Winter 2014 - Angular Haiku

cracked ice
tectonic plates collide
boom! shaka laka laka

Autumn Haiku #1

One brittle leaf

in the autumn wind

startles the Buddha

April is Po-tree Month

Part I:
You may not have noticed, but April is national po-tree month. I'm not quite sure which nation we're talking about here. Maybe the nation of Murricanaduh. I dunno. I'm pretty sure it's Canaduh. And the US too. If not, so what? You don't need an excuse for po-tree.

So, in that spirit I present a pome from an old dead white guy who achieved a good measure of fame for his po-tree, name of William Butler Yeats. This comes from the Oxford Book of English Verse:

Where My Books Go

All the words that I utter,
And all the words that I write,
Must spread out their wings untiring,
And never rest in their flight,
Till they come where your sad, sad heart is,
And sing to you in the night,
Beyond where the waters are moving,
Storm-darken'd or starry bright.

***

Furthermore, in the spirit of national po-tree month, April, I too have a pome, inspired by this work of Yeats. It goes something like this:

All the words that I utter,
And all the words that I write,
Must span the ocean 'lectronic
Either ether or Uther & come to rest
In the Dark Age of the Dragon's Pen;
Or colonize minute interstices
'Mid rampant ignorant superstishies;
Or grind themselves in plates tectonic
Between Scylla whole reading & Charybdis phonic.
None may pass the spellcheck test
& retain the rubric "Larry's Best"
Lest philistines gobble clash & groan
And somehow make this pome their own.

***

I think I could not demonstrate with greater clarity why William Butler Yeats is in the Oxford Book of English Verse and Larry is in the Yoni School for Wayward Poets carrying on his Mental Blog.

---

Part II:
As proprietor of this here blog, Mental, I get the odd communication from people in the biz. This communication I am about to communicate to you was not so odd, however.

I received an email from Michael Douma who has developed a website called Poetry Through the Ages. I encourage you, if you are interested in po-tree, to visit this site. It has an interesting feature which Mr. Douma calls a nodemap...what I believe is a Java-powered version of "clustering", a technique with which many writers will be familiar. (There is now at least one computer version of this clustering technique called FreeMind, which I have used. It's a way cool -- and useful -- app. Poetry Through the Ages uses SpicyNodes, a web-based app.) What you can do with this map is explore different areas of the website by clicking on the balloons.

And there are many different areas to explore: the history of poetry; different forms both classical and modern; obscure forms; popular forms; notes about the biz of po-tree. There's even a shop where you can shop. And of course links to other resources.

Personally, I plan to revisit the villanelle.

A Momentary Lapse of Lucidity

let me go crash! brash!
let me stash, gnash teeth
by the seasaw in nash rambler
fifty years gone long lawn long lost
lying
on its broken back bacon scrambler egg cup

let me
thrash flash bulbous ectotherms
obscurity terms papers blown in the windpipe
swipe the rambler gamble the gypsy moth
frothyface moon dabbler scrabble pumpkin
peter eater
that's a triple word score!

let me plash in the kiddie pool
fool i be, fool i wool over your woolfish eyes
and doughy thighs squeezed nightly in the spandex
change the stockings change
the standard poor excuse for
vile robbery tile mockery style foppery

let me
plum the deepends, the jam of forefathers
two mothers three sisters ten brothers
brooks and done like dinners diners clubs and diamonds
give me lets give me baseballs and baseboards
for last trains to gnashville
i'll meet you at the station where
that cross we'll bear
skin to skin
in the evening of our ascension

2 Versions of the Same Thing

1.
I'm a hitch-hiker across spiritual terrain
thumbing a ride on the dharma caboose.

Choo-choo!
Choo-choo ch'boogie!

(A poetically mixed metaphor I think...)

2.
I'm a hobo tramping spiritual terrain
riding the rails on the dharma caboose.

Choo-choo!
Choo-choo ch'boogie!

A Telegram to Gary Snyder

Gary Snyder Japhy Ryder
beatpoet Zenmonk
Zenpoet beatmonk
Japan pilgrim climbs California hills

Berry-picker wilderness tramp
of the rucksack revolution
Lumberjack lookout on Desolation Peak
Cascades to Canada

Highways rivers civilized sinews
all gone in gone world
City Lights Frisco Bay
Desolation still stands

Lunchbucket ON aka "The Tower of Song"

Leonard Cohen came to Lunchbucket last night and played the Square Peg in the Centre of the Hole, looking almost exactly like this photo here. Despite its unfortunate name, the Square Peg is one of the best concert halls in Canaduh.

