually done on silk or rice paper in one movement (but the great Bankei used two strokes sometimes) and there is no possibility of modification: it shows the expressive movement of the spirit at that time. Zen Buddhists “believe that the character of the artist is fully exposed in how she or he draws an ensō. Only a person who is mentally and spiritually complete can draw a true ensō. Some artists will practice drawing an ensō daily, as a kind of spiritual exercise.”1 Some artists paint ensō with an opening in the circle, while others complete the circle. For the former, the opening may express various ideas, for example that the ensō is not separate, but is part of something greater, or that imperfection is an essential and inherent aspect of existence (see also the idea of broken symmetry). The principle of controlling the balance of composition through asymmetry and irregularity is an important aspect of the Japanese aesthetic: Fukinsei, the denial of perfection. The ensō is also a sacred symbol in the Zen school of Buddhism, and is often used by Zen masters as a form of signature in their religious artwork.
       —Wikipedia

1 Seo, Audrey Yoshiko; Loori, John Daido (2009). Ensō: Zen Circles of Enlightenment. Weatherhill. ISBN 1-59030-608-2.

71

Those who have tried writing English language haiku, with the commonly prescribed 5-7-5 structure, will know what I’m going to say: It is quite easy to write a haiku. Follow the syllable structure. Put in a season. Use specific imagery. Include something that looks like it will be or is a sudden realization and Shazam, you’ve got it.

Haiku writing, in Japan, is a favorite exercise and even party game for many, including members of garden clubs.

In America, it’s a favorite poem writing exercise for kindergarten children.

Millions and millions and millions of haiku!

Yet almost none are the real thing.

It is this proliferation, this spawn of haikus, that I suspect is the main cause for American Zen Buddhist poetry not being taken very seriously—a case of the okay drowning out the best.

72

American haiku, tanka, and forms derived from them and similar to them have, with a few notable exceptions, always seemed to me to be faux poetry, suffering particularly from being pseudo-profound. There are too many little gasps of wonder I associate with New Agers. It is oh so meaningful. There’s an air of reverence about it which smacks of arrogant self-approval. It feels worked. It feels thought. Or if it’s felt, what’s felt, sadly, is a cliché or an easy clichéd phrase. There’s nothing really held back as there is in all genuine poetry. It’s a stab, rather than a caress. Or, alternately, there’s no zaniness to it, no crazy wisdom.

73

As I get older, the less and less interested I am in writing poems the Past, and in writing nostalgic or elegiac poems. This may be a of my Buddhism, my continual attempts to live in the Present.

74

At a poetry conference, during a workshop I’m conducting, we’re discussing what makes a poem “contemporary” and “universal.” For the former, it may be that an awareness of technology and some acknowledgement or inclusion of technology and its impact on society is necessary. For the latter, perhaps the English language poem should use rhyme/meter? But the really interesting part of the discussion comes when someone says that “universal poetry is pastoral poetry.”

Is Buddhist or Zen Buddhist poetry a kind of pastoral poetry?

75

If you take away the shepherds and the cows, is traditional Buddhist poetry, with its misty mountains, steep mountain paths, monks’ huts, single leaves floating on the river, calmness, tranquility, lack of deep desire for other than the Present (so long as there is wine and visiting friends), heavily or primarily pastoral?

76

In the end is my beginning.
       —from “The Four Quartets” by T.S. Eliot

77

IN RESPONSE TO A REQUEST TO
“EXPLAIN THE SECRET OF TEACHING”

If I explained aloud, then it wouldn’t be a true explanation,
And if I transmitted it on paper, then where would be the secret?
At a western window on a rainy autumn night
White hair in the guttering lamplight, asleep facing the bed.
       —Gido Shushin, translated by David Pollack

78

The bear went over the mountain,
The bear went over the mountain,
The bear went over the mountain
       To see what he could see

       To see what he could see,
       To see what he could see.

The other side of the mountain,
The other side of the mountain,
The other side of the mountain
       Was all that he could see.

