Showing posts with label Rimini. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Rimini. Show all posts

9.17.2019

translated to an island




SIMPLE IMMANENCE

Constitution Day.  Coke’s legacy,
translated to an island rose –
mother & nurse of repose
on the throne of Imago Dei – si?

Your lambswool, Giuliana – moss-green
through the red-dust desert.
Alighieri’s tomb, in quiet
(such as lie, smothered in grass, by San

Vitale).  Twin peacocks, maybe –
between two almond trees?
In the Ferrara freeze
(Micòl shivering in her garage)... see?

Your solar emblems not for me,
Ezra.  Marble from Ravenna
swiped for Rimini, & gloria
the simple immanence of meek Marie

shunned like a ghetto-child.  & so
the merry-go-round of sacrifice
creaks back to 1913, Paris...
Ugo, Parisina, burnt to ash once more

for the war to end all wars (before
the end).  A rust-bronze Penny
blackens backward, in Gehenna –
from dim crossroad will she soar

like diamond Southern Cross.  She is
lips’ ghost dance ring-
around-the-rosy... clear spring
Pax-water (your West Branch Isis).

9.17.19

3.14.2019

transcendental & irrational path P




THIN BANDS


The outer circle of this diagram
is drawing to a close.
The path P we chose
here loops into its ruddy oriflamme.

An old man’s line of numbers,
transcendental &
irrational.  Thin bands,
ketched for riding heavy combers –

sea-path between good & evil.
One people’s destiny
doubled in duality;
twin circles on their parallel


                **


emerge (amid stars & stripes
& iron bars).  History
halts here : between Rimini
& Ravenna (Venice-Paris) overlaps.

The pilot at the wheel of Providence
eyes the prow of his canoe.
Her figurehead (1132)
blooms from the sepulcher – immense

Redemption, like a Stonehenge grail
from 44 B.C. to 4.14.
Melchizedek stands in between.
The plummet-eye of Joachim sets sail.

3.14.19


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

10.11.2017

pavane pour une enfante



LIMESTONE FRIEZE

The river’s running high.  A tattered
linen cottonwood leaf
would lief be drifting
down the bronze serpent, toward

New Orleans.  January ice
will buckle on the iron
bridge – kids’ tongues on
frozen playground bars (cruel vise).

Hobo’s pal, Billy Apollinaire,
will mime an Orphic flute.
Satie, Ravel... sweet
astringent melody (pure air,

unseeable).  Pavane pour une
enfante défunte.  Meanwhile
male bondage is in style.
Our Master fabricates jejune

disgust for all things feminine;
his orange bonfires meld
fright into towering shelled
walnut eyries... flight from Someone

unaccountable (strange, uncontrollable).
Within a bomber’s O-range
now (I will arrange
accommodations for my sable

granite safety crypt) some Bluejay
whistles like a soloist
through sea-pine mist
sparse knotty blue-green (sotto voce)

                 *

memory.  The threads are fractal,
earth-quick.  Escapees.
Some limestone frieze
of Aphrodite, out of Rimini (or Hell)

feinting assaults above Sault Ste. Marie
(Lawrentian divides
shift icebreaks, tides...)
until the copper icon of green Liberty

lifts torchlight like Hagia Sophie –
her living harmony
of agape, for you
& me, enthroned (Okean-sea).

So like the sun lifting from azure salt
the fellowship of wisdom
born of mute charism
(Love’s lightning catenary vault

of steadfast blooming adoration)
lifts healing rescue-signs
for desolate young queens
& kings of darkened mind, O Solomon;

the little princess Shining Star
pirouettes all morning
in her stone-circling
agate labyrinth (somewhere

near Chartres, Oklahoma) – Ariadne
slips the woolen thread
around your wrist – dead
spring to life (Magdala, Galilee).