Miracle of miracles, I got to go. A day pass for the evening because, as I said to Nurse Ratchet while abasing myself and grovelling, "C'mon Nurse Ratchet! After all, he is a pote! He's Canaduh's natural national pote now that Irving Layton's gone."

Nurse Ratchet sniffed and said, "Larry he is a po-ette, not a pote. When are you going to surrender your shiftless rebelliousness and stop trying to rearrange the language according to your own arcane little rules?"

"There's nothing ette about Leonard Cohen", sez I, "And I'll surrender when they erect a monument to Ogden Nash in Timeless Square! Meanwhile, kin I go see Leonard Coe, kin I huh, kin I please, pretty please?"

And so she let me. And Suzy Homemaker too, as a sort of chaperone.

Really, it's no con to say Leonard Cohen is a pote. He's a real life, legit, musical pote. And he's a Canajun national treasure...one whom many Canajuns don't even really know. More's the pity.

But the audience last night was positively adulatory. They gave him a standing ovation before he even started! And then he started with The Future. And just went on from there into the past, the present, the non-existent, the fantastic, the revelatory, the self-deprecatory, the whole story.

I'm not sure quite how old he is, about 75. After the third song or so, he commented how he hadn't been on that stage for 15 years, back when he was just a kid with a crazy dream. He was clearly enjoying performing, but one can't help but wonder if he'd just as soon be home in his drawing room petting his partner. Because really, the only reason he's on tour...the only reason we get the pleasure of seeing him perform a 3 hour tour of his music, is because he needs the money. And that's a whole other story of not "Taking Care of Business" I guess and getting screwed because of it. Trusting someone too much, or not really caring about what might happen. And if it was the latter, then that was his secret, unconscious plan to end up back on the road playing to thousands of adoring fans.

The band was fabulous, of course. Naturally, because of HWSRN, I have an affinity for the keyboard player of any band. Cohen's keyboard player was Neil Larsen, an absolute master of the Hammond B3, and a name I recognized immediately, tho I can't say who he's played with. However, he has a sound-patch for the old Yamaha DX7 synth named after him.

Cohen rolled out all the hits. He started off his second set with Tower of Song which, for me anyway, is nothing short of sublime and contains what I think may be his most famous line: "I was born with the gift of a golden voice..." Pure irony, of course, but he actually does sing pretty well, although not always on pitch. He has a poet's sense of timing too...knows just when to be a little off-beat from the backup singers. At the end of the song, the back-up singers sing, "Doo dum dum dum de doo dum dum." When it was over, Cohen said that he had studied the spiritual masters looking for the key to life. And that was the answer. Doo dum dum dum de doo dum dum.

All night long, the songs, the lines, seemed to be making reference to his current situation...the financial one, I mean, and the necessity of touring. But also to his past. He made jokes about his spiritual quest, his drinking, his loves and losses. He even dedicated a song to Bo Diddley...the most un-Bo song he has, Take This Waltz. And the audience lapped it up.

Then the show was over. But the master showman (who barely has to even move to get a reaction) kept coming back for more. Giving more. Encore after encore. The people loved it. Even tho it was clearly planned that way. For one encore they barely went off stage and meanwhile the stage crew were bringing out Leonard's guitar and rearranging things. Obviously he was coming back. There were, maybe, two people who got bored.

Not me. If I could write one song as well-crafted as Hallelujah, I'd die a happy wayward pote.

The Buddha On My Coffee Cup

pretends to be a hippo
"I have the body of a god" it says.

But Buddha is not a god.
He's something you kill
when you meet him on the road
                                                      to Damascus.

How would the world be now
if Saul had plucked out his eyes
in answer to that blinding flash
                                                      of insight?

A Pome by Malcolm Lowry

As yet, I've been unable to finish Under the Volcano. I know it's supposed to be a masterpiece. I know it's what made Lowry. But it sat for years on my shelf before I even started it. Then it sat for years more with a bookmark about a third of the way through. At the moment, I'm not even sure where my copy of it is.

On the other hand, I've lately read a couple of his pomes which are somehow more accessible. Witty. Not so dreary. (And it seems that dreary is how I characterize Under the Volcano. But maybe I should give it another chance.)

Anyway, here's a pome by Lowry, and I'm sure anyone who has had some of their work published can relate to this:

Strange Type

I wrote: in the dark cavern of our birth.

The printer had it tavern, which seems better:

But herein lies the subject of our mirth,

Since on the next page death appears as dearth.

So it may be that God's word was distraction,

Which to our strange type appears destruction.