       Was all that he could see,
       Was all that he could see,
The other side of the mountain,
       Was all that he could see!
             —Author Unknown

from Rattle #36, Winter 2011
Tribute to Buddhist Poets

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January 17, 2012

Patricia Lockwood

WHEN WE MOVE AWAY FROM HERE, YOU’LL SEE A CLEAN SQUARE OF PAPER WHERE HIS PICTURE HUNG

The oldest living cartoon character is the word “popeye.” A cartoon character works this way: it is written so many times, with minor variations, that it appears to walk, to cast a shadow, to eat green leaves. Here are the known facts:

His pants are not white, they are empty. His face is not white, it is empty. His arms are not white, they are empty. When we say “pants, face, arms” what we mean is “where the ink ends and the rest of him begins,” or, “the him that the ink contains.”

His parts are letters. Letters make up his mind, and also emerge from it. And the point where a needle touches his thought bubble to burst it is a letter also.

When he fights his number-one enemy, he undergoes a transformation: he smiles hugely, his teeth turn to rows of movable type, and then rearrange themselves to form an ultimate insult. The enemy then begins to cry, and “popeye” is the winner.

He does not eat, exactly, but the existence of bite-marks in pen-and-ink apples is enough to keep him from going hungry. “Grainy,” he often complains.

When he develops goosebumps, when he forms a knot on the head, when his legs fly apart and form a fast-moving cloud, his line suffers. When his line suffers, it is said that he is “in pain.” Whenever he is “in pain,” a doctor appears and injects him with a straight line, and he sighs with relief.

Much as gold injections are used to treat lions with arthritis.

He has never worn a mustache, because he is not capable of growing a mustache. This is because he lacks both the letters M and W.

What does “popeye” mean? The doctor swabs the inside of his cheek and smears it on a slide, and looks and looks and looks.

He wakes one morning with amnesia, and when one doctor asks his name, and another doctor asks if he knows where he is, he will only say slowly, “My name is ‘popeye,’ I have no other English.”

“Popeye”: An Outline

1. Opening: First draw him a mouth, to ask “who, what, when, where, why, and how?” Then fill the mouth with ink.
2. The Body: Think of your paper as a pan of milk. A pan of milk will form a skin.
3. Closing: There is a small gap between where the arm of “popeye” ends and the fist of him begins. Please join them with your pen.

Eyebrows are his most expressive feature. He himself, straightened, is someone’s eyebrow.

In moments of grave danger, his bicep turns transparent, and reveals a sizable ink-clot, with small rivers of ink streaming away from it to form his outline, day after day, year after year. This is to reassure his viewers, who continually fear his death.

“Popeye,” in his adolescence, goes through a period of floating off the page. His father sits him down and recommends an anchor tattoo. Although he is “drawn,” and although he is “a place,” he is not a map. If anything, he is a “cartouche”: the area of a map that encloses information about the map itself.

He is often captured and sentenced to slave labor, always the same: to row oars in other moving words, and be whipped within an inch by ascenders and descenders.

Watching him works this way: he walks the length of your vision until he reaches the end. You gulp like a gangplank and he falls into the drink.

Or:             He disappears into the sunset, riding a little killie over and under the waves.

Or:             His enormous boyfriend is named Perspective; he ties him to train tracks again and again.

Any piece of paper on which “popeye” is printed counts as a Will, as it contains his signature, his witness, proof of his death, a list of all the property he owns, and the name of his inheritor.

Occasionally a schoolgirl will write “popeye” over and over with a pink pen, and it is then that he wears a dress and pretends to be a lady.

Depending on the decade, draw seams up the backs of his legs.

Parts of his body exist only when he is looking at them. He uses his shoeshine to stare up his own skirt.

At the school dance, “popeye” feels a pang in his belly and an urge to push. “Why me?” he wonders. “Why now?” Alone, he disappears through the door marked & and does what he must do.

When he is angry, a frizz of black ink appears above his head. No, forgive me. That is not ink at all. That is the least favorite hair of the typesetter, the one that emerges from the thought of his mother.

The Ongoing Crimes of His Mother and Father

His mother reaches out, hatches ink under him,
and commands him to stand and walk.

His father bursts into the room, screaming,
“What is the meaning? What is the meaning
of this?”

His mother rushes to explain, and feels
the pain of a strikethrough fly through her.

“Popeye” famously wets himself—the worst
mistake a young image can make.

His father lifts a ruler, brings it down hard
on his “boy,” lifts a paint-stirrer up again.

“Popeye” is an extension of the human arm. When driving horses, lift and crack him until your horses break into a black streak. Then set him upright in the whip socket again.

