The Trouble with Losing Old Poets…


They are starting to go now,
Like the rockstars;
A bunch checked out early,
Not exactly a poets’ 27 Club
But a spike on the graph, for sure.
And now, we are starting to drop.
Turds from an elephant’s ass
Is the only metaphor that comes to me.

This week, another one.
Last week too.
It doesn’t seem to matter,
The fire and the ice both end.
Wind has forgotten how to blow
In Chicago and everywhere.
I wonder at next.
I look at the actuaries’ lists.
I know I’m on there somewhere.
Probably pretty soon.

I love who is still in this tent
With me.
Let me say that deliberately.
But the sense of this era for me
seems to be a growing choice
Between mourning
Or being mourned.

If you are reading this
And you are a poet,
Let it serve as a cautionary tale.

If you are reading this
And you are not a poet,
I take this moment to bid you a conscious adieu.
Maybe read this poem again in a few years.

[51]


Zazen 2023

woodblock print

This little (5″x5″) piece of art has a linear story. My friend Chris Cavanagh is Facebook friends with another friend of mine, Stefan Sencerz. Among other things, Chris and Stefan share a long-time interest in Buddhism and all manifestations of Zen. In following a Zen moment between them back to Stefan’s Facebook page, I encountered the image of Sengai Gibon’s (1751-1837) “a frog doing zazen.” It was, and is, brilliant. I asked Stefan if he thought the old master would mind my borrowing his image for a woodcut. We decided he would be pleased. Stefan offered the text of his haiku, so I have transcribed it here and on the back of the print.

just sitting
motionless …
a fly on frog’s nose
Stefan Sencerz

I present “zazen,” an issue of 5 printed in black on hand painted canvas paper. 2023

I already know there will be a slightly larger issue in green on a variety of art papers and perhaps a third issue on origami paper.

If you are compelled to have a copy, contact me.

I’m sorry these five are gone. I will producing an different edition in green and assorted art papers shortly.

Update 4/17/23

Zazen frog just sits.

He is fat and yet he smiles.

What Zen empties him? [68]

[46-50]

You’ll Never Get Me!

(Written on April 4 while waiting for Donald Trump to surrender for arrest in New York.)

Why am I always surprised?
It’s not like they haven’t been there.
Every April in Spring
The frogs start screaming:

“Ha Ha, fuckers!”
“I’m still here, ya bastards!”
“I hid in the mud.”
“I closed it all down,
I shut down breathing,
I sucked air through my skin,
I let the heart beat slow,
And slow,
And 
Not
Quite
Stop.
For months I willed thought to cease,
If I heard at all
it was a low hum,
Kind of electrical
While snow and ice and wind and gravity
Made its winter show
On the margins of the waters above.”
“And now it’s April, fuckers.”
“Squawk, peep and triiiiiiiill, motherfuckers!”
I’m back 
and ready to propagate!”
“Where my lady frogs, huh?
“Fine specimen of man-frog, right here!”
Peepeep
Peeeeeeeeeeeep!

What a Ride: A Proposal

Looks like we might have made it to the finish line.

At least we could walk it from here.

Well, you could. I have some doubts.

And it wasn’t like it was a smooth ride.

Lots of couples hit some bumps in the road,

But we skidded out more than once,

Saw the ditches way too close 

When I was driving a while ago,

And I know we caught air this last time.

You were driving.

But I think I can see the route ahead

And now that we know we don’t speak the same language,

But we think we’re heading the same way,

I’ll try to navigate if you’ll do the steering.

Deal?

[44]

Admonition

My elders were very poor teachers,
Or I was a piss-poor student.
So much about aging was left unsaid
Or unheard:

That pain is ugly
But it’s only pain.

That your heart will heal
But it might be a little crooked afterwards.

That the injuries from the Spring of youth
Return in the Winter.

That you can weep when one who cares
moves on—
And still wish them every goodness.

They also didn’t mention that
Mentors grow in age,
That gardens aren’t about vegetables,
That owning a dog isn’t about owning.

And shame on them for not telling
How an old heart can swell,
not just with edema,
But from the full panoramic view of life
As it plays out on the faces of children
And then the Elfin magic of grandchildren.

I’m writing this down today
So no one else forgets to say
Or hear.

