Purveyors of fine poetry since 2003.
Annoyance upon annoyance grew—
a half-inch, an inch of rue; and since
I’d let them, a whole field, a mountain.
They occupied the furniture, took over
all meals, travel plans, the weather—
At night I rocked their sleepless
siblings and fed them all remaining
rations from my day: and still they howled,
opened their mouths to bare hungry gums,
the blinding whites of pointed teeth.
In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.
I’m honored to join the chorus of appreciative readers and fellow bloggers celebrating the 10th anniversary of the cassandra pages — in many ways, the most indispensable site in the loose network of literary, artistic and spiritual blogs to which Via Negativa more or less belongs (we’re not big on belonging to networks, any of us). Yesterday, we head from Language Hat, Maria Benet, and the Velveteen Rabbi, and Lorianne DiSabato shared some trenchant observations on blogging at her own site. Today, I’m joined by Teju Cole and Jean Morris in reminiscing and expressing gratitude for Beth’s ten years of blogging. Here’s a quote from Teju:
It wasn’t a great year, 2003. It was a sad year. In February and March, we were all helplessly counting down to the mass murder about to begin in Iraq, watching with horror as the men in charge made up their minds to reshape the world, and to reshape the evidence to suit that purpose. Then the war began, and the terrible news began to pour in. It pours in still.
In the midst of all that, I think we all looked for those things and those people that could speak in a thoughtful, subtle, and prophetic voice to our predicament. We didn’t need more news. We needed presence of mind. I know that this is why I read so much poetry in the past decade, and it’s also why I came to value Cassandra Pages, not long after you began writing here. You used words, images, and experience in ways that set the darkness echoing. Whether thinking about civil rights, a bowl of figs, a journey to Iceland, or a painting by Duccio, you were never lazy or glib or unkind. Through your writing here (and later, through our friendship in the real world), I learned to be more thoughtful. And through you and the way things branch out on the Internet, I found many other like-minded friends, like Dave Bonta at Via Negativa, Natalie D’Arbeloff at Blaugustine, and so many precious others.
High, I desire
the writ of the Lord,
answer a judge
with three pints of wine
and take by mistake for supper
a hand with strawberry on it.
Erasure poem derived from The Diary of Samuel Pepys, Wednesday 21 March 1659/60.
Each month I get a stack of magazines in my office mail: Poets &
Writers, Poetry— but lately, a catalog for Infectious Disease Control?
Who got me on that mailing list and why? I thumb through pages of colored
latex gloves, swabs and antiseptics, catheters inspiring unease. Control’s
anxiety’s dark twin, sibling to that rebellious sister who slips out the window
to smoke on the roof, who skips school to fuck a boy (the briefest bliss). Control’s
the sting of a belt, staccato laid on the flesh of my cousin’s back
while his mother cried He’s only a boy, stop, please! Control
is this same boy thirty years later, prodigal returned from the big city
to attend the father on his deathbed, about to wheeze his last. Who controls
the wind or rain, water that turns from blue to limpid against
the sandbar’s edge, almost clear as remission? Nothing to hold
here that instinct hasn’t first instructed: an owl flies by with a shrew
in its claws; and beneath, worms tunnel in the soil oblivious to our plotting.
In response to Via Negativa: Premonitory.
Things against my going:
the rain, a great deal of paper,
the wind in the marsh. Oy.
I chose the saddest color
for a melancholy mother
and had a fear I should see
my house full of swords.
Erasure poem derived from The Diary of Samuel Pepys, Tuesday 20 March 1659/60.
The ferryman came and whispered
in my ear, asking if I would like
to visit that town I might not ever
see again but in my dreams—
I said Is that your first question?
for I knew no one could gain passage
without a token— And he laughed
and patted the grey hollow between
his shoulders, saying Come, sister;
in the trees the leaves are lit up just
like lanterns, and your face is a tarot
that still points all ways but one.
In response to Via Negativa: Mare Desiderii.
On the other hand, though, what emerges is a body of work. It isn’t conventional, or even graspable, and perhaps will be impermanent, but I know that it is, in fact, THE body of artistic work accomplished in my lifetime which most closely represents me. It’s also taught me the most. Once upon a time I wasn’t satisfied with that. Now, I am.
For as much as I sometimes have wished to be otherwise, I am not first and foremost a novelist or a painter, a writer of non-fiction books or a photographer or printmaker. I’m a reader, and observer, and an integrator, whose chosen form is the informal essay, illustrated with my own photographs or artwork, and whose perfect medium of expression is the blog. Being a blogger became an intrinsic part of my identity: like someone who works in watercolors or oils, I see the world and my daily life through an intimacy with this medium. It used to feel a bit weird, like constant translating; now it’s so normal I don’t even think about it, even though I’ve become a lot more choosy about what to base my posts upon. The change from pure writing to a greater focus on art has simply mirrored what’s going on in my own life, too.
Infinity makes
my head full.
I have been king
of the sea where
we drank and drank
till water was
the wish of all.
My mind is still
in the drink.
Erasure poem derived from The Diary of Samuel Pepys, Monday 19 March 1659/60.
All the shops are closed now, for it is very late in the evening.
But someone has left a window in the bookstore open
and the sale signs are flying out, the posters printed
with the covers of paperbacks—
Is that Chekhov’s “Cherry Orchard” or “The Interpreter
of Maladies?” There is a pleasing orange glow
reflected on the damp sidewalks and on the tops
of restaurant awnings. The hem of my long skirt
swirls around my ankles, and I feel a little
like the woman in Chagall’s “The Birthday,” toes
pointed as she floats toward the ceiling. Her purse
the color of a dove’s breast has dropped
to the table where a watermelon lies,
one pink cheek open, seeds scattered
on the patterned tablecloth. She is so surprised
by everything: the flowers her love has brought,
the sinuous kiss that buoys them up like two
balloons toward the ceiling. Her eyes the shape
of almonds saying something wistful, almost gone.
In response to small stone (222).
I rose early to barber
the moss of the wood,
took a house
in Drury Lane
and ate toasted cakes
which were very crisp.
Erasure poem derived from The Diary of Samuel Pepys, Sunday 18 March 1659/60.