10.11.17

5.26.2017

compact Mayflower



ACCORD-HARMONIUM

Memorial Day.  The little flags
for birthday boys.  A vast
lime hillside park, just
north of Harriet.  My scraps & rags

of memory.  Twilight apartment
in the 50‘s (60 years
ago).  Mahogany.  Grandpa’s
brass shell from France.  The scent

of pipe tobacco.  Suntanned print
of Washington & Lafayette
skipping a minuet
après la Revolution... ancient

icons of a Constitution, hereby
animated (in the flesh).
How to start fresh?
For the remembrance of me...

for 1st Minnesota, Cemetery
Ridge (clumped there
after the last full measure).
Play with your toy soldiers, Henry.

Hawk-wrought republican scriptures
underwritten by compact
Mayflower... covenant
of friendly fellowship (yours,

mine, ours).  Underscored in turn
for soft flute melody
out of forgotten Gypsy
music-box, deep August forest (yearn

                *

for startled stars, green, coppery).
The absinthe reminiscence
of a Peto (Still Decades).
Time’s overrated.  It’s your history

that’s in your making, Liberty.
Out of Itasca spring
a major serpent thing
treads sinuous Welsh-knotty

tanglements, under lightweight bridge
(it’s only gravity) –
your shadow-play, Psyche,
Eurydice.  Reunion.  To the edge

of black-&-yellow double-eagle
eggshell canoe (viceroy
cocoon?) from stony
Petrograd (oscillate, seagull).

Black-orange monarch of your soul.
This little mustard seed
of pilgrimage (Venerable Bead
or Columbaa) will ravel up the whole

into an Okie safety catch of swinging
carousels – Francesca
slanting out of Rimini
(doggèd by Pound) is bringing

Beatrice in her wake – a hurricane
accord-harmonium,
an oriole some-hum bonum
renewing memories (Van Windowpane).

5.26.17

2.28.2017

Rose Island Light



HIGH C

Hobo takes his descending path
sloping to the great river.
What can he give her,
steady Delta Queen, to stanch the wrath?

Past frigid walls of enmity
feathered with graffiti –
a rust-red major C
like an iron magnet... Rimini

or Cleveland?  Venice, maybe –
where the blind king lies,
his crazed hawk’s eyes
closed (petrified) beneath the sea.

The crane dance of the manic poets
circles the salted harbors
of the Gulf.  The Earth bears,
pining, their smoldering caskets

toward one windy maelstrom-vortex –
matrix of Rose Island Light.
Human massif, beaming bright
rotating manna-sun, whose Artifex

is spoked with rays like peacock’s eyes;
radiant Ancient of Days
out of the heart of praise
within a ring of living creatures

breathing fire against the cold
accidia, the starved
& shriveled souls carved
with the scar of Queequeg’s mappemunde

                   *

the raven-star, the midnight sun.
& the Nazir of poets chants
one Galilean entrance –
lacustrine circle, Aquarian –

out of the sea as rapt Columbia,
planetary bird of clay;
cloud-shade of Day
for restoration of Terra Incognita.

Hobo beheld this mighty mandala
like a rose wheel of limestone
light, through human bone
& muscle, limbs & ligament, figura

tattooed by Piero della Francesca
as a mirror for your glance –
as Miriam in moody trance
harbors the light ray’s umiltà.

Like the Hart of Marsden Hartley
in a rose from the sea,
in a sea-knell’s 33,
out of the sunken chest floats free

the vision of immortality –
Love’s salty clarity
spouts from the clay
enchanted unison, octave’s high C.

So Hobo lay in his muddy riverbed
south of St. Louis.
His clay revolved; his
turtledove hummed overhead.

2.28.17

5.16.2016

Sur le pont d'Avignon


SUNSET ROOM

The cutthroat sun over Minneapolis
leaks light into many
dark corners.  Rimini
in mind (a limpstone palimpsest

beneath shellfire).  Go & strike
the tents, men long way
to Tipperary.  Say,
Francesca, if you can – how to make

things new.  Peer into womb
of earth-cavern, Ezra –
all the way to Ravenna...
At far end of Pontus rest him tomb

where Theseus stole them golden fleece
Maximus   whose sea-blue
eyes of   geomatrix   (thrum
true)   abstract chamber piece

like waves reiterating   into nautilus
the human sum   reframed
from steel teeth (Somme
bad dream)   the whole shark armistice

