Showing posts with label Putin. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Putin. Show all posts

3.29.2020

beneath Corona Borealis



BLUE CANOE

While boy-o Henry skipped down Arthur St.
in birdsong Mendelssohn
a few miles up the trolley line
J. Buried-Man lingered on Arthur Ave (complete

Dream Song lament, at 57).  In Paris now
they’ll have to reconstruct the nave,
restore each curving architrave.
This knave goes drifting to St. Lou – his blue

canoe, beached crosswise (by Cahokia)
a kind of compass needle
aimed straight up.  Will weedy
Hobo ever stand erect himself?  Selah,

Ezekiel, Isaiah.  At San Vitale in Ravenna
or at Notre Dame, pilgrims
still stamp across the lurking limbs
of Lucifer – ravel a penitential way

by grace of Mary’s Ariadne-avatar.
It was her love for Theseus
(like Maggie Miriam’s for Jesus)
reeled him out, dis-mazèd – free & clear.

Lone Henry looks straight up, to Pole Star.
Ariadne’s Crown.  The toxic night
a donnybrook for his distraught
Columbia – his ark battered by Minotaur,

his Constitution of chaste liberty
suborned (sat on by Putin’s man).
Look, pilgrim, to the heights again –
whence cometh Thunderbird.  Dove… see?

3.29.20

3.24.2019

Oh say can you see / by the Topsfield town line

& so the grand explication rolls on...

R.D. READING GUIDE #7

TOPSFIELD  (p.9)

This poem clearly a rejoinder to the conflicted cul-de-sac of previous poem (“Black Peak”).  The aim seems to be clarification, but the murk only grows darker.

“Topsfield” : suburb of Boston, next door to Salem, Massachusetts

“Shaker plate / of light” : simplicity, clarity.  Memory of lakeside Shaker settlement near Lewiston, Maine

“one steady statute / of a dauntless ghost” : refers to “our W”, one of the poem’s heroes, Roger Williams (R.W.)

“O say // can you see / By the Topsfield / town line / Where Endicott / ripped / the King’s cross out / barehanded...” : national anthem transposed onto colonial Bay Colony.  The future Governor Endicott of Massachusetts was (at that time, anyway) an enthusiastic disciple of Roger Williams.  One day (in the 1630s) the excitable Endicott, inspired by Williams’ objections to King Charles I’s reinforcement of the Tudor “establishment” of a state-sponsored church, tore the cross out of his own militia’s Union Jack.  This was an early (and emotional)  expression of Roger Williams’ influential theory of the separation of church and state.  Very remotely echoed by Dante in his De Monarchia – the medieval version of a doctrine stipulating the separation of Pope and Emperor.  (Endicott, a resident of Topsfield, was next-door neighbor to Zaccheus Gould, the poet’s great++grandfather).

“Friend” : Quaker, Shaker

Twain’ll meet / Nought, around the bend” : some kind of prophetic cancelling of violent rivalries and conflicts (with a prefiguration of Mark Twain and the river)

Wauontam.  Let’s eat.” : a Narragansett welcome, to feasting (experienced by exiled Roger Williams)

“Tempestuous word... stirs up... chartered Concorde” : a lot packed into this stanza.  Let’s say the tempestuous and threatening prophetic word of someone like Roger Williams, in the 17th century, eventually grew and flourished into the “self-evident endowments” of the 18th century – the U.S. Bill of Rights – in some kind of constitutional alliance with France (“chartered Concorde”).

“Hip-hop’s // Charlie horse” : ambiguous image of a limping monarch (Charlie horse”)

“rocking, racking... icing on a cake of Peking / take-out orders” : the political concept of human liberty, originating in America with Williams, results in a challenge to the autocratic, lawless brutality of “Putin’s generic icing” and “Peking’s take-out orders”

“Aerial checkmate thing” : poetry’s inherent opposition to soul-tyranny.  Echoes of  Biblical Ariel (the Psalmist’s hope); and Nabokov, Montale (“checkmate thing”)

9.03.2018

political sonnet




LAST WORDS
                                  i.m. Alexander Litvinenko

Some Russian in a London hospital
is losing all his hair, can barely speak.
The doctors are confused.  His liquids leak.
It seems he may not make it, after all.
He slumps his ugly body to the wall.
Polonium-210 is quite unique –
this instrument of power at its peak
reduces fractious elements to nil.
And yet a feeble whisper emanates
from dying lips (all victims are pathetic).
You’re a bona fide barbarian,
he croaks (to Mr. Vladimir Putin).
You’ve proved you don’t deserve the trust
of my beloved Russia.  Last words stick.