He is famous for being always on time; he arrives at his destination in one second flat.* In one minute flat. In one hour flat.**

*How? We suspect that he lives in an atlas, where all distances are collapsible.

**“Flat” is not the word. Say instead, there is a limited amount of him, like water, and it seeks its level.

Is he “made of paper”? No, he is papered like a hallway. Is he “made of  ink”? No, he is a ghost who had ink thrown on him during a fight, and as a consequence is now visible.

Regarding ink, why black? Black because something was extinguished there?

When rain falls on him, it falls in interruptions, incompletes, brokenoffs and bitten-backs—it is true to its typographical nature and never touches the ground.

Every second Sunday, his mother combs kerosene through his hair. The lice that live on books are not the same as the lice that live on scalps, and “popeye” has them both.

Occasionally he is left unfinished—that is, winter comes and snows in the page while his mother still has three fingers left to knit.

A poster called “Phases of the Moon” is tacked on the schoolroom wall. It shows his face in shadow, half in shadow; in light, half in light.

Page by page the “popeye” calendar is torn away. Page by page he is sent through the shredder, and finds himself in long days like the year.

“Popeye” goes hunting and brings down a 12-pointer. He drags the body to a clearing. “Thought bubble, thought bubble,” he says meditatively, and eats the lungs.

Were you a carnivore before you saw him? You are a carnivore now. He is served in slices. He is served bone-in and skin-on.

While he sleeps, “popeye” dreams of being eaten by the lion, the tiger, the leopard, the jaguar. All the roaring cats appear to him, and he dreams of being spoken backward through their strong black lips.

And being reborn on their backs as: a pattern on a solid-color coat.

And being shot, skinned, and laid out on a library floor. And his mouth forced open to seem always to be speaking.

“Popeye” stars in a revival of A Sensation Novel. He stands on a bare stage and delivers everyone’s lines. Between acts, all-in-black move back and forth and break down the scenery behind him.

The purpose of a shadow is: to put “popeye” where he is not. Shadowed he stands, like a stencil letter, always next to himself.

His protruding “pop-eye” is a world-ending button. When its dark outline disappears, you will know that the button is being pressed.

His other eye a crow walked closed.

“Popeye” loves all literature; he keeps hens for their scratchings and chickens for their prints.

One flipbook depicts him walking out to his garden and watering his own buried body until a white cabbage grows from him and prettily presents its outer leaves. This book is perpetual, and flips back and forth continually.

This flipbook is so thick that even the strongman cannot tear it. Instead, he tears a phonebook filled only with the names of “popeye” and his descendants, and the page numbers that are their addresses.

(Of sick numbers, it is said, “Number one is: number one on the list for a transplant; number two is: number two on the list.” The first and oldest “popeye” waits for his living donor to appear, and takes comfort in the knowledge that there is no death in his phonebook, and there are no unlistings.

Picture his impossible funeral: hundreds of him, laid out in the little coffins of the prepositions: under under, over over. In in.)

So many mouths to feed! In a permanent kitchen, in a permanent corner, he stretches a single meal as far as it will go. Slices and slices a transparent pie.

After supper, he sits on the porch with a long black shotgun and waits for a buffalo to wander into view. He uses every part of the buffalo— he uses them down to their eyewhites, he uses the very lines that make them up.

He walks to the city to be counted in the census. A wind gets itself up and ruffles him relentlessly, but miniature monuments hold him down.

His paper is usually neatly stacked, especially when still in original trees.

Lives where? In voices: hills and valleys. Lives all in the alphabet as if it were a rowhouse. Lives at the peak of the tallest chalk hill.

Or lives: nowhere at all. He wanders the desert, written on old skins, moaning, “Where is home, where is home?” And waits for a tent peg to be driven through his skull.

He walks to the edge of his very country, he walks forward till he fills his profile completely, he walks into the water of Marblehead.

“Popeye” sits on the riverbank and sends himself sailing into the water: he is a good graphite rod with a strong fly line; he sings away from his reel.

His occasional girlfriend, doodled in the margins, cannot have intercourse with him; she suffers badly from vestibulitis.

A disorder of her entrance.

She faints every time he tries. “Popeye” reads the dictionary out loud to revive her. He reads, “Syncope is: a blackout, a loss of consciousness. Syncope is: the loss of one or more sounds from the interior of a word.”