[43]

MEDIA ALERT!

for old mostly white people who medicate with Michigan legal marihuana (no, really, that’s what we legalized in Michigan). I have found a new show that caps the peak of the Boomer nostalgia mountain. Wait. It’s animated. It has Elvis (portrayed by Matthew McConauhey). It touches on every media button of the 60s and you want to shake off the pain and bring on a new, appreciative state of mind. AGENT ELVIS, Here’s a link to a real review. https://www.hollywoodreporter.com/tv/tv-reviews/agent-elvis-review-matthew-mcconaughey-netflix-1235354807/

PS You don’t have to be white, or even mostly white to watch this show. The part of you that enjoys this show is the part that is an old white or mostly white person living inside you.

A Gift From the Cosmos

I don’t know where these came from. They seem to be characters in a music/arts scene somewhere. Two are recognizable as characters I’ve known from Ann Arbor. That’s George Bedard of George Bedard and the Kingpins above. He seems to belong with these. I don’t now if there are more of them or if they interact somehow, but I put them here so they won’t get lost.

Rocky
Low blare of the bass sax.
Get back to it, man.
Cats wearing shades.
Collars up-turned.
Black pants.
Black pants.
Hepcats in the wings.
Rocky croons a vibrato.
Her name is Wynona.
Rocky never gives us rules,
A right-hearted man.
Wynona was all warm.
Her hair with wine.
Her voice full of no-nah, no-nah.

[32]
..

George danced like a question mark.
It was always the same question.
The cat snapped his fingers
And kept the burning stump of a Lucky
Between his lips,
Smoke curling into a squinted eye.
George had been around a couple more years
Than the rest of the hep-cats.
A pioneer with a question
That never got answered.

[33]

(PS This is not George Bedard. This is another George who may very well have gone to listen to the Kingpins.)
..

Billy
Tough Black cat with a white guy’s name,
In a scene that’s pretty white.
Took the bias both ways.
Talks code to cross over
When he hangs at the last juke joint.
It’s all Blues
And Rock-a-billy with him.
He’s a Blues-Billie.

[34]
..

The Ardog
Beat poet
Black coat
A fucking beret,
Do you believe that cat?
Clove mutherfuckin’ cigarettes.
Does percussion on road trips
From the back seat
On the backs of the front seat.
Long hair flailing
But it’s getting thin already.
He’ll look like a monk in ten years.
Talks a hep game
But he’s a
One trick pony with eyebags.

[35]
..

Jake.
Whatchew doing here?
You gotta get some strings for that thing, man. Whoever heard of a man playing the three string?
The hat
The shades
The trenchcoat.
Those beads.
Alcohol did that to your voice?
That ain’t mouthwash.
You’ll never change, man.

[36]
..

Marcie,
Seems so French.
Holding her smoke upside-down
Pinched between her thumb and finger.
Also with the the black ankle boots.
They are French too?
your French sounds American.
Champs Elysees doesn’t sound a “p” in it.
Sometimes.
With Magyo,
Tough one,
Speaking Island French.
Holding Marcie’s temple
Against her bare shoulder,
Marcie’s neck in the crook of Magyo’s arm.
Marcie pouts.

[37]
..

Lyman
Likes beer.
:likes wine.
My old lady left me
While I was paralyzed six months.
Don’t hit me with no bus.
I’ll sue yer ass.
I’m set for life.
Now she wants to come back.
Lyman says no.
But he’s mad he has to say it.

[38]
..

Lump,
Everywhere he goes
It rains.
It finds him in the park,
In the alley.
He oozes the gloom.
No one smiles to see him
Or buys him a drink.
Keeps his hands in his overcoat.
Self-fulfilling prophet.

[39]
..

Jimmy Hot
Best dancer
Best fighter
Best racer
Best car
Best piano
But he’s boogie woogie, dontchaknow.
Too big to be a back-up.
He’ll beat your rockabillies
With a baseball bat or a piano.

[40]
..

Sweeny
Like all vixens
That look
That walk
That way of listening
And acting like there must be something better to do.
Used to be in the life
Now she’s kept.
Angling for Lyman
But with a man the age of
Lyman’s father.
Lyman’s father is dead.
So will this guy be
Before Sweeny is done with him.

[41]
..

Smitty’s on Alto
Plays it like a clarinet
Squeaks it
Lets it drone
He sweats
And he finds that one riff.
He plays it again
Again
Again
Again
Again
It breaks and the guy on the drums
Brings the band back.
That cat’s always there.

[42]
..