Which is bitter.

Victoria Park at Sundown

unkempt, bedraggled after winter's long tectonic rumble,
the grass greening through muddy footpaths,
here, there, a quick outbreak of exuberant crocuses
shocking in their colour to snow-dimmed eyes

pines, maples, weeping willows spruce up,
unbending toward the warming sun

setting now, an orange with fiery zest,
a target for the takeoff of two geese
suddenly raucous as they heave themselves from the water

a pair of drakes mutter about the state of the lake,
swans stately on the shore

away from the street, the sibilance of cars almost soothes,
soft counterpoint to the mingled calls of sparrows,
chickadees, jays and cardinals, a mourning dove lowing,
all in last-minute flurries
skittering up, down, catching handy branches,
a bite to eat before bed

the air is a breath of moisture,
redolent with earlier rain, green and substantial

lovers walk the paths, low voices laughing,
even the dogs are peaceful

HWSRN
April/00

Charles Simic, US Poet Laureate

Charles Simic has made it to the top of the potic heap, appointed Poet Laureate in the US. I don't know much about him, only the name. Here's a link for info and poems of his. And here's the NY Times telling us all about it.

I don't know much about his po-tree. I'm a little more familiar with Robert Pinsky, who preceded him and appears now on the right side of the page.


And who is the Canajun Poet Laureate? Hmm...that seems to be a complicated question.

Is it this man?


His name is John Steffler and he's the Parliamentary Poet Laureate. Whatever that is.

Is it this woman?
Her name is Pauline Michel and she was the Parliamentary Poet Laureate before John Steffler. Her term ended in Nov/06

Turns out the question is not so complicated after all. This man, George Bowering, was the first Parliamentary Poet Laureate, whose term ended in 2004. And who wouldn't choose a man who has the Peace Tower growing out of his shoulder?


Naturally it was in the last place I looked, but the article about George Bowering indicates that Canada's Poet Laureate is in fact called the Parliamentary Poet Laureate. I didn't know that. But then, what I don't know could fill a good-sized blog.

For example, I've never heard of Pauline Michel or John Steffler. Are they good potes? Dunno. Who'm I to judge? I'm just a street pote, locked up for misspelling and general surliness. I have several what I call "shopping list" pomes. People seem to like them. I've never been in the Parliament buildings.

I have, however, visited the Golden Boy who faces west from the top of the Ledge in Winterpeg. And they have buffaloes in the foyer! Or perhaps they're bison. There used to be also a statue of Louis Riel naked somewhere on the grounds, but they might have moved that.

Yes, in fact it's now located at Collège universitaire de Saint-Boniface, which is in ze French Quarter of ze city. Lovely place. In a Manitoba sort of way. (This photo above reproduced under the GNU Free Documentation License.)

You see, they put me in the Yoni School for Wayward Poets partly because I have trouble being serious about serious po-tree. You know, Po-tree with a capital P. I read Robert Pinsky's book, The Sounds of Poetry...from back to front. It made just as much sense to me as the other way around.

Is it a good thing to have a Parliamentary Poet Laureate? Dunno. Seems to me whenever you get Parliaments involved it's a taxing experience. But I heard George Bowering often on Mothercorp, so I guess that's good. Anything to raise the moral, ethical, spelling and potic standards of the Canajun peeples. And, you can actually apply for the job. So that's at least one person who makes a living off of po-tree. Even if it's at the expense of Canajun taxpayers who apparently prefer hockeyhockeyhockey. (Don't get me wrong. I like hockey fully as much as the next Canajun kid who once caught a puck with his mouth...)

On the other hand, serious potes always seem to have universities attached to them. Helluva thing to drag around, don't you think? Much better just to have a dog. Dogs always love you, especially if you feed them. They're not quite as heavy as universities. And they're almost as good as having tenure.

The Parliamentary Poet Laureate's tenure is apparently two years. A dog can live 15 or 18 if you treat it right and take it to the vet for its shots.

I wonder if Parliament would consider creating the post of Parliamentary Dog Laureate? A husky, that's the ticket! A team of huskies! And a sled! To pull the Poet Laureate around the Great White North! I think I'll send my MP an email...

Maybe I'll even apply for the job.

New Heart Device Installed in Cheney

The New York Times is reporting on Dick Cheney's new device. Here are my quick thoughts on this development:

Cheney's heart is not that smart,
They've had to install another part.
For him, compash is out of fash.
God forbid he could be so rash.
We have a notion the part the president's kissing
is not the part that Cheney's missing.

(With apologies to the Cowardly Lion...)