While her eyes are closed, he must suppress the temptation to spread her out and pin her like a map through a single place. For her skirt is cut to here, her blouse is cut to there!

Notes on His Movement

He is photographed in the still old style, wearing
a shirt patterned with white cartwheels.

His pants patterned with instructions for a two-step.

The old music players have a strong solid base like the base of a statue, and a flowering-out above. A statue of “popeye” rises in the center of the song that is playing:

Popeye the man is no longer standing!
Popeye the man has been killed in the stomach;
his French horn spills out and out!

“Popeye” drops from the sky. The townspeople gather to watch him fall and wait to see his imprint in the pavement, but he reaches out at the last moment and grabs a branch—of what?—of the clock tower. He is suspended there still, hanging off the hour hand.

Or:

In a town with no clock tower, “popeye” falls from a great height and his thigh-bones are driven up into his body, click, like the first length of lead in a mechanical pencil.

Or:

Past, present, and future: “popeye” falls in a painting. In the foreground, a farmer pays no attention, and binds bales of newspapers in a field. “Popeye” will limp to him later, and ask to be splinted with rolled-up
dailies.

(A broken leg is often fatal for a “popeye”;
one blank to the temple will take him out.)

If the dailies succeed in prolonging him, he will heal into a new configuration: his body will bend and twist and seize; he will become a living monk’s cramp.

“Popeye” is the priest, and you must confess to him. There is a black grate where his face should be.

What does he worship—the Cross or the Clean Line? The churches here have lines for the pews to sit in, and the Bible here is Dürer’s hare.

And who is his higher power? From time to time, he feels the glass hover above him, feels magnified, feels “read,” and feels it move away.

Believes he walks on a beach, but above him, a lens is ground and ground.

And what was broken open to reveal him? In his world, all visible things stand up on the half-shell.

Correction: “I do not live in a world at all,” “popeye” says indignantly, and tightens the equator around his waist.

And does he fear death? He dreams he is a brand that sits in the fire forever.

It is impossible to know when he was born. A fragment dating from 500 BC refers to him; the title is translated as “Popeye Wavers a Little in the Heat,” or alternately, “Popeye Lives in a Hell of Line Boil.” Many have attempted to translate:

A pencil ship is difficult to wreck, but “popeye”
manages every time. The sun shines directly
above him, he floats on a raft of reflection all
the way to shore. He is caught. Cannibals
carry him home on a pole, and cannibals
cook him alive in worst-hot sketch-water.
              He lives in every mouth now,
              he cannot call himself his own!

Or:

A ship drawn only with parallel lines will never
reach its destination, and will sink if it sinks
only straight down. “Popeye” sails for the horizon
because it is all he can see: he lacks the vertical
stroke I. He sails and he sails, tied to the mast,
              the ocean boiling over below him,
              feeling his own head turn to a ham,
              feeling slices turn over one by one.

A long book of him is called a “brick,” and a long book of him is called a “doorstop.”

When it came time to put these pages in order, I laid them all out on the floor, creating the appearance of a city of rooftops seen from above. And “popeye,” who lived there, had climbed to each one.

And lay on his back reading “The Myth of the Bookcover.”

And stood up like a writing tendon, and said, “Why did you leave the book open? Anyone could have walked in.”

from Rattle #35, Summer 2011

__________

Patricia Lockwood: “It was January 1st, and I had just taken a massive dose of cold medicine. The Inauguration was about to begin. I began to doze off, and in the midst of my haze, a line occurred to me: The oldest living cartoon character is the word ‘popeye.’ A cartoon character works this way: it is written so many times, with minor variations, that it appears to walk, to cast a shadow, to eat green leaves. I startled awake; the face of the new President filled the TV screen. ‘No way, I refuse,’ I said to him. ‘I refuse to write a sixteen-page-long poem that appears to be about Popeye but is actually about the intersection of the Drawn and the Written. I will not do it.’ The new President appeared to stare at me. ‘Tricia, I am the president now, and I LOVE poetry,’ he said. ‘So you actually have to.’” (web)

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January 10, 2012

Review by J. Scott BrownleeBlue Rust by Joseph Millar

BLUE RUST
by Joseph Millar

Carnegie Mellon University Press
5032 Forbes Avenue
Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania 15289-1021
ISBN: 0887485499
2012, 88pp., $15.95
www.cmu.edu/universitypress

What have I lost
in the sea’s wide pastures
watching for whales headed south?

