The Best American Poetry

A Broad, Abroad (installment the third)

A post about nothing much from Brussels.

I wish I could tell you I've had a fantastic day, but I haven't really. I did NOT want to wake up this morning. I'm sure I'm not alone here, but I'm one of them poet-types who is plagued by the demoness Insomnia. Once I fall asleep, I sleep long and hard (that's what she said), but the falling of the asleep is typically the most difficult task I accomplish in a day. Add that to being dizzy with joy after a show, and I was lucky my head hit the pillow at all.

I called Timothy Bradford (a poet living and writing in Paris) this morning to see if he wanted a coffee, but he'd been traveling and needed to go into work so he couldn't come out. So I had a coffee alone at a bar near the Gare du Nord. I watched an American couple get pissy with the waiter because he didn't understand that they wanted to share the single plate of chicken they ordered and when only one plate of food came, he took the lady's silverware away. And so the Americans were confirmed of their suspicions that the French are rude, and the waiter's notions that Americans are gauche, particular, and too self-justified are formally corroborated. People: Can't we all just get along? That's what I say.

It was raining today, and cold. So much for a Parisian springtime. I got chatted up by one of the guys in front of the cafe. He liked my purple hat. (These aren't blog posts, properly, they're a catalog of my flirts across the continent. Tell true: Is that cool or lame? A little of both, I imagine.)

The train ride to Brussels: Uneventful. I arrived in the city, bought a map, and spent about 20 minutes studying the damn thing and took a chance and just hopped willy-nilly onto the metro, no clue where I was going. But by instinct or accident, I got it right, which I took as a triumph. It's windy in Brussels. Did I know that before? My purple hat blew off my head! I found my lodgings, went to the market, bought cookies, beer, and bread, then put myself into an early bed, and I napped until just this moment.

The Brussels show is tomorrow. My plan is more or less the same for each city-- install myself at the venue early, and edge in close to the stage so I can see. This plan leaves little room for sightseeing. And if I'm being honest, the plan leaves little energy for anything beyond the plan itself. I'll take a book with me to pas the long before time. I'm currently reading a biography of Eva Braun. Today is coincidentally the anniversary of her death. It was her lot to love a monster.

The wind outside the window is loud enough to resemble the sound of a badly-tuned car revving its engine.

I am missing something or someone right this moment, though I cannot say what.

One week of inspiration #6 (by Mitch Sisskind)

A proud possession is my father's birth certificate (1891) from Maxwell Street, Chicago's version of the Lower East Side. Jewish at first, it was mostly black by the time I started visiting in the early 1960s. There were clothing stores, bars, hot dog stands, a vast outdoor market, and lots of street music by some great artists. All gone now of course.

One of the girls in this clip is pretty hot so don't watch while operating a motor vehicle, not even a lawnmower.

Jill Alexander Essbaum

In case you are joining us for the first time, our guest blogger this week is Jill Alexander Essbaum.  Jill's most recent book of poetry is Harlot (No Tell Books, 2007).  You can buy it here. 

Catch up on Jill's posts and read her poem "On Reading Poorly Transcribed Erotica" here.

Next week, Jim Cummins joins us from Cincinnati as Mid West Correspondent. 

-- sdh

Abecedarian -- did someone say Abecedarian?

Anna K.

1.

Anna believed.

Couldn’t delay.

Every Friday

grew heroic

infidelity just

knowing love

might never

otherwise present

queenly resplendent

satisfaction trapped

under Vronsky’s

wild x-rated

young zap.

2.

Afraid. Betrayed.

Can’t divorce.

Envy follows

grim heroine,

inks judgment,

kills lust.

Mercy nowhere.

Opulent pink

quintessence radiates

suicide trip –

unique vacation –

worst Xmas,

yesterday’s zero.

-- DL

One week of inspiration #5 (by Mitch Sisskind)

For twenty years I have written audio programs on business, health, and spirituality for the Nightingale-Conant Corporation in Niles, Illinois. Why, a program I wrote on corporate management has sold tens of thousands of copies -- despite the fact that I can hardly "manage" to get through the morning! And that's not all. I once wrote that a good way to slow down a frenzied lifestyle was to buy a pet tortoise -- despite the fact that tortoise trafficking is a violation of Federal law!