Amelia

NY Times: July 2, 1937
Miss Earhart Forced Down at Sea, Howland Isle Fears; Coast Guard Begins Search
Fuel Had Run Low
Fliers Were Near Goal When Last Reported but Saw No Land
Plane Equipped to Float
Has Sealed Gasoline Tanks and a Rubber Lifeboat for Emergency at Sea
Radio Believed Heard
Los Angeles Amateurs Pick Up Weak Signals on Frequency Assigned to the Plane
By THE ASSOCIATED PRESS


WASHINGTON, July 2: -- Coast Guard headquarters was advised tonight that Amelia Earhart was believed to have alighted on the Pacific Ocean near Howland Island shortly after 5 P.M. Eastern daylight time today.

A message from the cutter Itasca, stationed in the vicinity of the island in the mid-Pacific, said:

"Earhart unreported at Howland at 7 P.M. [E.D.T.]. Believe down shortly after 5 P.M. Am searching probable area and will continue."

Admiral William D. Leahy, chief of naval operations, instructed the commandant of the naval station at Honolulu tonight to render whatever aid he may deem practicable in the search for Miss Earhart.

Plane Joins in Search

[A navy flying boat hopped off from Honolulu late last night for Howland Island, 1,900 miles distant, to join the cutter Itasca in hunting for Miss Earhart, The Associated Press reported. Two Los Angeles radio amateurs were said to have picked up weak signals on the frequency assigned to the Earhart radio.]

Coast Guard headquarters here received information that Miss Earhart probably overshot tiny Howland Island because she was blinded by the glare of an ascending sun. The message from the Coast Guard cutter Itasca said it it was believed Miss Earhart passed northwest of Howland Island about 3:20 P.M. [E.D.T.], or about 8 A.M., Howland Island time. The Itasca reported that heavy smoke was bellowing from its funnels at the time, to serve as a signal for the flyer. The cutter's skipper expressed belief the Earhart plane had descended into the sea within 100 miles of Howland.

Husband Asks Assistance

In a message to Washington, the flier's husband, George Palmer Putnam, who is awaiting her return to this country at the Oakland, Calif., airport said:

"Technicians familiar with Miss Earhart's plane believe, with its large tanks, it can float almost indefinitely. With retractable landing gear and smooth seas, safe landing (on the sea) should have been practicable.

"Request such assistance as is practicable from naval aircraft and surface craft stationed at Honolulu. Apparently plane's position not far from Howland.

"The plane's large wing and empty gasoline tanks should provide sufficient buoyancy if it came to rest on the sea without being damaged.

"There was a two-man rubber lifeboat aboard the plane, together with lifebelts, flares, a Very pistol and a large yellow signal kite which could be flown above the plane or the lifecraft."

Mr. Putnam said his wife had planned to take emergency food rations and plenty of water on the hazardous flight, the most dangerous on her trip around the world.

Earlier the Coast Guard had ordered the cutter Roger B. Taney to proceed from Honolulu to Howland Island to aid the cutter Itasca in the search for Miss Earhart. A message from Honolulu, however, said the Taney was undergoing repairs and could not participate.

Amateurs Pick Up Signals

Los Angeles, July 2 (AP) -- Two amateur radio operators claimed to have picked up signals tonight on frequencies officially assigned to the plane of Amelia Earhart.

Walter McMenamy said he picked up weak signals on 6210 kilocycles at 6 P.M. [10 P.M. Eastern daylight time] and heard the letters "L-a-t" which he took to mean latitude. The letters were followed by undecipherable figures.

The signals continued for some time. Mr. McMenamy expressed belief they came from a portable transmitter. he received other signals from a Coast Guard boat, presumably the cutter Itasca, requesting listeners to "stand by and listen on all frequencies."

At 8 P.M. [midnight Eastern daylight time], Carl Pierson, chief engineer of the Patterson Radio Corporation, picked up similarly weak signals on 3,105 kilocycles, Miss Earhart's daytime frequency. He said they were erratic and undecipherable.

Both Mr. McMenamy and Mr. Pierson said the signals came from a hand-cranked generator. Miss Earhart carried one in her plane.

Within 100 Miles of Goals
Honolulu July 2 (AP) -- Amelia Earhart, the world's best known aviatrix, and her navigator, Fred Noonan, were believed forced down at sea today in their $80,000 "flying laboratory" somewhere near tiny Howland Island on a daring attempt to span the South Pacific.

Apparently headwinds had exhausted their gasoline within 100 miles of the end of a projected 2,556-mile flight from Lae, New Guinea.