-from “Leaving Coos County”

You may have never heard about Joseph Millar’s poetry, but after reading Blue Rust, you will probably end up reading all of it, at least if you are a young poet like me looking to learn a thing or two from a master of the form. A gentle, unassuming, soft-spoken teacher and mentor to wunderkinds like Coos Bay native Mike McGriff and Portland twins Matthew and Michael Dickman, much of the attention deservedly due Millar tends to shine more directly on his students—many of whom have published wonderful books and chapbooks of their own. While it is easy to forget about the existence of behind-the-scenes teachers like Millar, they are often some of the best (if not most well-known) poets of their generation. Blue Rust, Millar’s third and most recent book, provides compelling evidence of this. It is an expansive, thought-provoking, beautifully rendered collection containing some of the poet’s finest work to date.

The book’s ability to strike a successful balance between narration and image is perhaps its greatest strength. Considering Millar’s previous collections, it is not difficult to see why. Overtime and Fortune both contain poems that are successful at creating aesthetic resonance by interweaving narration and an Eastern-influenced emphasis on image Millar shares with his stylistic forebears Williams and Pound. Millar’s voice is ultimately, however, his own—and very convincingly so. As poet Yusef Komunyakaa once said, Millar, who takes his subject matter from an intrigue-riddled, rust-crusted working-class background, is “a poet we can believe,” particularly when he writes about the land- and seascapes of the American Northwest in poems like “Year of the Ox”:

I can hear the sea calling out
from beyond the jetty, smell the pines
near the flooded-out bridge where today
someone tried to winch an old Volkswagen
up from the swirling waters.
Far down the coast the same west wind
blows through the marshes and river mouth
where my brother’s boat rocks on its mooring.
He’s the only one awake, modest and reliable,
replacing a frayed hose, tightening the clamps.
He doesn’t trust the government
shining his trouble-light into the darkness,
his radio tuned to a satellite
broadcasting through the blue dust of space.

Millar has a wonderful eye for detail, in part, because he is much more interested in seeing than being seen. His gaze is that of the speaker in search of a transient, extrinsic beauty. Whether he is describing “a sunset turning dim like a weld over the Bering Sea,” “torches and welding tanks rinsed in blue light,” or the “plutonium shutters and platinum fins” of spacecraft hovering over North Carolina back-country, Millar’s gaze is always turned outward rather than inward. In keeping with the tenets of the Eastern poetics that informs much of his work, this strategy allows Millar to broaden the scope of his own gaze—lending his observations a sense of greater cosmic importance than they would otherwise have, even as he describes something as seemingly mundane as the light thrown on a shadowy wall by a welding torch.

During several stints as a commercial fisherman, Millar gained a profound affinity for and appreciation of the ocean that plays heavily into the themes and conceits of many poems in Blue Rust—so much so that the ocean itself often eclipses Millar the speaker in interesting thematic ways. One of my favorite things about the poems in this book is the tendency their speakers have to slip into the thematic background, giving way to a situation, natural phenomenon, or metaphysical context that can stand on its own without a bulky poetic ego holding it up. Another way of saying this is that Millar’s poems really start to sing when he is a spectator, rather than a participant, in them. “Romance,” a piece in which the speaker’s voice and intentions fade so that the feelings and memories of his friend can be more closely explored, provides a great example of this:

One more month coming up
watching the moon in its changes
hoping the salmon will finally arrive,
one more month listening
to seabirds and wind,
listening to you dreaming out loud
about the waitress in Naknek
who called you Honey
when she brought the eggs
thinking because of your red moustache
you might be one of the Russians
with their slick fiberglass Wegley boats
we never understood how they could afford.

You could have made a life with her, you said
as we watched the cork line
straighten and drift.
You could settle down by her woodstove
turning your back to the road outside,
hidden away in her kitchen,
smelling the spaghetti sauce
like a child or an old man. You could
live easy and die happy, a candle burning
in every window, the blue compass needle
and hands of the clock pointing north
through the field’s wavy grass.
You could make your grave in her.