8.28.2018

the rubles flow from here to there




SAND UNDERFOOT

A mouse ran across a bridge
one winter, in Leningrad –
his name was little Vlad.
He had a key, which was his badge.

He wanted to be Czar one day.
It made things easier.
When life got crazier
he took control – things were okay.

The rubles flow from here to there
in pockets of his underwear –
he makes a face, to scare
the other wolves (the sheep won’t dare).

He liquidated people in the way.
It wasn’t always easy...
Scotland Yard (like Stasi)
fingerpoints (Polonium 1-A).

The light flutes in another realm –
coral reef of seraphim
& monks on mountain rim
(Kievan polyphonic Argo-helm).

A scattershot of goldfinch tunes
or chords of Marian
sis-diva Anderson
lift off cimetière dunes

Pushkin or Berryman would know.
Sparse salty grass.
Sand underfoot, hélas.
A Black Sea seething, as of long ago.

8.28.18

10.21.2017

rim of that heavenly Rome



COSMIC BATTLE

Inching back with my mother down
the nursing home hallway
from dining hall... hey ey
yo.  Keep her from falling (too soon).

Sprightly, amnesiac, brave.
We filtered burnt photographs’
international orange (‘70s
epitaphs).  Look – you still wave

from chilly distance, eldest one.
Your sister, brothers... your
father, meek & mild... War
obliterates peripheral vision, son.

Like game of hangman (simplified).
Figure out the letter
in the word.  Row, Edgar
Poe – enough rope be dangled

like that infamous platform
lifted out of season
like Francis from prison...
only to travel far from harm

along a single beam of light.
Real American creed
spooling through Voodoo
Queen Marie – gonna be all right.

Antithetical Poe held
his ivory casket
in a bird-basket –
row, row, coracle... spelled

               *

IONAH on the bow... over & out
for now.  The cosmic battle
between Caesar & that
measly songster (Stalin puttin’ Anna

into the hollow double-barrels
mimicking Utopia – everyone
happy in warehouse, hon)
becomes a set of Shaker castanets

or scallop-shells of Aphrodite;
– a skirmish in St. Louis
soars above Cahokia (she’s
us) into a supple Rimini-

design.  The poet, poison-pounded
pharmakon, cribbed out
his hazy Paraclete
in limestone layerings – founded

Apollinairy nothings on a pole-starred
pine.  Rose horizontal stripes
on snow led wayward ships
to Milky Way, somehow (the bard

might know).  Over the river E
(for equal sign) carry
me back to cosmic liberty,
Eurydice – united we are free;

like Sophie with P. della Francesca fan
loving galactic neighbors
stitch their laborious
light-canoe (twin Manitou of Man).

10.21.17

3.30.2017

in the zigzag brambles



A GAP

The effect of insight is a sway
of blindness.  Hobo stumbles
in the zigzag brambles.
Fractured fractal frater Francese

camouflaged beneath the Franklin Bridge
(Brownian motion
through a brown mountain
of thorny lozenges & Persian sedge).

The little we see is like a microdot.
A pimple on an eager
pupil – light more meager
in the spokey distance than we thought

– a black hole at its vanishing
girdled with gold penumbra.
His hairs are all numbered,
Galla... fine fit for banishing.

