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I see, Larissa, thanks, and thanks again for posting such a powerful sonic poem, its claws certainly aren't rachitic! best dave 2009/3/20 Larissa Shmailo <[log in to unmask]>: > Yes, Dave, the intro to my poem pertains to the C.K. Williams poem. I heard > and reviewed a 9/11 reading with Galway Kinnell and C.K. Williams back in > 2001 and the poem evolved from there. > > Best, > Larissa > > > In a message dated 3/19/2009 5:40:15 A.M. Eastern Daylight Time, > [log in to unmask] writes: > > Golly, this has a punch, Larissa. Other than that CKW has a poem > called 'War' is there more to the dedication? (a UK reader might not > be aware) > > Best > > Dave > > 2009/3/18 Larissa Shmailo <[log in to unmask]>: >> >> >> War >> For C.K. Williams >> >> I. >> >> I reread the poetry of media-drunk scribes, absorbed, >> as they are, with young girls gyrating and the need for status >> even among orgiasts. How they claw, >> >> struggling for cabs, cars, and bars, and the nod from Cerberus >> at the door of the club, as if from him, his elicited acceptance, >> could come entrée to it all, the whole nine circles of desire. >> >> But Buddha was right, and it makes for lousy verse, the cascade >> to the fallen from fulfilled. The rituals are old, and the same rachitic >> claw >> reaches over us all. And so, torn, we tear, primordial as the air. >> >> II. >> >> We live in parts. The rich ones know. Their eyes caress metals, >> held tightly to the chest, played closely to the vest, thrown stingily >> among the just-good-folks. You won’t find the address of their factories >> >> at hand. "We don’t know." An igniter built in Chappaqua, >> a pull-pin glazed in Maine, in India a shell. We need arms, military >> muscle, American dough. Watch it blow. Skeleton, step the crack, >> >> payback grenade, Jack in Iraq. Shrapnel tears, moist and red. There – >> there (he was six) there – there (she has no hand) there – there >> (his spine is torn) there-there (her head is gone). >> >> III >> >> A small time to be alive. A very small time to be alive, short enough >> to pretend we’ve done no harm. Thanatos is a blind-man’s bluff, >> an ignoramus with a stake, a what-were-we-thinking?, a mistake. >> >> How did we not know there was really no other? How could we, eyes, >> mouths and heart, arms, legs, all the same,truly, same, how could >> we see anything else but we? No fire or desire, just beloved all? >> >> Maybe as the last breath—will we know it as last?— as the last breath >> goes, we---will we know any we? ---we might feel another’s dying breath >> that we might know someone else’s as we know our own death. >> Larissa Shmailo >> >> >> **************Feeling the pinch at the grocery store? Make meals for > Under >> $10. (http://food.aol.com/frugal-feasts?ncid=emlcntusfood00000002) >> > > > > -- > David Bircumshaw > Website and A Chide's Alphabet http://homepage.ntlworld.com/david.bircumshaw/ > The Animal Subsides http://www.arrowheadpress.co.uk/books/animal.html > Leicester Poetry Society: http://www.poetryleicester.co.uk > > **************Feeling the pinch at the grocery store? Make meals for Under > $10. (http://food.aol.com/frugal-feasts?ncid=emlcntusfood00000002) > -- David Bircumshaw Website and A Chide's Alphabet http://homepage.ntlworld.com/david.bircumshaw/ The Animal Subsides http://www.arrowheadpress.co.uk/books/animal.html Leicester Poetry Society: http://www.poetryleicester.co.uk