When Millar is not tweaking the emotional sensibility of his reader, he attempts to draw the reader in with imagery that exists for its own sake—without any need for logic, or even a skewed, New-York-School inspired anti-logic, for that matter. Crickets, in a poem like “Divorce,” for example, provide all the introductory friction Millar’s poem needs in order to move successfully down the page. Without any complex, confounding language games or other postmodern whistles and bells, the image of crickets singing is enough:

Now the crickets are throbbing
the ancient psalm of tall grass.
You clasp both hands over your heart
with its pawnshop guitar and fake fur jacket,
its cloth roses sewn end to end,
the turquoise necklace you traded for money
so far from home and too late for autumn,
frozen star lilies bent to the ground.

The really interesting thing about Millar’s poetic skill is how adept he is at placing the seemingly mundane imagery of everyday life within a larger framework of resonant, ear-pleasing syntax. References to the Steelers and charred onion rings appear alongside vivid descriptions of nature in poems like “Kiski Flats,” combining sound and image in complex matrices of meaning that hum and whir like well-oiled machines:

Soon we’ll be driving the black road
I left by, shining with mica
blistered with tar, the back porch
collapsed where we ate the charred onion rings
watching the Steelers on channel four,
the hatchet sunk deep in the workbench he left
to die in his bed behind the closed door.

It’s no crime to be tired of the sun,
to be secretive, hiding your pain.
We peer now into the choppy rooms,
the windows wavy with age and rain.
Let the phone ring forever, let the mail
pile up. Let the dry nest fall apart,
stuck together with last year’s mud
jammed in the eaves and shaped like a heart.

Millar’s favorite images, the ones he tends to repeat throughout the book, relate most often to mechanization, tooling, and the hard-luck lexicon of the sweat-stained, working-class man. Grease, gears, and other “implements for joining and rending” are used as rhetorical tools by Millar time and again—serving as stand-ins for more plainly-stated emotions. This naming of mechanical parts, the intentional act of listing of them, is one of the most important poetic tools Millar uses to help give poems like “Marriage” momentum, emotional variation, and music.

We could be standing inside an airship
laughing and jostling each other
or inside a dead star
surrounded by metal, the whetstone’s
fine oil, chisels and knives,
torches and welding tanks
rinsed in blue light, threaded light,
bridal light helplessly shining
over the spools of new copper,
over the pocked green lunar cement.

Other points of prosodic interest aside, perhaps the most significant evolution of Millar’s work in Blue Rust is a tendency for him to paint in broad, sweeping strokes what it means to be an American. Millar’s experience and age lend him a rare historical perch from which to critique, explore, and reckon with our nation’s past—particularly with respect to its gradual, decades-long transition from an industrial to a post-industrial power. His, I would argue, is the voice of a working-class prophet who does not intend to prophesy, but nevertheless does. Reading a poem like “Fire,” for example, it is hard for Millar’s reader to not quite literally feel the nation “slouching towards Bethlehem,” as Yeats so eloquently put it, “to be born.”

America raises its iron voice
over the coal fields of Pennsylvania:
backyard engine blocks, chain hoists,
bell housings, toothed gears
resting in pans of oil—stammering out
the poem of combustion,
bright tongues and wings, white-hot ingots
glimpsed in the huge mills by the river,
coke ovens, strip mines, brick stacks burning
over the spine of the Appalachians.

Elegiac snap-shots of 1960’s-1970’s industrial America like this one can be found throughout Blue Rust and make the collection’s title, given the ongoing economic downturn of the United States, seem particularly apt. I found them all very arresting and emotionally compelling—what with their distinctly grim, albeit beautiful ability to encapsulate the past 40-50 years of American economic decline in only a few short, hard-to-forget lines. Even so, this is definitely not a book that pushes its reader in any one emotional, social, historical, or ideological direction. Millar has written for far too long and with far too much care to succumb to any prophetic temptation other than the soul-searching desire to fashion the language hammered steel-solid in him and present it to us on its on rust-clad, blue-collar terms—for its own sacred sake.

__________

J. Scott Brownlee is a poet and poetry critic from Llano, Texas. His writing has appeared or is forthcoming in Hayden’s Ferry Review, RATTLE, Tar River Poetry, Front Porch, Mobius: The Journal of Social Change, Writers’ Bloc, Windhover, and elsewhere. Involved with several literary journal start-ups, he was the managing editor and co-founder of both Hothouse and The Raleigh Review. His current writing project, County Lines: The Llano Poems, explores small-town life in the Texas Hill Country.

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