Review: The Last Chairlift

John Irving announced The Last Chairlift would be his final novel before it hit the shelves. (I mean, he’s 80.) After reading it, I think it is fitting. Before I read this novel, I claimed John Irving as my second favorite fiction author (There is no better storyteller than James Lee Burke.) And that my favorite Irving novels, in order, were: 1. Hotel New Hampshire, 2. The World According to Garp, 3. A Prayer for Owen Meany. Each of those novels is a first person, autobiographical novel about the life of a literary man (writers/English teachers) who used to live in New England but who now lives in Toronto and/or Europe, and so is Chairlift. Each of those other stories is a kind of coming of age tale and relate their powerful themes inside that kind of structure. Chairlift does too, except the age Chairlift comes to is 80. I happened to be in my 73rd year as I read it and I appreciated both when his recollection of the history of the last 80 years matched my own and when his fervor of all kinds was familiar inside my own experiences. In other words, that old guy tells a story appreciated by another old guy.

The way this guy uses language is a joy. It is intelligent but not overly erudite. It is full of lofty ideas but not snooty. John Irving’s voice is among the most American in the world. And the treatment of pronouns (and the plot driven necessity to handle pronouns) is delightful. I’d love to insert an example here, but it would be too big a spoiler. If you have ever had an argument with anyone over he/she/they, read this novel.


Now, your homework: You will want a working understanding of another fat tome—Moby-Dick. (Also a first person narrative novel.) If you’ve never read it and you want to hurry through Melville, I have a good cheat where you can get away with reading only 35 chapters and ignore all those “interstitial” chapters. For extra credit, it wouldn’t hurt to have read “Bartleby, the Scrivener.” Also, if you would like to appreciate just how autobiographical this novel is, check out Irving’s Wikipedia page at https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/John_Irving I promise it will make you happy if you are a word-geek.

Let me tell you a couple of things I didn’t like:

I did not like the appearance of long segments of screenplay inserted into the text. I don’t buy plays of any kind. I hate the artificiality of what feels like “telling me a movie.” Movies are for watching, not reading. Irving tries to justify using the form the first time because, he claims, it is more powerful for its immediateness, being written as it is in present tense. The ceaseless voice-overs become necessary when Irving doesn’t allow himself one of his best tools–his narrative voice. If, as Irving asserts, present tense is the best way to tell a part of the story, why not just tell the reader that and proceed with 1st person, present tense? I would find that irritating too but I’d forgive it quicker than the THREE long screenplay sequences. As an aside, I am sure Irving plans for this to be a big movie and those scenes are already done. They are key scenes too. But I generally prefer novels to movies. I always appreciate novelists more than screenplay writers. PS, It also bothered me–lower case “b”– each time he mentions winning an Oscar for a screenplay.

And I did not like the 888 page length. The first 100 pages become this necessary slog to get all the different characters down without much plot advancement (and Irving novels are 19th Century monuments to plot). But as always with Irving, pay attention to everyone and every event in the beginning because you know they will come back to (ahem) haunt you. And the last 100 pages are necessary to tie up ten thousand loose ends. And, as I said above, THREE movie segments. Forgive me some math. The book is 888 pages. The three segments, Chapters 30, 45 and 49 add up to 228 pages. The list price of this fat tome is $38.00. That means I spent $9.76 on a screenplay. That’s more than the last 25 years!

The novel is a beautiful (if too long) amalgam of those other three stories. We have lesbians who are mute, a big sample of the spectrum of human sexuality, Vietnam, Regan and AIDS, humans of very small stature, death and death, plenty of dark humor, wrestling, teaching in high school and college, lots of talk of writers, between writers, about writing, and best of all, that Irving irreverent political commentary. If you liked Garp, you’ll see something familiar in this writer’s life and his relationship with his mother. If you liked Owen, you will see other little people here. If you liked Hotel you’ll love the haunted hotel in this story.

Oh, did I mention it’s a ghost story?

[32]

Early Self-Portrait

I watched a documentary identifying the oldest cave paintings as belonging to Neanderthals. I followed that up with about a dozen YouTube videos. It changes everything in the everlasting narcissism of homo sapiens. Most prehistoric cave art of human hand outlines depicts left hands. It is presumed that means the artist (most likely a woman) was probably using the right hand to help make the images.
This original print appears to be a left hand, but, because block printing reverses the image, the original subject matter came from my right hand. In fact, I first created an “original print” of my right hand on paper with printers’ ink.
I gave my primitive self free-reign on this project.
9×12 inches on acid-free paper. Edition of 13 plus one original right hand print.


[31]