& out of Purgatory rose the diamond
circled by dark chocolate figs
in Sydney.  Wisdom’s digs
are Solomon’s life-shade (moribund

quincunx in the quipu knot);
mild oil of Cyrus
poring shaky chess
wi’ Vladimir, in Paradise (not

Petersburg – Neva). & milky
black, El K arrays
6 ribbons in a Coke display –
the cosmic fizz is finished, Blackie

                    *

Pushkin (Abyssinian catastrophe).
I sense a communion
in an eyelid’s tear-borne
Rimini.  Her ruffled water-symphony,

her Moth Star – bracketed by wagon-
train or Charley-horse –
rose (by reverse Morse
code, or languish tombsk) to fill a flagon

slithered by play claw (dogwood
& oaken twig matter,
merged in a stream-mutter
toward Troezen crown).  Shivered

the Quaker grave.  Some Isis-ghost
of prodigal Ox-Iris lifted
Isaac from the scripted
crumb – some rose Mosaic host,

some chorus of arboreal grief.
Pacific prescience,
aquiline benevolence
ring from that innocence (belief

by kid in Hart’s magnanimous
Columbia-flow).  A simple
crossroad marks the ample
shadow every Geraldine or Uncle

Roger filed, & Dickey bird loves
just this – reciprocal
acknowledgement of all
a gap entails (Thanksgiving doves).

3.29.17

1.14.2017

rowing to Kiev


RAZOR BEAK

The human family of human
families – clay
honeycomb array
in earth-colors – aims for a zone

of radiant plenitude – sustained
chord from a horn of plenty,
hived in community –
a milk-&-honey land, ingrained

along a cedar path of goodness
clear as winter air
warm as Apollinaire
chanting his biplane with finesse

Parisienne.  A Spirit of St. Louis
circling the blazing crown
of Liberté floats down
into the eagle-nest of Chartres

whose rose rim complements that Gate
of soaring human freedom
anchored to the thrum
of one great river’s beating heart.

So pictures flicker in the stream
of Mississippi dream
for one forlorn sunbeam
or hazel-mote, her gypsy scheme...

one footloose soul, one rambler
who would be gone from jail
before the frozen hail
of Hitler-Stalin-Xi-Putin (& gambler

Kim Jong-un) congeals into one
mammoth concrete hulk
of tearful despot-sulk –
one massive Man of Unknown

Snowjobs – Don the Golden Duck-
&-Coverling, the Beast
who gives offense the most
& smears the human face with muck.

So honchos of the earth lift up
their horns, a little while;
they cannot reconcile
their pride with that ineffable fop

who spins the elegant galaxies
here to infinity

              *

right from eternity
& lifts the heart to ecstasies

of fellowship & harmony –
the sparkling of justice
mercy   righteousness
high paths of gentle charity

Saturnian rings of human union
knotting the universe
within one Paradise
plainsong (trompette marine).

The turbid tumult of the beaten-down
rattles the reeds, troubles
the swarming crows – bubbles
explode – all the high-flown

rhetoric disintegrates under
the trampling of grass
by panicked herds (alas).
& yet there is another thunder

gathering in clouds above the oaks,
beneath the sea – low hum
of some beehive continuum –
sun-wheel, whose fiery spokes

feather to wings of Thunderbird –
enormous golden shade
whose raptor-beak’s a blade
of dragon-prow – Norsemen’s weird

serpent-egg on river-tree
sailing to Kiev, now –
St. George’s silver plow
upturning soil to poetry

salting the roots of tyranny
to shrivel them at last
beneath a trumpet-blast
of global human sovereignty –

the almond salience of a union-dome
bright coins of humanism
ringing a cataclysm
for every fraudulent kingdom

& every despot on the earth.
This eagle’s razor beak
has just begun to speak –
a tender rain, wisdom & truth.

1.14.17

12.19.2016

a Jewish refugee



Welcome back to Henry's late-night improv.  Record cold in Minneapolis tonight (Keith Richard's birthday).  We see foxes, turkeys, deer, packs of coyotes, rabbits & owls in this neck of the Minneapolis metro area (SE, along the river, by the University, where both sides of my family have lived for the last 150 years).  A few blocks from weird John Berryman's last home (33 Arthur Ave.).

Advent.  The Messiah is coming.  A Jewish refugee, he nurses in a barn.