Anyway, this video presents Earl Nightingale, co-founder of Nightingale-Conant, giving a short lecture on Edgar Allen Poe. Although I never met Earl Nightingale I have been told that he possessed one of the most endearing traits anyone can hope for: the habit, in conversation, of correcting other people's grammar. Along with this, he managed to write one of these three minute talks (about 1500 words) five days a week for more than forty years. Mostly they were on radio, but also apparently on TV for at least a while. Recently, the huge self-help best seller called "The Secret" is a blatant ripoff of Earl Nightingale's principle that "you are what you think about." (God help me.) On the other hand, Earl didn't exactly make that up either. Google "The New Thought Movement" and you'll learn a lot about Babbittry and Philistinism. You might even learn how to make some money, goddamnit!

Poetic term of the day -- April 30, 2008

ABECEDARIAN POEM (ay-bee-see-DARE-ee-un): An alphabetic acrostic poem; a poem having verses beginning with the successive letters of the alphabet.

at left: Two Ton Baker

http://www.poeticbyway.com/glossary.html

In Memorium: Jason Shinder (1955-2008)

 

Jason Shinder [Photo by Bill Hayward (c) 2002.]

A Broad, Abroad (installment the second)

Just got back to my hotel room after the NC&TBS Paris show.

The day began at the train station, where I went to get a train ticket to Brussels, which I did. The very dapper looking gent behind the counter told me I spoke really nice French. This was after he asked me where I was from. So it was semi-unsolicited (I didn't solicit it, at least). This is the second time this has happened since I've been in Paris. Admittedly, both people worked in the service industry where you're supposed to be friendly (the first 'you-speak-french-good' person was a woman working a counter at FNAC) but even so, this is France and they hate having their language run up the flagpole in an unsaluteable manner (or, shall I say, un-Salut!-eable?).

The truth is, my French isn't all that formidable. But what little I do speak, I speak the hell out of. And it's always a pleasure to be complimented. Especially by a dapper gent. And a charitable Parisian is the best of all kinds.

Went to the venue--Casino de Paris-- around noon today to make sure I knew where it was. There was no sign of a queue so I left and had a coffee and did some window shopping. I got flirted with by some men doing some construction near the cafe where I took my coffee, but there was too much noise for me to properly flirt back (I find that aggressive background noise disturbs the flow of a good flirt). When I got back to the venue this time, there was only me and a guy from Quebec who I noticed but didn't talk to at the Marseilles show. We chatted for a good 2 hours. It rained and was very, very cold. I teeth-chattered. We were waiting at the band entrance. I saw the whole band arrive (Warren in a taxi, Nick in a hire car, and Martyn, Conway, Jim and Mick in a kinda crappy van). Nick gave autographs and took pictures with a few people, but I stood away from that and didn't join in. I didn't want to be an asshole. Being an asshole is one of my greatest worries. And I don't want to be the obnoxious chick who bothers the band.

The show, I must say, was phenomenal. I was up front and a little off to the right side. Nick tends to favor this side of the stage, so I was in a good line of sight to see Nick be his wild self.

That is a photo of Nick not being particularly wild, but I didn't manage to capture a wild pose because I don't like taking too many pictures at the shows (it's annoying-- just watch the show, folks!). And I only use the flash at the start, when he lets the professional photogs take their pictures (the flash is distracting to the band).

In any case, here's another decent photo, for those of you who care to see...

Now tell me true: has a mustache ever been rocked so hard as his? That's not facial hair, it's fucking art.

I still haven't explicated to any real justification the impulse that drives me towards Nick's work. I'm ass-dragging tired at the moment, so that will need to wait. But I can tell you this much right now: every time I see him live, I'm instructed as an artist in my own right. Tonight's lesson had to do with performance, delivery, and how one might go about filling her work with just a little bit more of herself. It was a lesson against schtick, in favor of sincerity. Or, if you prefer, unfeigned exuberance. An entirely open performance.

The highlights of tonight's show include the opening song, "The Night of the Lotus Eaters," an unrehearsed but impeccable version of "Far From Me," the throbbingly good "Papa Won't Leave You, Henry," "Hard On For Love," and as ever, "Stagger Lee."

I might be away from a proper internet connection tomorrow, so I don't know when I'll post the Brussels update.

But, to tide you over until we meet again, I give you a final photo, a self-portrait taken with the built-in camera in my MacBook. Lookie me with the set list I scored at the end of the show!

(ps... I really do have spare tickets to a couple of the London shows. Is there a poet out there who lives in London who might want to accompany me?)

This Just In

from The New York Post, April 29, 2008 [by-line Neil Graves]:

"A student at [NYU] found three razor blades in a muffin that had been left on a classroom desk.

" School officials said a professor had forgotten to remove the pastry, which had been used to illustrate a class on existentialism."

Challenge: Can anyone think of how three razor blades in a muffin can "illustrate a class on existentialism"?

