Ah Bill. As an old friend used to say, "Rise, Poet. Rise." And if I may add to that, after stealing shamelessly a sister's son, let's keep this mutant language alive for we are the only ones who can say "ouch" in more than a thousand ways.
The first stanza is beautiful by the way. The rest of it is as well (especially that delicious bit about "taming letters") but the first one bore deeper into me than they did. As it should, I believe. Since this moves like an extended echo - beautifully softening the hard impact of the reality you initially stabbed me with.
wow, absolutly superlative. Top to bottom, really exquisitly written. So many lines I found myself repeating for the simple asthetic of it, "north borne, tossed" and "bucher brahm's lullaby" especially. I am really quite blown away by this. Loved it.
I like this. And I like what this izzy person does for you. Gets gears whirring somehow, I think.
On my first reading, the 4th stanza caught my attention.
"North borne, tossed
Toward a half-formed sky"
It's like flying into a storm.
On further readings, the impression of flying in a storm solidified for me; then became more like being the storm flying above the world.
There is a sh!tstorm of opinion in the world.
Sometimes it can bend us, and make us quiet. Or make us wrestle with silent words instead of singing out loud.
Sometimes we can find a way to ride the storm as if it were a high-spirited thoroughbred.
Sometimes we become the storm ourselves.
After all, if storms are a part of nature, why not give in to the inevitable and enjoy the ride?
You seem to be a bit of a gear-turner yourself, Mr. Bill.
Thanks for a great read, and a mental kick in the slats.
i read this yesterday, and funny enough Dylan's simple twist of fate played on the radio on my way into work.
and maybe it is, that i hope too much for something i can't explain, yet can't stamp out, and hope for still.
i suppose it is time to just settle into believing again in the things that are in front of me.
yet i have these moments, though sometimes small, they seem enormous and all encompassing. like being on my stoop, thinking about the things i can't change and coming to terms, yet a bit of something good to think about sneaks in, and i find grace in the process. it is humbling and sweet and satisfying.
not sure where i am going with all of this...
but i thank you Bill, for being just as you are. happy to be somewhat of an inspiration for another poem by you.
it's 1962 March 28th
I'm sitting by the window on the Prague-Berlin train
night is falling
I never knew I liked
night descending like a tired bird on a smoky wet plain
I don't like
comparing nightfall to a tired bird
I didn't know I loved the earth
can someone who hasn't worked the earth love it
I've never worked the earth
it must be my only Platonic love
and here I've loved rivers all this time
whether motionless like this they curl skirting the hills
European hills crowned with chateaus
or whether stretched out flat as far as the eye can see
I know you can't wash in the same river even once
I know the river will bring new lights you'll never see
I know we live slightly longer than a horse but not nearly as long as a crow
I know this has troubled people before
and will trouble those after me
I know all this has been said a thousand times before
and will be said after me
I didn't know I loved the sky
cloudy or clear
the blue vault Andrei studied on his back at Borodino
in prison I translated both volumes of War and Peace into Turkish
I hear voices
not from the blue vault but from the yard
the guards are beating someone again
I didn't know I loved trees
bare beeches near Moscow in Peredelkino
they come upon me in winter noble and modest
beeches are Russian the way poplars are Turkish
"the poplars of Izmir
losing their leaves. . .
they call me The Knife. . .
lover like a young tree. . .
I blow stately mansions sky-high"
in the Ilgaz woods in 1920 I tied an embroidered linen handkerchief
to a pine bough for luck
I never knew I loved roads
even the asphalt kind
Vera's behind the wheel we're driving from Moscow to the Crimea
formerly "Goktepé ili" in Turkish
the two of us inside a closed box
the world flows past on both sides distant and mute
I was never so close to anyone in my life
bandits stopped me on the red road between Bolu and Geredé
when I was eighteen
apart from my life I didn't have anything in the wagon they could take
and at eighteen our lives are what we value least
I've written this somewhere before
wading through a dark muddy street I'm going to the shadow play
a paper lantern leading the way
maybe nothing like this ever happened
maybe I read it somewhere an eight-year-old boy
going to the shadow play
Ramazan night in Istanbul holding his grandfather's hand
his grandfather has on a fez and is wearing the fur coat
with a sable collar over his robe
and there's a lantern in the servant's hand
and I can't contain myself for joy
flowers come to mind for some reason
poppies cactuses jonquils
in the jonquil garden in Kadikoy Istanbul I kissed Marika
fresh almonds on her breath
I was seventeen
my heart on a swing touched the sky
I didn't know I loved flowers
friends sent me three red carnations in prison
I just remembered the stars
I love them too
whether I'm floored watching them from below
or whether I'm flying at their side
I have some questions for the cosmonauts
were the stars much bigger
did they look like huge jewels on black velvet
or apricots on orange
did you feel proud to get closer to the stars
I saw color photos of the cosmos in Ogonek magazine now don't
be upset comrades but nonfigurative shall we say or abstract
well some of them looked just like such paintings which is to
say they were terribly figurative and concrete
my heart was in my mouth looking at them
they are our endless desire to grasp things
seeing them I could even think of death and not feel at all sad
I never knew I loved the cosmos
snow flashes in front of my eyes
both heavy wet steady snow and the dry whirling kind
I didn't know I liked snow
I never knew I loved the sun
even when setting cherry-red as now
in Istanbul too it sometimes sets in postcard colors
but you aren't about to paint it that way
I didn't know I loved the sea
except the Sea of Azov
or how much
I didn't know I loved clouds
whether I'm under or up above them
whether they look like giants or shaggy white beasts
moonlight the falsest the most languid the most petit-bourgeois
I like it
I didn't know I liked rain
whether it falls like a fine net or splatters against the glass my
heart leaves me tangled up in a net or trapped inside a drop
and takes off for uncharted countries I didn't know I loved
rain but why did I suddenly discover all these passions sitting
by the window on the Prague-Berlin train
is it because I lit my sixth cigarette
one alone could kill me
is it because I'm half dead from thinking about someone back in Moscow
her hair straw-blond eyelashes blue
the train plunges on through the pitch-black night
I never knew I liked the night pitch-black
sparks fly from the engine
I didn't know I loved sparks
I didn't know I loved so many things and I had to wait until sixty
to find it out sitting by the window on the Prague-Berlin train
watching the world disappear as if on a journey of no return
19 April 1962
Trans. by Randy Blasing and Mutlu Konuk (1993)
sorry, was just reading this and wanted to share.
great tribute to g, quiet one.