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Pierre, such a perfect fairytale (pun intended). this was truly gripping, this is a technical marvel for the way the enjambement keeps the reader wanting more. such ease of language & thought. lovely narration. KS On 13/11/2007, Pierre Joris <[log in to unmask]> wrote: > Smoked "Africaines" in Luxembourg, "Gitanes" in France, Camels in New > York, Players in the UK until Allen Fisher introduced me to the > "yellow devils", and old Brit blend I can't remember the actual name > of, but they tasted something like Sweet Aftons, later in the US, and > even today, indulge in the odd American Spirit. > Was fascinated by the sailor on the Players pack and wrote an early > poem featuring him, way back in the 70ies. Here it is, with some loss > of layout, for your post-smoking pleasure – Pierre > > MATROSEN LIED > > (Infamous Baines, > that early supergrass, testified > that Christopher Marlowe held "That all they that loue > not Tobacco & Boies were Fooles...") > > > How > the rising sun > thru these curtains > goes at me > again & again > mid-mornings > falls across my desk > how it sprawls > over the notebook how > it gains heat from > my coffee growing cold. > > How > leaning back I light a cigarette > admiring the four-colored > sailor on the blue-white pack. > HERO it says on his cap > a bearded hero's head > between sail & steam > surrounded not by sea > but by a life buoy. > Look alive boy, > your cheeks are pink > your lips are red > your beard the color > of tobacco > & you look serious > sternly boyish > in your light blue sailor shirt > Was it he > helped Thomas Harriot > carry his cases ashore? > His 19C look does not deceive > he's immeasurably older > it is he who as a old man > taught young Ralegh how to use > the astrolabe, & he > knows the spot > where Drake lies buried. > He lashed Ulysses to the mast > & did the same for Turner > shaking his head, wondering > at the foolishness of men: > it's not the kind of thing > he'd do, he knows better > has lived longer & is > satisfied with his quart of rum > a day. > > Below deck > while the storm rages > & the sirens sing > he sips his drink > reflecting on how > doing the necessary > should be enough > for any man > immensely man > he sits among his mates > satisfied that he is immortal > because of the casual accuracy > with which he fulfills > the necessary confronting him. > For him no need for siren song > though it will be a tall tale to tell > in the taverns between now & then. > If I were a man > who still fell in love with sailors > I would surely fall in love with him. > I'd love him in all the narrow beds > from Brest to Valparaiso > we would armwrestle in Hamburg's Kneipen > down copas of sangre de toro > in the bodegas in Barcelona > one hand caressing his sleeping head > resting on my knees one hand > drawing love-tattoos in the wine-spill > on the wooden tables older > than age. O how I'd worship > his arched cock > his perfect balls! > > Unsung hero > let me sing you > suck you > off this packet of cigarettes > the smoke I exhale > curls in the air > folds in sunlight > tornado, typhoon > or simple tempest > I peer deeply into > your left glass eye > (you left the good one > in a brothel in Shanghai > as payment for the favors > of a mongolian princess) > I see a storm > & a shipwreck > off the Scillies > I watch you swim ashore > clutching the black Aztec mirror > between your teeth > it's all you're left with > you owe it your life > or that's what you think > & two weeks later > you barter it in a tavern > near Deptford for the charms > of a boy once laid > with Marlowe. > > The sun > is higher now > we dream in time > the time it took > to write this down > or the time it takes > the sun to dry > this ink. > The coffee's > quite cold now > sweet & gold now > as cold as last night's dream > when I threw down the bedside lamp. > I forgot the dream > & now wonder > did I dream of the sun > falling or of > a ship going down > of a face heated & reddened > by the sun at sea? > How come this morning - > what was it this morning - > made me look at the daily > packet of Players > was it what the dream > wanted or was it > what made me > dream? > > On Nov 13, 2007, at 3:27 AM, Patrick McManus wrote: > > > I had a cigarette once it was foul and my last (I was 11 at the > > time)I do > > make up with plonk on the indulgence side!!!! > > Cheers P > > > > -----Original Message----- > > From: Poetryetc: poetry and poetics > > [mailto:[log in to unmask]] On > > Behalf Of Roger Day > > Sent: 13 November 2007 06:36 > > To: [log in to unmask] > > Subject: Re: Cigarettes > > > > My father used to smoke Capstan Full Strength smelt bloody horrible, > > picture of a Victorian sailor on the front. He still smokes when he > > thinks mother isn't looking. > > > > His legs now have furred arteries. > > > > Roger > > > > On Nov 13, 2007 12:17 AM, Max Richards <[log in to unmask]> wrote: > >> I recall my father's cigarette packets from the 1940s - > >> de Reschke (sp?), named after an opera singer... > >> > >> Max > >> > >> > >> > >> On 13/11/07 11:03 AM, "Kenneth Wolman" <[log in to unmask]> > >> wrote: > >> > >>> M. Borges Accardi wrote: > >>>> Worst/best was a brand called Spartus, strong tobacco, blue box, no > > filter.? > >>>> Sold in Prague.? There were only two brands when I smoked--I > >>>> forget the > >>>> other. Miserable, wonderful habit.? I quit when I could not smoke > >>>> on > > the > >>>> plane. I saw the end was near. . .and could not face those long > >>>> flights > >>>> "jonesing" a cigarette. > >>>> > >>> > >>> > >>> Before 6th Avenue in Manhattan upscaled into Avenue of the Americas, > >>> there were lots of tobacco shops that also hid the condoms behind > >>> the > >>> counter, hawked straight and gay porn both, and those > >>> cigarettes...oy...an Austrian brand called Amneris after the mezzo > >>> character in Verdi's *Aida*: just awful. I picked up some Russian > >>> brand > >>> for a play I was in; like the ones Frederick described, they came > >>> with a > >>> long cardboard tube and tobacco that could knock the wind out of > >>> you. > >>> > >>> Smoking was my really great guilty pleasure because I didn't feel > >>> guilty > >>> about it back when everyone smoked. Even as late as the late '90s > >>> I'd > >>> stand outside Morgan Stanley with other smokers. One of them, a > >>> statuesque brunette at whom I was making occhi di pesce, said "I > >>> really > >>> should NOT be doing this." "None of us should," I said. "So what's > >>> your excuse?" "I'm an opera singer," she replied, "dramatic > >>> soprano. I > >>> sing at the Met." I checked a program. She really did. And > >>> smoked. > >>> Then again...so did Caruso, Vickers, several others not as well > >>> known. > >>> > >>> Filthy smelly habit. Miss it! > >>> > >>> Ken > >>> > >>> ------------------ > >>> Kenneth Wolman rainermaria.typepad.com > >>> > >>> "I agree with the Chekhov character who, when in a crisis, he is > >>> reminded that 'this, too, shall pass,' responds 'Nothing > >>> passes.'"--Philip Roth > >> > >> -- > >> > > > > > > > > -- > > My Stuff: http://www.badstep.net/ > > "In peace, sons bury their fathers. In war, fathers bury their sons." > > Roman Proverb > > > > > > -- > > No virus found in this incoming message. > > Checked by AVG Free Edition. > > Version: 7.5.503 / Virus Database: 269.15.24/1115 - Release Date: > > 07/11/2007 > > 09:21 > > ___________________________________________________________ > > The poet: always in partibus infidelium -- Paul Celan > ___________________________________________________________ > Pierre Joris > 244 Elm Street > Albany NY 12202 > h: 518 426 0433 > c: 518 225 7123 > o: 518 442 40 71 > Euro cell: (011 33) 6 75 43 57 10 > email: [log in to unmask] > http://pierrejoris.com > Nomadics blog: http://pjoris.blogspot.com > ____________________________________________________________ >