The alarming silence of the plane's radio spurred into search the Coast Guard cutter Itasca from Howland Island when Miss Earhart's estimated gasoline deadline of 8 P.M. [E.D.T.] passed without word.

A message from the globe-girdling plane, the time of which was translated at Washington by Coast Guard headquarters as 3:20 P.M. [E.D.T.] said she had only a half hour's gasoline and had not sighted land. A later incomplete message was reported at 4:43 P.M. [E.D.T.] Earlier at 2:46 P.M. [E.D.T.] the plane was approximately 100 miles from the island.

The cutter Itasca set out at 8:30 P.M. [E.D.T.] to hunt the missing plane. Coast guardsmen here expressed the belief that aviation's "first lady" and her companion had overshot the minute island and come down somewhere in the vast mid-Pacific region far removed from regular shipping lanes. The cutter prepared to search the little known area northwest of Howland Island.

Bound around the world on an equatorial trail of more than 27,000 miles, Miss Earhart had flown since May 21 from Oakland, Calif., in relatively leisurely stages.

Arriving at Lae, New Guinea, June 28 she awaited favorable weather for the attempt to negotiate the unflown miles to Howland Island, the dot of land that represents the United States' frontier in the South Pacific and is regarded as a potential stepping stone on an air line between the Pacific Coast and the Antipodes.

She left Lae at 10 A.M. local time July 2, which was 8 P.M. yesterday, Eastern daylight time, expecting to complete the flight in eighteen or twenty hours.

The navy tug Ontario stood by half-way between New Guinea and Howland Island, but was not heard from. The Itasca, waiting to receive Miss Earhart at the island received only the barest reports of her progress until the message came that her fuel was about gone.

The next nearest land to Howland is Jarvis Island, a similar mid-Pacific dot forty miles north. Aside form these virtual sandbars there is nothing but water for hundreds of miles.

Howland Island is many hours behind Eastern time, and daylight still existed there with a smooth sea and good visibility prevailing.

The Coast Guard reported receipt of the following message from the Itasca:

"Earhart contact at 3:30 P.M. [E.D.T.]; reported half hour fuel and no landfall. Position doubtful.

"Contact 2:46 P.M. [E.D.T.]; reported approximately 100 miles from Itasca, but no relative bearing. Sea is smooth, visibility perfect, ceiling unlimited. Understand she will float for limited time."

Coast Guard officers consulted the army commanders in Honolulu concerning the possibility of sending land or sea planes from Honolulu, but officials said this was unlikely.

Officers aboard the cutter reported they estimated 8 P.M. [E.D.T.] was the latest the plane could stay aloft an that if it had not arrived by then search would be started in the northwest quadrant from Howland Island "as the most probable area."

Headquarters officials said they could not understand the discrepancy between Miss Earhart's report that she had only a half hour's fuel and the Itasca estimate that she could remain in the air until 7 P.M. They added, however, that the Itasca officers might have taken into account a reserve fuel supply aboard the plane.

Information was sought concerning the sea, whether it was smooth enough to aid the fliers in keeping afloat until the Itasca could locate and rescue them or whether it was rough enough to endanger them immediately.

The Itasca radioed Washington the sea was smooth with visibility perfect.


Amelia
Music & Lyrics by Joni Mitchell

I was driving across the burning desert
When I spotted six jet planes
Leaving six white vapor trails across the bleak terrain
It was the hexagram of the heavens
It was the strings of my guitar
Amelia, it was just a false alarm

The drone of flying engines
Is a song so wild and blue
It scrambles time and seasons if it gets thru to you
Then your life becomes a travelogue
Of picture-post-card-charms
Amelia, it was just a false alarm

People will tell you where theyve gone
Theyll tell you where to go
But till you get there yourself you never really know
Where some have found their paradise
Others just come to harm
Oh amelia, it was just a false alarm

I wish that he was here tonight
Its so hard to obey
His sad request of me to kindly stay away
So this is how I hide the hurt
As the road leads cursed and charmed
I tell amelia, it was just a false alarm











A ghost of aviation
She was swallowed by the sky
Or by the sea, like me she had a dream to fly
Like icarus ascending
On beautiful foolish arms
Amelia, it was just a false alarm

Maybe Ive never really loved
I guess that is the truth
Ive spent my whole life in clouds at icy altitude
And looking down on everything
I crashed into his arms
Amelia, it was just a false alarm

I pulled into the cactus tree motel
To shower off the dust
And I slept on the strange pillows of my wanderlust
I dreamed of 747s
Over geometric farms
Dreams, amelia, dreams and false alarms