The Matapedia

What is it?

A road somewhere in Canada?

Shreds from a song

to form an inaccurate picture

"And we raced the Matapedia –

and we were not afraid"

But there is also an unexpected meeting

with room for ample speculation

"He said, 'Oh my God, it's Kate!'

'No, I'm the daughter of Kate.
My name is Martha.

Who are you?
Ma never told me about you.'"

And on they race the Matapedia,

with minutes to spare.

I imagine to board a ferry –

a ferry to somewhere or nowhere.

– Iself (© 2011)

Written for NaPoWrimo day 7 in response to the following: "Today’s prompt is one of musical ekphrasis. Ekphrastic poetry comments upon or is inspired by another work of art in a different medium. Most people think of it as a poem inspired by a painting or a sculpture. But it could also be music!"

Lest this remain too cryptic...
As pointed out by vivinfrance in her comment, the Matapedia is a river in Québec, Canada. I still think, however, that the song by Kate and Anna McGarrigle on the album of the same name I'm alluding to must refer to a road running along the river, but I could be wrong. I would assume that the Kate and Martha characters mentioned in the song are Kate McGarrigle and her daughter Martha Wainwright.

Here's a link to the song on Youtube:

I could feel

I could feel
some melodic drowning
coming on today
with horrid greatness.

With horrid greatness
I could feel
some melodic drowning
coming on today.

– Iself

It's all about oxymorons today, this 6th day of NaPoWriMo, and the ones I used were generated by the Serendipitous Oxymoron Maker at the very first try. And I didn't even need to consult the horoscope today ... it was all right there with horrid greatness ... that melodic drowning, or at least some of it. Beware, oh moron, of oxys.

The 2011 Francisco Cabrera Revolution

We almost missed the revolution.

– Paul Hughes

In a nightmarish café

(garish, gaudy lights,

smoke twirls, drone,

laughter, cackling)

in which I'd long given up

trying to listen to anyone

in particular, somebody

raised a glass and shouted

above the din, "Long live

the revolution!"

All I remember after that

is feeling guilty about not

knowing which revolution

this was about. But I did

not dare ask for fear of

appearing uninformed.

Which I am, about most

revolutions nowadays.

– Iself (© 2011)

Written for NaPoWriMo day 5.

The challenge today was to take another participant's poem and riff off of it. The one I riffed off of was one by Paul Hughes titled subway talk part ii (to be read here).

Freewheeling

For L.

"There are three fields I work in,"
she said, "performance, video
and drawing." (Her father prompted
with proper suggestions to go on.)

"The performances are exhausting;
they all have to do with ropes,
climbing and descent. I'm not sure
whether they are Apollinian or

Dionysian, something else I have
been interested in. In one, I cut
a bowling alley in half, making holes
in the walls left and right at about

half height to hold the rings
for my rope. I went along towards
my audience, it was both strenuous
and exhilarating. Sometimes

I caught myself wanting to laugh:
what were all these people doing,
watching me with serious eyes
as I went along." Her father prompted,

"And one of your videos was..."
"... dancing along an ugly street
in funny yellow pants. I did many
iterations of this, varying my steps,

arm movements and behavior.
A friend of mine did the filming.
Mostly the people seemed per-
plexed, not knowing what to think

of this crazy person doing this,
making way, moving aside. Not
stopping." "Is there any money
in this?" somebody asked.

"In the videos? – I suppose
they could be sold. Or the drawings
I do – that's my third field
of activity." "And how do you

do them?" her father prompted.
"I make myself rules, I restrict
myself. One drawing might be
only boxes, for example, in only

five colors, but with other rules,
to increase complexity." "And
these you would sell, there is
a market for that?" her father said.

"There is a market, and, once
it has found you, it wants you
to repeat yourself. I could become
the colored box lady,

or the rope performer, or
the hip-hop dancer of dreary
streets, both Apollinian and
Dionysian." Thus ended Lou,

to soon perform an acte
morpheusien for a change.

– Iself (© 2011)

A freewheeling act for NaPoWriMo #3, concocted fresh from the lips of Lou herself last night.

Poems and antipoems

I’m surrounded by books,
many of which I haven’t looked at in years.

Not even been aware of.
They stand there not making a peep,
even the Long Talking Bad Conditions Blues.

How funny to note books owned
for decades with renewed surprise.

In the case of Nicanor Parra
I remember a conversation with Paula and Eduardo
from earlier this year about the great Chilean poets,
during which I quoted from Violeta Parra’s
Cueca de los poetas:

    Pero el más gallo se llama
    Pablo Neruda
    Huifa ay ay.

...

    Corre que ya te agarra
    Nicanor Parra.

But the shelves I’m looking at
also carry more pedestrian stuff,
like the Dictionary of Legal,
Commercial and Political Terms.

Now that one I’ve touched more
often than the antipoems or
condition blues because I need it
for a living. Even though the poor
thing has been mostly superseded
by online sources as many
of its brothers in shelf.