To turn   from bull’s-eye bulletins
down a narrow corridor
or trench file   war
in the hand, in the mind   sin’s

armature   in the marrow   Guillaume
& Jesus   the   steamboat pilot
metymorfs   the whole plot
in a forest   of masts   high sunset room

5.16.16

3.22.2016

Venice - Rimini - Ravenna


BLUE MARBLE

The lattice-work of Ariadne,
barely (in my crepuscular
History Theatre) there.
The river flows on, over yonder –

Eridanos, Mississippi, Po –
moving past this osier
excellence of rare
dear Dr. Wise.  Minerva, Virgo?

Beatrice, Julie Littletree...
Maggie... Miriam
of Bethany, or Bethlehem...
limpid over hopscotch Sally

gallivanting crost her vaulting
Paradise of glimmering
frater Pantocrator (wing,
knave, to that sheepfold ceiling).

Meanwhile my double creeps along
like Ezra the Venetian
Blind, touching the stolen
Rimini passage with an aching

brow; beyond his haunts by the canal
& sibylline bone-staves
Franciscans hid in caves,
a living shepherd leaps the wall

(disguised by Ariadne’s woof).
These corridors are spongy
depths.  So take the plunge –
blue marble veins Vitale’s roof.

3.22.16

2.05.2016

Old Man of Concrete


LIMESTONE BROW

By the Somme, a century ago
a sum of desolations.
I had a visitation
in a dream last night.  Harsh old

Uncle Ezra – driven mad
by madness, muttering
corrections, versing
disenchanted elegiacs (sadness

in my head).  After the trenches
he would pit force
‘gainst greedy Usura
high-boot it over squamous stenches,

inky pyramids of mental fright.
Let your barefoot Daphne
skip the alfalfa
down the nave then, rancid knight;

your whisper’s contrapuntal now
through salty reeds (remorse).
Francesca’s creaking hearse
in Rimini.  Cracked limestone brow.

Our errand in the labyrinth
is brief, & mostly blind.
The mirror is unkind
to the unkind.  A little terebinth

will slake its thirst, where lofty elms
once reigned; our monarch
is lowly – yet in his park
wings fan that once were casket-worms.

2.5.16

12.07.2015

Defense of a Diagram (2)

"What is your definition of poetry?" barked the Soviet apparatchik/journalist.  Osip Mandelstam straightened up, took a deep breath - & declared : "The poet's sense of being right."

Blogging is a notoriously loose-flappy kind of prose.  (Nevertheless, I like it.)  My previous post under this heading was not put together very well, and probably did my own grandiloquent poema something of a disservice.

I spoke of the argument, the theme, as the spine or bone-structure of a literary work.  Proposed that every poem makes some kind of argument - exists within some frame of (Einsteinian-relativistic) world-lines and logical architecture.

Works of visual art or music impinge on our sense of things with an unspoken or implicit language of signs.  Imaginative literature (poetry) does something analogous by way of symbolic analogies.  The testimony is direct, perhaps, but it is also more than that.  The story echoes with meaningful imagery, the way a symphony shimmers with overtones.

I suggested that underlying Ravenna Diagram - the long ongoing poem in the mode of Pound's Dantesque Cantos, or Olson's Williamsish Maximus, or Zukofsky's Poundian "A" - lies a foundational argument, rooted in a specific worldview.

Poems make arguments within an ecosystem of clashing worldviews, ideological systems which talk past each other.  They can be acts of intellectual resistance, as well as free-standing creative constructs.

Dante's life, whether he knows it or not, is drawing to a close along with his poem, in the quiet backwater of Ravenna.  He looks up at the mosaics of San Vitale or Sant' Apollinare, and infuses the Paradiso with their imagery.

Pound, in another age, jaunting around Italy, becomes enamored of Sigismondo Malatesta, the noble warlord, who stole statuary from Ravenna in order to construct his Tempio, dedicated to Isotta (with whom he was besotted).  He constructs a quasi-Dantean architecture for the Cantos, based on a set of horizontal friezes or frescoes in the Tempio.

