To The Reader by J. V. Cunningham

TO THE READER

                                 Time will assuage.

                                 Time’s verses bury

                                 Margin and page

                                 In commentary,

                                 For gloss demands

                                 A gloss annexed

                                 Till busy hands

                                 Blot out the text,

                                 And all’s coherent.

                                 Search in this gloss

                                 No text inherent:

                                 The text was loss.

                                 The gain is gloss.

Richard Kostelanetz, Possibilities of Poetry; An Anthology of American Contemporaries (New York: Dell Publishing Co., 1970), 74.

The Green Buoy by John Barnie

The Green Buoy

I’ve nothing to say to the

green buoy out there in the waves

bouncing on its chainy knees

then up riding an incomer

down floating with a swagger I’d

never say gracefully the sun

shining on its wet struts

arms akimbo Cossack dancing

Whey-hey as a big one

streams over whispering in its

kellyman ear a secret (You’re

invincible) I’m not supposed to hear.

John Barnie, The Green Buoy (Kinnerton, Presteigne, Powys: The Rack Press, 2006), 12.

Benjamin Sonnet #44 by Clint Burnham

                      X L I V

in focus men in uninformed uniforms

not so much uniform but unformal

become an island hence without

a peninsula or permanent bridge

of land, of metal, of human construction

he said, as he walked off my

porch, an earphone wearing

cop

who gets you from here

to there on lines

stew would make anyone

vegan

one-unit immobile

shoulders

      2 VI 07

Clint Burnham, The Benjamin Sonnets (Toronto: Book Thug, 2009), 54.

The Outsider Ape by Roberto Bolaño

Remember the Triumph of Alexander the Great, by Gustave Moreau?

The beauty and terror, the crystal moment when

All breathing stops. But you wouldn’t stand still under that dome

in dim shadows, under that dome lit by ferocious

rays of harmony. And it didn’t take your breath away.

You walked like a tireless ape among the gods,

For you knew—or maybe not—that the Triumph was unfurling

its weapons inside Plato’s cavern: images,

shadows without substance, sovereignty of emptiness. You wanted

to reach the tree and the bird, the leftovers

from a humble backyard fiesta, the desert land

watered with blood, the scene of the crime where

statues of photographers and police are grazing, and the hostility of life

outdoors. Ah, the hostility of life outdoors!

Roberto Bolaño, The Romantic Dogs, trans. by Laura Healy (London: Picador, 2011), 39.

Day Bleeding Rain by Roberto Bolaño

DAY BLEEDING RAIN

Oh day, bleeding rain,

what are you doing in the soul of the abandoned,

day bleeding volition only barely glimpsed:

behind the reed curtain, in the mire,

with your toes sized up in pain

like a small shivering animal:

but you’re not small and you’re shivering from pleasure,

day cloaked in the might of volition,

frozen stiff in a mire that’s maybe not

of this world, barefoot in the middle of the dream that works its way

from our hearts toward our necessities,

from fury towards desire: curtain of reeds

that opens itself and dirties us and embraces us.

Roberto Bolaño, The Romantic Dogs, trans. by Laura Healy (London: Picador, 2011), 15.

Resurrection by Roberto Bolaño

RESURRECTION

Poetry slips into dreams

like a diver in a lake.

Poetry, braver than anyone,

slips in and sinks

like lead

through a lake infinite as Loch Ness

or tragic and turbid as Lake Balatón.

Consider it from below:

a diver

innocent

covered in feathers

of will.

Poetry slips into dreams

like a diver who’s dead

in the eyes of God.

Roberto Bolaño, The Romantic Dogs, trans. by Laura Healy (London: Picador, 2011), 7.

With the Flies by Roberto Bolaño

WITH THE FLIES

Poets of Troy

Nothing that could have been yours

Exists anymore

Not temples not gardens

Not poetry

You are free

Admirable poets of Troy

Roberto Bolaño, The Romantic Dogs, trans. by Laura Healy (London: Picador, 2011), 143.

“Only the Herd” (undated) by Carl Andre

O N L Y  T H E  H E R D

I S  A L O U D  A N D

O N L Y  T H E  H E A R D

I S  A L L O W E D

Carl Andre, Cuts: Texts 1959-2004, ed. by James Meyer (Cambridge, Massachusetts: The MIT Press, 2005), 278.