-- DL

"My Orgasms: A Survey" by Nin Andrews

My Orgasms
a survey of surveys on the Sex Lives of Men and Women

I accept no responsibility for statistics, which are a form of magic beyond my comprehension.
-- Robertson Davies

The average couple is said to have sex 2.2 times per week.  (Though the definition of .2 sex varies depending on one's gender.)

85% of couples said they would like to have sex at least twice a week.  (Only 27% of couples claim to have sex twice a week and like it.)

80% of British men suffer temporary mental setbacks the night after they have sex.  (It has yet to be  determined if this is a cultural or universal phenomenon.)

75% of American women prefer chocolate to sex.  ( This, most scientists believe, is a world-wide phenomenon, depending on the availability of chocolate.)

54% of Christian women say fidelity is what they most love in a man, but  only 6% say the faithful also need to be good in bed.   (Yet another good reason to be an atheist.)

40% of sexually active adults distinguish fucking from sex.  (Sex without fucking?  Is this another Christian sect? )

38% of men pray for divine aid with their sexual performance.  (Examples soon to be released inThe New Book of Common Prayer.)

35% of married women consider sex as important as any other household chore.  (And who knew doing the dishes could be so much fun?  For details on exotic dishes, check out Dish-sex.com)

25% of men say their sexual advances are turned down at least 50% of the time.  (Women are always  better at advancing in such matters, alas.)

10% of men admit to lying about their sex lives, and pollsters suspect the number to be higher.  Even when filling out anonymous, men admit they  want to keep up with the Joneses.   (Such lies!  Do tell!)

1 out of 15 women admits she fakes her orgasms.   (But she still refers to them as "my orgasms.")

-- NA

More Driving Moments in Los Angeles

This week, KUSC is offering collaborations between poets and musicians—good old stuff from folks you probably didn't know had ever collaborated.

Each day on the radio, there's an appealing sound byte. This morning, we heard from e.e. cummings (1894-1962)—that poet who likes to embed classic metric structures (rhymes and iambs) within a subversive forensics of language.

With collaboration (and creative relationships) on the mind, I re-read cummings' 73 poems, and found myself transported to a city street corner in Poem 30, as a clown handed me a daisy.

Here is an excerpt from that piece in honor of poet, teacher and thinker—Jason Shinder:

and while never saying a word

who was anything but dumb;
since the silence of him

self sang like a bird.
Mostpeople have been heard
screaming for international

measures that will render hell rational
—i thank heaven somebody's crazy

enough to give me a daisy.

* Self Portrait by e.e. cummings

-Jenny Factor

One week of inspiration #4 (by Mitch Sisskind)

Many of us are familiar with the speech by MLK the night before his assassination. But its force never diminishes. So many emotions flash across his face in such a short time. Definitely the most powerful rhetorical moment I've ever seen.

Poetic term of the day -- April 28, 2008

RHOPALIC (roh-PAL-ik): Having each succeeding unit in a poetic structure longer than the preceding one. Applied to a line, it means that each successive word is a syllable longer that its predecessor. Applied to a stanza, each successive line is longer by either a syllable or a metrical foot. Rhopalic verse is also called wedge verse.

at left: Anne Sexton

http://www.poeticbyway.com/glossary.html

Congratulations: Elizabeth Samet

Elizabeth Samet is the winner of the 2007 L. A. Times Book Award in the current interest category for A Soldier's Heart:  Reading Literature Through Peace and War at West Point.  "Robert Pinsky, writing in New York Times Book Review, says, "To her great credit, Samet does not draw easy conclusions in `Solder's Heart.' By writing a thoughtful, attentive, stereo-type breaking book about her 10 years as a civilian teacher of literature at the Military Academy, she offers a significant perspective on the crucial social and political force of honor: a principle of behavior at the intersection of duty and imagination . . . Samet. . . should be heeded by journalists and politicians."

Elizabeth Samet has agreed to be our guest blogger for the week of May 19.

Kim Novak turns 75!

Kim Novak and Alfred Hitchcock on the set of Vertigo

Kim Novak officially turned 75 on February 13. In fact, however, she will always be the age she was during the filming of Vertigo in 1958. Only the rest of the world has changed.

A Broad, Abroad (installment the first)

I am 36 years old, well past the years that one typically dedicates to wrecked and reckless abandon, wanton acts of surliness, and the lure of rock and roll.

And yet Saturday afternoon had me tramping around Marseilles's seamiest arrondissement all by my lonesome in order to be the first in the queue to see Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds. (I was first, actually, but then I got spooked by a grabby Frenchman and left the venue for a more populated area of town. When I returned, I was 5th in line).

