Victoria de los Angeles / El Mariner – a Catalan folk song

Rimbaud / by Enrique Lihn

Rimbaud

He threw away this trash
I envy his saying no to this work
to this cheerless masturbation
I don’t give a damn about beauty
with her chancre
I don’t care about perversion or conversion.
No to magic. Yes as ever to the ever-deceiving proof of
……what is
and what words scratch, and that
I also poetize
This is a bad habit you can only break the way he did,
……scornfully
and he could, in fact, block himself in his neurosis
and lose his tongue at the hands of the plague
and that not being a yes to the lust of the plague

All roads lead me to the impenetrable
to what’s good for nothing
Poetry guilty perhaps of what exists
So many words for each thing
such an excess of rhetoric even on the least little ant

But he threw away this trash once and  for all
his fierce hat in the woods.

by Enrique Lihn
from The Dark Room;
New Directions Books,1963

translation: Jonathan Cohen, John Felstiner, and David Unger

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The American Haibun by Donna Fleischer

The American Haibun

by Donna Fleischer copyright©2008

My ongoing work with haiku, begun in the nineties, led me to the Japanese haibun, an unusual blend of prose and haiku, somewhat autobiographical, and relatively new in the hands of American writers. The first haibun are found in Bashō’s (1644 – 1694) travel diaries in which the great writer recorded his outer and inner journeys on foot throughout 17th century Japan.

To illustrate, I would like to borrow that famous frog from Bashō’s haiku in a translation from the Japanese by R. H. Blyth:

The old pond:

A frog jumps in, —

The sound of the water.

Let’s say that hearing a frog jump into a pond evokes feeling, and that the sound and feeling fold into one another as a gestalt, a whole that is greater than the constituent feeling and sense that came before it, and now experienced as revelatory — a generalized state of heightened awareness, or bliss.

In a swerve to postmodernism, I invoke the French Surrealist writer and artist, André Breton (1896 – 1966), who spoke of the point sublime, a writing site where unlike things meet one another, create instantaneous juxtapositions, which best of all engender some sort of pleasure, only then to careen out of focus and logic. The haibun form is just such a site.

A haibun typically could begin with one or several poetically charged prose paragraphs that make palpable, once more, the interplay of something perceived and something felt. This description in turn deepens into yet a second form, the haiku, that astonishes with a direct, vivid, and almost artless experience of the natural and imaginative realms from which it arises. The haiku is a synergistic leap from the poetic prose environment which sets it up and to which it indirectly relates.

In form and content the composition of a haiku is a practice in restraint. One wants to notice the ordinary in life, and accordingly, to minimize the use of literary devices such as rhyme or metaphor for the sake of creating an implicit poetic experience of mystery and transience. The more or less eleven English syllables or seventeen Japanese onji — the duration of a breath — allow for the silences, too. A season word or suggestion involves the senses and so anchors one in the concrete. Eventually images enlivened by feeling attain a depth of experience and insight. A frog jumps into the water, a haiku bubbles up.

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Nick Cave / Into My Arms

Spencer Tunick & Greenpeace

Greenpeace writes: “Aletsch Glacier, Switzerland — An emergency provokes extreme responses: human beings in danger will abandon social niceties, etiquette, and the norms of acceptable behaviour to raise an alarm any way they can when lives are in danger. Today, six hundred people shed their clothes on a glacier in the Swiss Alps to bodily cry out for help against a planetary emergency: global warming.”
from D. M. Gray & R. J. Preece
Publicité 2.0 galerie at artdesigncafe.com
April-May 2010 focus

moonlight rings

A friend held one in his hands. When he stepped outside the door, opened them, there was the tiniest  bundle of trembling I ever saw until wings blossomed it gone.

I heard one last night in the vast black quiet, its near electronic chirp announcing a direction.

~ Donna Fleischer
April 7, 2010
(first publication)

Nina Simone / Do What You Gotta Do