“Leverwords” (1966) by Carl Andre

beam

clay beam

edge clay beam

grid edge clay beam

bond grid edge clay beam

path bond grid edge clay beam

reef

slab reef

wall slab reef

bead wall slab reef

cell bead wall slab reef

rock cell bead wall slab reef

root

heel root

line heel root

rate line heel root

dike rate line heel root

sill dike rate line heel root

room

time room

hill time room

inch hill time room

rack inch hill time room

mass rack inch hill time room

Carl Andre, Cuts: Texts 1959-2004, ed. by James Meyer (Cambridge, Massachusetts: The MIT Press, 2005), 232.

[I am going from one side to the other] by Vito Acconci

I am going from one side to the other.

am

going

from

one

side

to

the

other.

Vito Acconci, LANGUAGE TO COVER A PAGE: The Early Writings of Vito Acconci, ed. by Craig Dworkin (Cambridge, Massachusetts: The MIT Press, 2006), 69.

[This is an example of a voice speaking now on Academy Street....] by Vito Acconci

This is an example of a voice speaking now on Academy Street,

between Seaman Street and Cooper Street.

This is an example of a voice speaking now on Bank Street,

between Washington Street and Greenwich Street.

This is an example of a voice speaking now on Wadsworth Avenue,

between West 177th Street and West 178th Street.

This is an example of a voice speaking now on Delancey Street,

between Allen Street and Orchard Street.

This is an example of a voice speaking now on East 3rd Street,

between Avenue A and Avenue B.

This is an example of a voice speaking now on St. Nicholas

Avenue, between West 155th Street and West 156th Street.

This is an example of a voice speaking now on Gansvoort Street,

between Greenwich Street and Hudson Street.

This is an example of a voice speaking now on Catherine Street,

between Madison Street and Henry Street.

This is an example of a voice speaking now on West 45th Street,

between Broadway and Eighth Avenue.

This is an example of a voice speaking now on Ninth Avenue,

between West 218th Street and West 219th Street.

Vito Acconci, LANGUAGE TO COVER A PAGE: The Early Writings of Vito Acconci, ed. by Craig Dworkin (Cambridge, Massachusetts: The MIT Press, 2006), 399.

‘One is inside’ by R. D. Laing

One is inside

then outside what one has been inside

One feels empty

because there is nothing inside oneself

One tries to get inside oneself

        that inside of the outside

        that one was once inside

        once one tries to get oneself inside what

        one is outside:

        to eat and be eaten

to have the outside inside and to be

        inside the outside

But this is not enough. One is trying to get

the inside of what one is outside inside, and to

get inside the outside. But one does not get

inside the outside by getting the outside inside

for;

although one is full inside of the inside of the outside

one is on the outside of one’s inside

and by getting inside the outside

one remains empty because

while one is on the inside

even the inside of the outside is outside

and inside oneself there is still nothing

There has never been anything else

and there never will be

R. D. Laing, Knots (Harmondsworth: Penguin Books, 1973), 83.

‘I am doing it’ by R. D. Laing

I am doing it

the it I am doing is

the I that is doing it

the I that is doing it is

the it I am doing

it is doing the I that am doing it

I am being done by the it I am doing

it is doing it

One is afraid of

the self that is afraid of

the self that is afraid of

the self that is afraid

One may perhaps speak of reflections

R. D. Laing, Knots (Harmondsworth: Penguin Books, 1973), 84.

‘a finger points to the moon’ by R. D. Laing

a finger points to the moon

Put the expression

        a finger points to the moon, in brackets

        (a finger points to the moon)

The statement:

‘A finger points to the moon is in brackets’

is an attempt to say that all that is in the bracket

        (                                                             )

is, as to that which is not in the bracket,

what a finger is to the moon

Put all possible expressions into brackets

Put all possible forms in brackets

and put the brackets in brackets

Every expression, and every form,

is to what is expressionless and formless

what a finger is to the moon

all expressions and all forms

point to the expressionless and formless

the proposition

        ‘All forms point to the formless’

is itself a formal proposition

Not,

        as finger to moon

        so form to formless

but,

        as finger is to moon

        so

                 —                                                               —

                 |  all possible expressions, forms, propositions, |

                 |  including this one, made or yet to be made,    |

                 |  together with the brackets                             |

                 —                                                               —

        are to

What an interesting finger

        let me suck it

It’s not an interesting finger

        take it away

The statement is pointless

The finger is speechless

R. D. Laing, Knots (Harmondsworth: Penguin Books, 1973), 87-90.

The Painter by John Ashbery

THE PAINTER

Sitting between the sea and the buildings

He enjoyed painting the sea's portrait.