Dante's Paradiso concludes with a visionary contemplation of the Trinity, symbolized as 3 interlocking rainbows in the heavens.  The poet concludes humbly : he says the logic of their facets eludes his mind, reducing him to baby-talk.  This is how the poem ends - with a vision of supernal cosmic Love, beyond rational explication or human comprehension.

So when I say that Ravenna Diagram is grounded in a poetic argument regarding the nature of the Trinity, and that the poem is set within a matrix of evocations and allusions to Dante's Ravenna... well, perhaps you can see where this is leading.

The Trinitarian ontology or worldview, emanating historically from the theology of the Greek fathers and early Christian Orthodoxy, could be seen as an intellectual extrapolation or superstructure, grounded in the collective spiritual experience of the early Church.

Dante wrote a thousand years later, from the center of the medieval Scholastic flowering (Thomas Aquinas et al.).  Yet fundamental questions about the destiny of individuals, and of the human race as a whole - about the progressive direction of history toward some kind of theological manifestation or end-time - were neither set aside nor resolved.

The questions facing St. Maximus the Confessor, in the age of the early Church convocations, creeds, and collective self-definitions, were even more basic.  The obsession of the Byzantine civilization revolved around the status and character of the Three Persons of the Trinity.  In the process of resolving these issues and defending Orthodox doctrine, Maximus developed a very acute and creative anthropology (drawing in part on the Byzantine absorption of Aristotle and Classical philosophy in general). Maximus's intellectual formulations have been deeply studied by scholars like Hans Urs von Balthasar and Lars Thunberg (wonderful books, highly recommended).

I seem to have gotten away from the topic at hand, and dribbled into obscure volumes of forgotten lore.  But not really.  This is background.

The anthropological lens developed by Maximus provides a means of interpreting the process of human history as a whole.  And this, as Pound asserted, is what epic (or his epic, anyway) is about : "a poem including history".

Imagine seeing the "historical Jesus" within such an interpretive framework.  Imagine a poem which grapples with the recognition that Christian theology - especially in its relationship with Judaism - has its own lacunae : perhaps will experience in the future a total renovation or re-configuration of its meanings.  Not on behalf of some demythologizing critique, but rather out of the cumulative experience of history itself, which sheds new light on old words and deeds.

Think of a poem which sets up dramatic historical juxtapositions, on behalf of a dramatic theory of history (see Urs von Balthasar on this, too).  Thus : we don't yet really know the "historical Jesus" in the fulness of historical actuality.  Imagine a mythopoiesis of history (as with Olson's or Williams' localism, for example, or - perhaps more important - a feminist interpretation of the Gospels) which sets up a dialectic in juxtaposition to the abstract formulae of theological statements.

Add to this the dramatic dimension of the enunciation of the poem itself : impossible project which only magnifies the historical here & now of the poet's own time.  But this absurdity & impossibility opens up creative (theological) possibilities, too : Jesus himself was called the Nazir, the holy man, the singer, the poet (in the line of poet-king David).

This is just a sample of the arcane shrubbery forming the backdrop of an "argument" for the said murk-in-progress (Ravenna Diagram)...

10.01.2015

Atlantic weather


HOME FREE

Set adrift down Providence streets,
blown along by chilly air,
this autumn Atlantic weather
in the Ocean State... gray cloud-fleets

follow birthday Hobo, his big-baby
muttering – a nonsense
tremolo from Jonah’s
whale-gut habitat (her kingdom’s maybe

someday).  Like Apollinaire slaloming
dolphin-rime atop a marble
door in Rimini, warbling
his trompette marine (something

about a Frisco treasure chest
in a hurricane eye) – or
Bluejay Slocum, Shaker
salt in pauper’s Dauphin-quest...

your sailor’s air, so fortunate
pipes down from the future
on Ariadne lure.
Hookline for deep sinker – bright

hand who flew from the poop deck
waving from waves his
palm-leaf radius
(JJ-pendant, octahedral speck).