I myself identify with Shakespeare's dreamy, soulful, effete Henry VI (recast tonight on PBS - The Hollow Crown).  Wars of the Roses.  "We are two shadows cast by Henry's body", declares one conspirator.

Civil strife... was Shakespeare part of a fake-news, Tudor messianic cult?  Was Shakespeare Shakespeare?

Think not.  I perceive the Globe & other theaters were implicated with royal politics... yet echoed something older, something medieval (mystery plays).  The master plot of the medieval theater, of the Byzantine labyrinth, was this : all earthly political authority is subject to the King of Kings.

So when you listen closely to the Delphic pentameter strophes of the Bard, you can hear this parochial, medieval, local, humble, Franciscan, monastic, Dominican, scholarly, ancient, simple, salty, truthful royal whisper... something to which both Eliot & David Jones, in contrastive ways, were attuned... the sovereignty of the Son of Man.

There is a spiritual resistance audible in Shakespeare - isomorphic with Osip Mandelstam's "oath to the 4th Estate".  A resistance to the usurper, the tyrant, the oppressor - recognized by his fell signs of inhumanity : his lack of grace, his murderous ambition, his rejection of his own eternal soul (with its attendant values).  Shakespeare's Richard III (who wasn't actually so bad, in real life).

This is the straight redwood of righteousness... the prophets' vow.

I confess, the inner world of Henry is quite unique & strange.  The sleepy king, the drowsy infant, bobbing along down the stream of his milky entitlement (the barn) - mumbling calm platitude-poems, radiating ridiculous ease, contentment... & only very slowly awakening to his fatal inheritance.

Oh yes : we must confront these usurpers.

I speak not of the minor satrapies, the lotos-eaters in the provinces, the solipsism of the echo-pond.

The poet's drawn to his true rivals in the lists, the spiritual enemies of Man : the despots, autocrats - the Putins, Erdogans - the Trumps, the Kim Jong-Uns, Dutertes, Xi Jinpings - the Stalins, Hitlers, Pol Pots... all the honchos riding out of Hell.

They will attack you, oak tree - like the termites gnawing at the life-marrow.  & yet the Child-King nestles in his oak-leaf hideout...will prevail against all Philistines (both high & low).

He is Man, after all.  Advent comes on.  Epiphany.

12.06.2016

Martin Luther King's home town



Sarah & I just got back from a 3-day trip to Atlanta, visiting relatives.  Martin Luther King's town, Jimmy Carter's town (even FDR's town, in a way).

Trying to come to grips with the Donald Trump reality.  Perhaps one good thing that might emerge, out of Arturo Ui's resistible rise, would be a reconnection with fundamentals of American democratic government.  As a matter of survival.

My first thought : Trump has one primary, subliminal, unconscious agenda.  Which would be : 1) to corrode institutions of democracy through administrative chaos, the flouting of legal and cultural norms; 2) to impose authoritarian tyranny, in order to bring "order" out of said chaos.

This is the playbook of Hitler and Putin.

Subliminal because Trump gives every sign of being a sleepwalker, a narcissist, a creature of show biz for its (his) own sake, a puppet of impersonal power-surges.  Or perhaps that's just his schtick, and he's a man of infinite guile.  Either way he is not a friend, he is the implacable enemy of liberal democracy.  If it's not his own design, he is subject to the designs of other, similarly dark forces.

How to oppose these forces?

40+ years ago, in 1972-73, I had a vocational crisis, a personal crisis, a nervous breakdown.  I was in college, at Brown University.  I was becoming a poet, and couldn't deal with it.  Moreover, I was morally/psychologically shattered - unable to orient the religious values instilled from childhood, with the 19-yr-old late-60s collegiate artiste I had become.

I survived this impasse.  I dropped out, wandered America and England, came back.  But what finally helped me to integrate the moral and the aesthetic, the spiritual and the poetic, was an encounter with a Russian poet of the early 20th century, Osip Mandelstam.

Mandelstam offered the model of a new synthesis.  I was drawn to the echoes of Rimbaud in his dense, wild, riddling stanzas; yet, by way of his wife Nadezhda's memoirs, and his own critical essays, I absorbed the rational cast of his mind, underlying the lyricism.

