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Max,

Though I've read a number of books by Paul Blackburn and even published a short piece 
on him in a festschrift edited by Pierre Joris, Gil Sorrentino told me I didn't really "get" 
PB.  Indeed, I never met him or witnessed a reading, though I have heard quite a number 
of narratives about him.  Therefore I yield the floor to Pierre Joris and Mark Weiss.

Barry


On Thu, 2 Oct 2008 08:49:35 +1000, Max Richards <[log in to unmask]> wrote:

>Blackburn died so young!
>Is this a fair sample? (from epc buffalo) chosen for its cemetery ref...
>Max
>
>Tanks
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>Houses three stories high
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>or block homes of apartments
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>       both with steep Norman roofs
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>The fish swims in the river
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>and shares it with other fish
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>                    The cabbages have a garden
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>                     to share with the lettuce and radishes,
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>                                                      the tomatoes
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>The cow has a small pasture
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>and grazes it by herself
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>                                                       An old man lies on a sack
>on
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>                                                       a hillside in the sun
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>                                                       after lunch .
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>                                                       watches the train whip by
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>The dead lie in the cemetery near the tracks
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>share earth with the other dead
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>and do not look at anything
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>A barge on the river barges past, the wash flying
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>The fish swim in the river
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>                   They share it with the barge,
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>                             the fishermen .
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>late Aug  /  1968
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>
>[1975]
>Quoting Barry Alpert <[log in to unmask]>:
>
>> Max,
>>
>> Nicely handled.  I can remember being unexpectedly drawn into Cortland as I
>> was driving
>> across the state of New York, surprised to find myself researching the house
>> in which the
>> poet Paul Blackburn lived as he was dying of throat cancer.  A graveyard was
>> visible from
>> the rear of the house.
>>
>> Barry
>>
>>
>>  On Wed, 1 Oct 2008 16:08:46 +1000, Max Richards <[log in to unmask]>
>> wrote:
>>
>> >
>> >Cemetery Road
>> >
>> >
>> >Off Yarra Street, turn right
>> >(mind the oncoming traffic)
>> >
>> >and the first three or four houses,
>> >new, on the left all look desirable:
>> >
>> >fresh, elegant, at home already
>> >among the sun-glinting eucalypts.
>> >
>> >The second is still for sale -
>> >couldn't we downsize here?
>> >
>> >Further from town, fewer rooms,
>> >affordable, livable. Roses; quiet.
>> >
>> >But who wants to live on Cemetery Road?
>> >After the houses there's that open space,
>> >
>> >parcelled out in graves and grave-sites.
>> >Not far to go when the time comes.
>> >
>> >The ultimate in downsizing.
>> >Observe the waiting plastic frames:
>> >
>> >piled, each a little larger than a grave:
>> >once the grave is dug you don't want it filling with rain.
>> >
>> >I sense my pallbearers' black shoes, polished
>> >that morning, sinking in soft clay at my grave's edge,
>> >
>> >the awkwardness with ropes, the tilting
>> >and lowering, settling down there, now
>> >
>> >and forever. The muddied shoes step back
>> >discreetly. Rose petals flutter on my lid.
>> >
>> >  Wednesday 1 October 2008
>> >
>> >  Max Richards, Doncaster, Victoria
>>
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