Tuesday, May 17, 2005

This morning's persistent Head Music: a section from Bedrich Smetana's Moldau--the part where the river passes by a wedding celebration. Joyous. Weird, though, because I haven't listened to my scratchy old vinyl of The Moldau for at least 20 years. (It was the first LP I ever bought for myself; I was 14. I think Simon & Garfunkle's Sounds of Silence was the second. Or the Lovin' Spoonful...) Why wedding music on this morning? Maybe it's the joy. At least it's not raining today, although the clouds which had beat so neat a retreat last night bedtime are back (or perhaps these are different clouds--can you look at the same cloud twice?). We're doing designer colors today: platinum, graphite, slate. Restless and, OK, gray. Who knows what they have in mind? Books received: a cheap used copy of Robert Creeley's contribution to the University of Michigan's "Poets on Poetry" series, Tales Out of School, but SURPRISE! it's signed in ballpoint on the title page. Wow. I think. Today's poet of honor, though, is not Mr. Creeley but Philip Whalen. Miriam B. of Santa Fe mailed to my friend Surprise Valley Sally a copy of the journal Fish Drum (Volume #18/19), Continuous Flame: A Tribute to Philip Whalen. I was present a month or more ago when Sally opened the package and promptly she loaned the book to me, and I have had it ever since, and now I must return it, but first will quote my favorite favorite bit: Steve once asked Phil if he wanted a statue created of him after death.          "A glass jar with a mosquito in it."                      (Jennifer Birkett) For some reason the humor and love and aptness of that just pierced me through. Part III of "The Slop Barrel: Slices of the Paideuma for All Sentient Beings" by Philip Whalen (1969) By standing on the rim of the slop barrel We could look right into the birds' nest. Thelma, too little, insisted on seeing We boosted her up                    and over the edge Head first among the slops in her best Sunday dress Now let's regret things for a while That you can't read music That I never learned Classical languages That we never grew up, never learned to behave But devoted ourselves to magic:          Creature, you are a cow          Come when I call you and be milked.          Creature, you are a lion. Be so kind          As to eat something other than my cow or me.          Object, you are a tree, to go or stay          At my bidding...          Or more simply still, tree, you are lumber          Top-grade Douglas fir          At so many bucks per thousand board-feet          A given amount of credit in the bank          So that beyond a certain number of trees          Or volume of credit you don't have to know or see          Nothing Nevertheless we look And seeing, love. From loving we learn And knowingly choose: Greasy wisdom is better than clothes. I mean I love those trees And the printing that goes on them A forest of words and music You do the translations, I can sing.                     (from The Norton Anthology of Postmodern Poetry) Images borrowed without permission from: www.harryredl.com/whalen.htm, http://recollectionbooks.com/bleed/Encyclopedia/WhalenPhilip/whalen13b.jpg, http://www.bigbridge.org/Site/Whalen/Whalen_photo.jpg, http://www.berkeley.edu/news/media/download/2000/12/t_whalen_1.jpg . 11:12:31 AM    comment []