Mandelstam, the Acmeist, the Petersburg poet, the student of Gumilev, defended the Enlightenment values of Pushkin, of Chaadev - both rational and liberal, both Classical & Romantic.

"We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men [people] are created equal... endowed by their Creator with inalienable rights... among these being life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness..."

Two centuries of struggle - between the vision of Lincoln, Whitman, and the Founding Fathers, on the one hand, and the forces of greed, fraud, pride, intellectual vanity, ideology, violence, and oppression, on the other - have battered and weakened the power of this egalitarian vision, which lies at the root of Western democratic politics.

What I found in Mandelstam's writings and example was a foundation even deeper - going back, through Christianity, with Christianity, to its origins in Hebraic iconoclasm (Moses' people against the dominion of Pharaoh) - the very same spirit infusing the message of Martin Luther King.

Mandelstam's notion of the Redemption (sketchily outlined in his unfinished essay "Pushkin & Scriabin") parallels themes in his essay on Chaadev.  Both are concerned with human freedom : both come to the same conclusion.  Human (political) freedom is grounded ultimately in a fundamental spiritual (eternal) dimension.  The freedom we look for, hope for, & recognize in our secular systems of government, is an expression of sacred (eternal) soul liberty.

There is a poetic dimension to Enlightenment ideals : Chaadev & Gumilev, Wordsworth & Blake, bore witness to the philosophical concept of the dignity of Man (as imago of God).  Such dignity entails equality, and (inalienable) human rights; the very thing - the notion of a common, universal human Good - that autocrats and plutocrats hate & fear the most (it is their personal nemesis).

Roger Williams - the apostle of soul liberty, the student of Edward Coke (the lawful rights of Englishmen) and forerunner of John Locke (lawful government is popular sovereignty) - understood all these things 100 years before the American Revolution; articulated them in his foundation of the first civil government on the principles of religious tolerance and political democracy (the Colony of Rhode Island).

One of my gr-gr-etc-uncles, Thomas Gould, was a friend of Roger Williams; he rented Roger a portion of Gould Island (in Narragansett Bay) for planting a hay crop.

I haven't expressed myself too clearly.  I guess this is a rant or screed in the manner of Williams' "Fox Digg'd from his Burrow" etc.  But the basic idea is, that the Modern concept of liberal democracy is not at odds with the Reformation notion of soul liberty, nor with the Medieval notion (ala Mandelstam) of the Redemption : these things are rhymes.

God is not mocked.  The splendor & creative power of humankind (imago of Creator) entails her (our) human rights.  Government is the servant of these human rights; otherwise those who claim its authority, actually have none - are frauds, imposters, usurpers, despots, tyrants.  They must be cast down - cast down by the people.

old American poet in Atlanta

11.18.2016

you cannot buy free soul



FLAT VODKA

The weather is alchemical,
the mix is changeable
& lethal – Lear will fumble
through the hailstorm, inconsolable.

The air is saturate with salt.
Even the snow is bitter
as flat vodka.  Better
to butter up the mayor, Walt –

don’t you think?  I don’t.
His orange head is swollen
full of bloody poll-pollen –
he likely toss you to the Don.

Phosphoric Osip fingers his Commedia
for signs of figlio
della figlia... down Rio
del Espiritu wend lilac, willow, etc...

Dumb Cordelia keeps her counsel.
Won’t corrode the word
filial with a coarse reward.
You cannot buy free soul,

dear heart – & salt is cheap.
Cotton bolls is de termite,
but woe unto de spite-
docta, who sow to weep.

I see a Solominka mincing
on the edge of a knife,
a precipice – fine
Ravel for violin (pining).

11.18.16


8.31.2016

thy brother calls thee



CATENARY TED

The cosmos hangs from a thread, a
lifeline.  Yes, Flem
was with us, up at Verm –
helped Dad, me & Jim (brother)

dig the cabin foundation.  Flem’s
father was MN State
Epidemiologist;
Flem died of AIDS.  There are these themes,

signs... the padre of Hart Crane,
manufacturing Life-Savers...
Abraham with scimitar
squeakin’ by with a warning... O Cain,

thy brother calls thee from the ground.
Hobo sleeps by the river;
his thyrsus nods, a glimmer
of August grass.  Mullein, dock... diamond

pine-cone (piñata by the Po).  The tree,
the tall cedar of life,
Malcolm!  She’s your wife,
you know.  Nehushtana of Liberty.