Today I declare the still life
blues day for printed outdated
dictionaries, poems and antipoems
online and shelved.

– Iself (© 2011)

NaPoWriMo 2011 #2

Written upon inspiration by this (at NaPoWriMo):
"Write a poem that incorporates the titles of three books you have in your house."
The books are:
Nicanor Parra, Poems and Antipoems
Ronald Sukenick*, Long Talking Bad Conditions Blues
Dietl/Moss/Lorenz, Dictionary of Legal, Commercial and Political Terms
Singer, song writer, writer and artist Violeta Para (1917-1967) was Nicanor Parra's sister.

*Ron Sukenick (1932-2004) was one of my teachers at the University of Colorado.

The Red Wheelbarrow

so much depends
upon

a red wheel
barrow

glazed with rain
water

beside the white
chickens.

– William Carlos Williams

Deutsche Übertragung

City puzzle

Stuttgart, Germany, 21st century

The game appears to be
to create the maximum number
of simultaneous holes in the
ground, marked by white-red
striped accident prevention
contraptions.

                     These holes
form the puzzle. Now to
connect them and get wise
to the great scheme behind
them all...

– Johannes Beilharz (© 2010)

My small tribute to the construction frenzy rampant in this city. Most likely, the authorities are attempting to prepare us for the mother of all constructions – Stuttgart 21 – bound to turn the city into one coherent construction mess for about ten years.

Clod-stuck poem invigorated

or: Liturgy in the Sky

Again
 
Presentation of the role of straw Heron
This lake. For taking steps
Besides, why bother in the water, and
Pull up a blank, but only once.
Later, in the streets for miles, and some
He said that he will be there when the came. How to
Every day that fragile legs
Cool green scum, a good library door
The heat and light? This is the world's stupid.
Their streets every day, the sky,
Crypt in his cave,
Tin from surface distortion, Scattered in the yard.
daisied West
Changes in three colors, dandelion
The road was. Each year, influenza
Thick volume of air and tingling in wild
Hot, thin grass, leaves light
The beginning. Heron's position
The stone on the ground or behind me.
And broken wings, and then open and remove the iron
Blue rhythm, his body during the flight.
I felt the heat, and straw. Hope song
Taste of the wild, I empty
I said: No, but warm in the fields of
And skin. It is not long before
Start normal breathing,
The liturgy is still in the sky.

- Not Iself

Notes
Received another clod-stuck poem from that well-known ex-poet laureate this evening, which trampled its clod-stuck path about something or other very realistic from one trite line ending to the next.

What to do to breathe some sort of life into that still-life?

Well, I decided to pass it through Google Translate in a bunch of iterations - from English to Chinese to Bulgarian to Georgian to Arabic to God knows what and eventually back to English.

The above is the unadulterated result.

It's a wee bit puzzling ... but at least it's puzzling, which could not have been said about the pedestrian original.

Robert Bly might appreciate it - it has some of those leaps and bounds he thought great poetry should have.

Here's the Hindi version ... just for kicks:

फिर

भूसे की भूमिका की प्रस्तुति बगुला

इस झील. कदम उठाने के लिए

इसके अलावा, क्यों, पानी में परेशान है, और

ऊपर खींचो एक खाली है, लेकिन केवल एक बार.

बाद में, मील के लिए सड़कों में, कुछ और

उन्होंने कहा कि वह वहाँ जब आया होगा. कैसे करने के लिए

हर दिन है कि नाजुक पैरों

शांत हरी मैल, एक अच्छा पुस्तकालय दरवाजा

गर्मी और प्रकाश? यह दुनिया की बेवकूफी है.

उनकी हर दिन सड़कों, आकाश,

अपने गुफा में तहखाना,

विरूपण की सतह से टिन, यार्ड में बिखरे हुए.

पश्चिम गुलबहारों से ढंका हुआ

तीन रंगों, पीले फूल का एक पाक्रर का पौधा में परिवर्तन

सड़क था. प्रत्येक वर्ष, इन्फ्लूएंजा

हवा की मोटी मात्रा और जंगली में झुनझुनी

गर्म, पतले घास, पत्तियां प्रकाश

शुरुआत. बगुला है स्थिति

या मेरे पीछे जमीन पर पत्थर.

और टूटे पंख, और फिर खोलने के लिए और लोहे हटायें

ब्लू ताल, उड़ान के दौरान अपने शरीर.

मैं गर्मी महसूस किया, और पुआल. आशा गीत

जंगली का स्वाद, मैं खाली

मैंने कहा: नहीं, लेकिन के क्षेत्र में गर्म

त्वचा और. यह लंबे समय से पहले नहीं है

शुरू सामान्य श्वास,

मरणोत्तर गित आकाश में अब भी है.

Good-bye to Haiku Very Much

Indelible

Bright flags strung up on
timelines flutter their good-byes
into the present

– Johannes Beilharz (© 2010)

A haiku to say good-bye to Haiku Very Much and its haiku challenges. They will be missed!

Nightingale

Grey melody.
Earth and sky sing in you
And are Spring.

