Wednesday, August 31, 2005

Jess Mynes, from Coltsfoot Insularity

New first day:
pine needles
on flat roof
red shingles
acorns leave
berets in
the walkway

“Jimmy Carter Says Yes”

Jess Mynes, "Self Portrait, 1936"

Fly autumn umber
hands clasped
here are the lines
and what counts
for a nimbus

Raphael Rubinstein, "What happened"

Of course I would like to be

a poet of personal universalities,

noting, in chiseled language,

daily events, extravaganzas of nature

and the amazing revelations they bring,

Once I was such a poet

or at least was making appropriate gestures in that direction.

What happened?

Should I try to explain

in a 600-page memoir titled Some Time in New York City?

Or a lengthy autobiographical essay called “The Dangers of Derrida”?

Or a playlist that leads off with

the Sex Pistols, the Contortions and Gang of Four?

Or point to a line on my CV that reads

“Studied with Harry Mathews 1978-79”?

It’s 9:20 AM. Almost time to leave

this light-filled café at Varick and Franklin

and plunge back into artworld maneuvering.

Before I go

I’ll read one more page of Ammons’s A Coast of Trees

Raphael Rubinstein, "Deciphered from an Old Retablo"

Accomplished nothing! Alberto, Carlos, Florencio,
gang of my youth! Old poems yellow in the boxes
money was no help, finding
Divine guidance was a joke, and now traces of
the Solitude are all that remains. The intercession
was a mirage; our Muse went elsewhere to live her life.

Gina Myers, "After David Shapiro"

dear cloud, free from moral guilt
dear calendar, your pages worn
dear bridge, free from the heart's concerns
dear train, free from pain
dear passing, no need for a watch
dear address, words on your eyelids
dear lullaby, dear vase of flowers, dear candy store
dear sun, let go your winter coat
dear stove, free from yesterday's mistakes
dear fan blades, turn & turn
dear song, it's come out all wrong