Evergreen, year-round.  The shadow
owl knows (lives there) –
Spinoza cave-winds tear
up the forgery of terror (low

blow put into Vladimir Kiev-doom).
I’m singin’ with the stars,
Flem, Jim – after the wars.
Mr. Catenary Ted bojangles home.

8.31.16

2.29.2016

Dreamsong heads downstream


FRAIL SKY

The sheep in the mosaic, in Ravenna.
Ravens in the scroll,
in the temple (Emanu-el,
off Morris Ave).  & in Siena,

Lady Pax, lolling like Jenna
on the couch, beside
Justitia.  Wide
open, now, your Burchfield scena

wind, grassland, heartache.
What brung them blues, O shy
bird bro?  Frail sky
disintegrates in Birdy’s eye, beak

cradling bright penguin soot of Man.
Handing his crozier
gently to its heir
a sheepish Father Also-Ran

smiles, mild as any lambkin
Pontifox.  Herder-
gypsies circle ferder
into desert places.  Julius Putin

frescoes chimp dominion, over
stalag mites hiked to hell –
old human story (well,
there goes the antelope).  Clover

for meadows, cottonwood for bison...
Amaranth? – or pick
your poison, Hobo Dick.
I’m rippling a dreamsonge Union.

2.29.16

8.11.2014

A Game of Chess



MACAU MACAW

Another eleventh (August this time)
on brick-silly wasteland of
one shady summer patio.  Well
of hurry-up peas... bee-balm...

Joe-Pye weed... & yet this elfin
flower-team backyard
is not exempt.  The hard
news (frenzied shrunken headlines)

bearbaits me too.  From River Alph
to Yezidi desert, innocent
Peacock Angels get bent
down again.  The gibbering gulf

twixt glib libel & Guelf remains kiln-set
in demosthenic night.  Rainbows
of violets against violence? – how
coin bowl for Guinea-worm alphabet?

Sketches of Spain... Spanish Castle
Magic.  Convivial Jorge
the Gardenia been draggin’
me, all over.  Plays chess, too.

Iris, sez I, is a yurt-mother.
King’s taken baby steps
between crooks, bishops...
Q’s unreadable.  & here’s another

pawn to put in (yawning spacesuit).
A pair of carpenter asps
of the caduceus, Jasper –
dove from the deep.  Shalom (checkmate).

8.11.14

2.13.2014

Stolen Air

I put this up a few days ago, and then had second thoughts. But after a protest from Chris Kraemer, I worked on it a little more, & here it is again. This is the original video. The revised poem is printed below.





          STOLEN AIR
                                               to Yevgeny Vitishko

         There are many in Athens who’d rather not hear you
         speak, Olympian.
         Plato, perhaps.  And Putin.
         Judges in Sochi (policemen, too).

         Go back to your Sunday tea, they pray.
         Give it a rest.  Poetry
         in polite society
         is not taken seriously – & hurray

         for that! expound the hoi-polloi.
         Punctiliousness is de rigueur
         whatever that means.  Sure,
         it’s about stuff that matters... oh boy.

         Show me the riot.  What’s your game?
         Causeries des chimps.
         Gambling works – hence the
         full Monty (my life, sorry).  Shame

         on innocence, or chumps.  Sex
         is Pharaoh’s mask, Yahweh’s unisex,
         anyone who genuflects
         otherwise... go figure!  What next?

         A naked lancer skims toward Thermopylae.
         Naiads flank across frozen
         lake.  Siberian ozone...
         Pyrrhic destination, puppy.  Hey,

         my soul’s on fire.  Let’s put ‘em there,
         where they won’t cause no trouble.
         All’s Romany rust or ruble,
         Homs, seriozhne.  Griots vein stolen air.

                                               2.10.14