But just as children imagine a prayer

Is merely silence, he expected his subject

To rush up the sand, and, seizing a brush,

Plaster its own portrait on the canvas.

So there was never any paint on his canvas

Until the people who lived in the buildings

Put him to work: "Try using the brush

As a means to an end. Select, for a portrait,

Something less angry and large, and more subject,

To a painter's moods, or, perhaps, to a prayer."

How could he explain to them his prayer

That nature, not art, might usurp the canvas?

He chose his wife for a new subject,

Making her vast, like ruined buildings,

As if, forgetting itself, the portrait

Had expressed itself without a brush.

Slightly encouraged, he dipped his brush

In the sea, murmuring a heartfelt prayer:

"My soul, when I paint this next portrait

Let it be you who wrecks the canvas."

The news spread like wildfire through the buildings:

He had gone back to the sea for his subject.

Imagine a painter crucified by his subject!

Too exhausted even to lift his brush,

He provoked some artists leaning from the buildings

To malicious mirth: "We haven't a prayer

Now, of putting ourselves on canvas,

Or getting the sea to sit for a portrait!"

Others declared it a self-portrait.

Finally all indications of a subject

Began to fade, leaving the canvas

Perfectly white. He put down the brush.

At once a howl, that was also a prayer,

Arose from the overcrowded buildings.

They tossed him, the portrait, from the tallest of the buildings;

And the sea devoured the canvas and the brush

As though his subject had decided to remain a prayer.

John Ashbery, The Norton Anthology of Poetry, 5th edition, ed. by Margaret Ferguson, Mary Jo Salter, and Jon Stallworthy (New York and London: W.W. Norton and Company, 2005), 1736-7.

The Window by Derek Mahon

 woodwoodwoodwoodwoodwoodwoodwood

io                                                                         oo

n  o                                                                  o  w

d    d                                                               w    i

o   w                                                               o    n

w   o                                                               o    d

i     o                                                               d    o

n    d                                                               w  w

d   w                                                               o     i

o    o                                                               o    n

w   o                                                               d    d

i     d                                                               w   o

n   w                           wind                          o   w

d    o                                                               o     i

o    o                                                               d    n

w   d                                                               w   d

i    w                                                               o    o

n   d                                                                w  w

d  o                                                                   o   i

oo                                                                       on

woodwoodwoodwoodwoodwoodwoodwood

dwoodwoodwoodwoodwoodwoodwoodwoodw

odwoodwoodwoodwoodwoodwoodwoodwoodwo

Derek Mahon, The Norton Anthology of Poetry, 5th edition, ed. by Margaret Ferguson, Mary Jo Salter, and Jon Stallworthy (New York and London: W.W. Norton and Company, 2005), 1923.

Girls Playing with Boys by Paul Durcan

GIRLS PLAYING WITH BOYS

My wife-to-be used play in the front garden

In the grass and the gravel with the boys next-door.

A small red-headed girl,

She loved playing with boys;

She loved playing, she loved boys,

And when she put the two together

She got “playing with boys”,

And naturally she thought

That boys would be boys

And playing would be playing,

And since girls were girls

“Girls Playing with Boys”

Would be the most natural game of all –

The number one game in the world.

Girls Playing with Boys

How was my wife-to-be to know

That she was also to be my ex-wife to-be?

Yet, as she played on her own in the front garden

And dreamed about the little boys next-door –

Whatever did they do with those pretty little

Yokemebobs between their bony legs? –

She sensed among the scatter of broken daisy chains

Something else besides the smell of summer grass.

Girls Playing with Boys

So it was she had the courage to make breaks,

And made of our marriage a truly broken marriage.