And yesterday I TGVed to Paris where in just 24 hours, I will traipse down to another venue and install myself in front of it for a few hours so that when they open the doors I can be exactly where I want to be, and that's right up front, baby.

The Paris show is also a Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds show.

Wednesday, I go to Brussels. Then Dublin. Then Glasgow. I didn't manage to get tickets to the Birmingham show (they sold out fast), but I got tickets to both London shows in a week and a half and, later this month, to a show in Berlin.

I feel very strongly about Nick Cave, and seeing him and his fellas perform live is one of my greatest joys. I'll speak to this more explicitly later.

In any case, for my guest blogging stint this week, I invite you to accompany me on my adventures.

(I haven't had any yet today, but this is Paris, so adventure is just a metro stop away...)

Yesterday was disappointingly adventureless as well. The train ride was nondescript, my dinner was a sandwich purchased from a vendor. I sat a couple hours in a cafe not far from the Church of the Madelaine and drank coffees and watched French men. Twenty years ago in a small town in Texas, I longed to live the life that I thought belonged only to poets. What I imagined that life to be more or less resembled the evening I enjoyed last night. The ease of self and soul that is only accomplished by getting lost in the tumbling Paris crowds, the delight of french sentences lolling across my tongue, lingering on my lips, lifting in the air before me, taking the shape of a desire more precise than there are words for. The piss-stained alleyway walls, the fumes of bus exhaust. My God I love Paris. I raised my tasse de cafe to that. In honor of the sixteen-year-old me and the cliches she clung so maniacally to. I had to. Without those tropes, I'd never have become a poet. (I'm unapologetically convinced that it's the Lure of the Grand Ideal--insert whichever Grand Ideal you please-- enwombed deeply and at a very young age, that made all of us poets.)

Let us all raise our glasses, mugs, teacups, juice boxes and sport drink bottles to the Grand Ideal!

More very soon.

jill alexander essbaum

Poetic term of the day -- April 27, 2008

LEONINE VERSE: Named for a 12th century poet, Leonius, it consists of hexameters or of hexameters and pentameters in which the final syllable rhymes with one preceding the caesura, in the middle of the line.

At left: Stephen Crane

http://www.poeticbyway.com/glossary.html

One week of inspiration #3 (by Mitch Sisskind)

Coach Paul "Bear" Bryant of University of Alabama goes through an incredibly long post-game locker room sermon following a tie football game with Auburn University in 1967. I like this clip because the speaker is so deeply involved with a topic that has no interest whatsoever at this point. So it's an exercise in pure form; there's a Gertrude Stein-like quality to it. On a related note, I'm very sorry that the biopic starring Gary Busey as the Bear had only a very short release about 15 yrs ago, or maybe no release at all. Portions of it can be seen on Youtube, and it's a role Gary Busey was born to play.

Thomas Sayers Ellis & Prageeta Sharma @ KGB

KGB Monday Night Poetry Reading Series
Hosted by Laura Cronk and Michael Quattrone
Monday, April 28, 2008, 7:30 pm
FREE

Featuring: Thomas Sayers Ellis and Prageeta Sharma

Prageeta Sharma will be making a rare NYC appearance with her good friend Thomas Sayers Ellis

Thomas Sayers Ellis' first, full collection, The Maverick Room, was published by Graywolf Press in 2005 and awarded The 2006 John C. Zacharis First Book Award. He is also the author of The Good Junk (Take Three #1, Graywolf 1996); a chapbook The Genuine Negro Hero (Kent State University Press, 2001) and the chaplet Song On (WinteRed Press 2005). An Assistant Professor of Creative Writing at Sarah Lawrence College and a faculty member of The Lesley University low-residency M.F.A program (Cambridge, Massachusetts), his Breakfast and Blackfist: Notes for Black Poets is also forthcoming from the University of Michigan Press, Poets on Poetry Series.

Prageeta Sharma is the author of Bliss to Fill (Subpress Collective, 2000), The Opening Question (Fence Books, 2004. Winner of the 2004 Fence Modern Poets Prize) and Infamous Landscapes (Fence Books, 2007). She is currently an associate professor/director of creative writing at University of Montana in Missoula.

KGB Bar ● 85 East 4th Street ● New York, NY 10003 ● Phone: 212-505-3360

Film Still Series #2

From the forthcoming film by Bill Hayward, Asphalt, Muscle and Bone, about a man at risk, the persistence of imagination and the impossibility of love. Produced by Bill Hayward and Anna Elman.