– Peter Hille (1854-1904)

(Translation of Nachtigall; copyright © of translation from German by Johannes Beilharz 2010)

I wanna be your hero

You call my attempts
risible, but please
leave me some lowly
pedestal at least

– Felix Morgenstern (© 2010)

Written for napowrimo #20, the hero poem.

A tiny little antidote to Bonnie Tyler:

They call him the breeze

It happened by unthought known –
he knocked up my friend

Said shucks when told
and for amendment from his native country
Há tempos ... there are times

Don’t cry sister cry – get ready
for the times to get better

– Iself (© 2010)

A late entry for napowrimo #1, iTunes on shuffle. The pieces were:

Knocked up – Kings of Leon
Don’t cry sister cry – J.J. Cale
Shucks – Bill Frisell
Unthought known – Pearl Jam
Há tempos – Legião Urbana  

From memory I added a modified version of “They call me the breeze” by J.J. Cale for the title and “Ready for the times to get better” by Crystal Gayle for closure.

Radiant Wall Panels

Now that Chucky
had finally –
after months of begging
and coercion by
his beloved Tilda –
installed the
radiant wall panels
in their Sears Roebuck
kitchen, temporary happiness
had been established
in the Elmore household

– Iself

Another non-abstract RWP acronym-based poem. This time I took "radiant wall panels." See previous post for more details.

GeoCities became ReoCities

In October 2009, GeoCities – free host to zillions of web pages – shut down.

Today I discovered that David Feinman ported many, many of those pages to ReoCities, including link fixes, so that cross-links to former GeoCities pages actually work.

A great big cheer to David!

My old site SoHo/bistro/7067 is among the sites that were saved.

However, I'd also prepared for the death of GeoCities by moving the pages to my own domain. And that is, of course, where the pages will be updated and where more will be added.

Click here to go to the new home of SoHo/bistro/7067 – International Forum for Literature and Art

First Poem

Between the greatest galaxy
and the smallest sigh
the most important sound is
the voice of you or I.

– Deirdre LaPenna (© 2010)

Posted for Sunday Scribblings #201 / Message.

This poetic message is published here by kind permission of the author.

Older poems by Deirdre LaPenna

The cheese ditty

Please, oh please
let me have a crumb of cheese.

Not in my house,
said the mouse.

– Felix Morgenstern (© 2009)

Written for Sunday Scribblings’ Cheese topic.

All the Morgenstern poetry (Felix and Christian) posted in this blog

Rainer Maria Rilke: Archaic Torso of Apollo

Archaic Torso of Apollo

We did not know his head of such unheard-of fame
wherein the orbéd eyes matured. Even so,
his torso, candelabrum-like, still is aglow,
and there his gazing, merely set low-flame,

persists and glitters. For otherwise the incurvation
of the chest could never so bedazzle you, nor indeed,
could from the loins’ soft turning a smile proceed
to that midpoint which once bore procreation.

Otherwise this stone tortured and squat would stand
beneath the shoulders’ lucent sweep, and
would not shimmer like a coat of sable;

nor would it burst forth from all its margins, rife
with the light of stars: for there is not one site unable
to perceive you. You have to change your life.

– Rainer Maria Rilke

Translated by Thomas Geydan. Translation copyright © 2008 by Thomas Geydan, published here with the translator’s kind permission.

Also in Thomas Geydan's translation: Spanish Dancer

An interesting link about translating Rilke ("Rilke translation has become an industry...")

Rainer Maria Rilke: Spanish Dancer

Spanish Dancer

As a struck match, before becoming flame, white
flickering tongues in all directions sends,
so, bystanders looking on, unfolds her dance: bright,
hot and hurried, a circular rite,
pulsating with passion, and intense.

And suddenly it is fully aflare.

With just a glance she lights her hair,
and then, with daring art, turns her entire
dress into this flaming ball of fire,
from which, each like a startled snake,
her naked arms dart, rattling and awake.

Then, deeming too close the lambent heat,
she gathers all of if it together and flings it to her feet
with an imperious gesture, haughtily gazing.
There it lies on the floor, enraged and blazing,
and burning still, refusing to retire.
But, confident of victory, her smile assured and sweet,
she lifts her face as if in greeting to the fire,
and stamps it out with solid little feet.

– Rainer Maria Rilke

Translated by Thomas Geydan, published here by kind permission of the translator. Copyright by Thomas Geydan.

She Tells Her Love

She tells her love while half asleep,
In the dark hours,
With half-words whispered low:
As Earth stirs in her winter sleep
And puts out grass and flowers
Despite the snow,
Despite the falling snow.

– Robert Graves (1895-1985)

A poem by one of the grand old men of British 20th century poetry, perhaps now remembered not so much for his poetry but his historical novel I, Claudius about the Roman emperor.

Slim Siamese asks Tessa Terrier out

When he asked for a date
she said maybe better wait

and consult a doctor to see
whether we could ever have a family

– Felix Morgenstern

Written for Mad Kane's Dates and Dating prompt.