Only then did she achieve her potential as a human being,

Her incomplete completion as a small red-headed girl –

Only then did I see her for the spirit that she is.

I could not believe it as she walked away from me

As I sat watching on TV a funeral in Moscow,

Slumped in my armchair in disbelief.

I felt sure she would cling to the Church-State lie

Of the happy, wholesome, white teeth marriage:

I did not believe she would have the nerve to break –

Although I had always known her to be a courageous woman,

More courageous by far

Than those whom the world deemed brave:

She makes jellyfish guerrillas look frail

And bullylike – in their revulsion to change.

I loved my wife – although I say it myself –

And yet it was not until the day she left me –

Girls Playing with Boys –

That I began to see that she was not

First of all a woman and, second of all, a human being:

Her soul stepped out of its furry pelt

(Woman-image patented by archbishops and film directors)

And I saw her, as if for the first time, in the glittering dusk,

Standing alone on the dual carriageway outside Cork City –

Her two children waiting for her in her car –

Lighting up a cigarette, chatting to a motorcycle cop;

A solitary, vulnerable, detached, beautiful human being

Sharing a risky joke with a motorcycle cop;

A girl playing with a boy – playing for playing:

For her there is only the playing – all else is death.

Paul Durcan, The Berlin Wall Cafe (London: The Harvill Press, 1995), 57-8.

Self-Portrait, Nude with Steering Wheel by Paul Durcan

SELF-PORTRAIT, NUDE WITH STEERING WHEEL

I am forty-five and do not

Know how to drive a car

– And you tell me I am cultured.

Forty-five years creeping and crawling about the earth,

Going up and down the world,

And I do not know the difference between a carburettor and a gasket

– And you tell me I am a Homo sapiens.

Forty-five years sitting in the back seat giving directions

– And you say that I am not an egoist.

Forty-five years sitting in the passenger seat

With my hands folded primly in my lap

– And you think I am liberated.

Forty-five years getting in and out of cars

And I do not know where the dipstick is

– And you tell me that I am a superb lover.

Forty-five years grovelling behind a windscreen

– And you talk of my pride and courage and self-reliance.

Forty-five years of not knowing the meaning of words

Like transmission, clutch, choke, battery, leads

– And you say that I am articulate.

Forty-five years bumming lifts off other people –

And you tell me I am an independent, solitary, romantic spirit.

So it is that you find me tonight

Loitering here outside your front door

Having paid off a taxi in three ten-pound notes,

Nude, with a steering wheel in my hands.

Ruth Padel, 52 Ways of Looking at a Poem: A Poem for Every Week of the Year (London: Vintage, 2004), 219.

Rising Damp by U. A. Fanthorpe

RISING DAMP

‘A river can sometimes be diverted but is a very hard thing to lose

altogether.’

                                                 Paper to the Auctioneers’ Institute, 1907

At our feet they lie low,

The little fervent underground

Rivers of London.

Effra, Graveney, Falcon, Quaggy,

Wandle, Walbrook, Tyburn, Fleet

Whose names are disfigured,

Frayed, effaced.

These are the Magogs that chewed the clay

To the basin that London nestles in.

These are the currents that chiselled the city,

That washed the clothes and turned the mills,

Where children drank and salmon swam

And wells were holy.

They have gone under.

Boxed, like the magician’s assistant.

Buried alive in earth.

Forgotten, like the dead.

They return spectrally after heavy rain,

Confounding suburban gardens. They infiltrate

Chronic bronchitis statistics. A silken

Slur haunts dwellings by shrouded

Watercourses, and is taken

For the footing of the dead.

Being of our world, they will return

(Westbourne, caged at Sloane Square,

Will jack from his box),

Will deluge cellars, detonate manholes,

Plant effluent on our faces,

Sink the city.

Effra, Graveney, Falcon, Quaggy,

Wandle, Walbrook, Tyburn, Fleet

It is the other rivers that lie

Lower, that touch us only in dreams

That never surface. We feel their tug

As a dowser’s rod bends to the surface below

Phlegethon, Acheron, Lethe, Styx.

Ruth Padel, 52 Ways of Looking at a Poem: A Poem for Every Week of the Year (London: Vintage, 2004), 125-6.