Wisdom’s justified in all her children
plays out the line from high-
strung Miriam.  Sky milk-
train sounds – all home free then.

10.1.15

October periscope

9.21.2015

Life's unwritten history


BRUEGEL SCENE

Summer loses weight, becomes
translucent at the end.
Sunlight slants graveward
with a farewell glance, & autumn’s

trumpet-call is barely audible
amid hilarious
alarums in the circuits
of the starlings (swarming, risible).

& so you wonder where you are
on earth.  John Berryman’s
in jasper, John’s in grey;
Man’s in a graveyard green (so far

from here).  Splat in a corner
one cloud-turtle (from
Iona) lifts her drum-
shell from the sea – almost another

comber, very salt & watery.
I’ll join the starling circus,
friends – I’ll whistle us
to Minneapolis, SE of Rimini.

That raven’s in the Bruegel scene.
His glance is like one
wintry oeuil upon
her apron – by the deep tureen,

at dawn, in the spare refectory;
feathered in soft silence
on a wall of remembrance.
What’s up, Dad?  Unwritten history.

9.21.15

September 21

9.15.2015

Your moon, Apollinaire


LOW RELIEF

Air is mirror-brilliant today, even
shadows cut clean
across Touro slate.
Mid-September, slanting sun,

a New Year for an old people.
Someone plays a flute
off Morris Ave... fleet
foot sails into New World marble.

As in a low relief in Rimini –
an august Agostino
Venus, or Diana
whorled in limestone dithyramb

out of the sea.  The jutting cliff
crusted with barnacles
whittles its pinnacle’s
bowsprit, figurehead – her glyph

(lifted in one hand-wave) twin
scallop-shells, like
castanets (break,
crashing surf...) where time began.

Your moon along the shore, Apollinaire.
Limestone foundations
crest across seasons,
granite castles – seagull’s mother,

feathering horsegrass in your hair.
1321... 1132...
Joachim voodoo;
Jeanne’s grey-eyed icon (Galla’s lair).

9.15.15
"Venus Beats All"

8.22.2015

What thou lovest well

Have been reading about art lately.  Adrian Stokes, author/artist, fused a psychoanalytic approach (via Melanie Klein) with a deep knowledge of Renaissance sculpture & painting.  (Came to this discovery by way of a stray tweet by Jeremy Noel-Tod, about a Carcanet book he had edited, collected poems by R.F. Langley, a British poet much influenced by Stokes.  All this has been delightful new territory for me.)

It has some relevance to my latest unrealistic writing project, Ravenna Diagram, which has something to do in places with triangulating Venice-Rimini-Ravenna.  Ezra Pound is buried in Venice; Dante is buried in Ravenna; and both Pound & Stokes were fascinated with Rimini. (I guess they also crossed paths at some point.)

So these recent preoccupations of mine coincided with the latest ISIS atrocity in Syria, the murder of Khalid al-Asaad, longtime director of antiquities in Palmyra.

Asaad's devoted life & iconic death reminded me of some remarks by Russian poet Osip Mandelstam, about how a person's death somehow sums up and defines their life.  This was certainly true in his own case : Mandelstam died a victim of a personal vendetta by another Osip (his evil twin), Joseph Stalin - after Mandelstam had written a brief satirical poem featuring Stalin as its target.  Not a prudent thing to do in 1930's Russia (nor in today's Russia either, as a matter of fact).  Yet Mandelstam had a commitment to something beyond his personal survival.  As did Khalid al-Asaad.  This is perhaps the "true" form of martyrdom, which, unlike the standard model popular today, does not require the mass murder of innocent bystanders in order to achieve its glorified apotheosis in Paradise.  No, you only have to give up your own life.

Melanie Klein's neo-Freudian psychology focuses on childhood development.  The personality of the  infant & very young child is shaped by a dynamic & dramatic relation with the nurturing & distanced mother : Klein (& Stokes as well) reads deeply into adult experience grounded in this primal & primary & ambivalent/conflicted relationship.

For Stokes, art presents models of human victory & plenitude, through the integrations of these subconscious conflicts by way of the hard-won justification of the beautiful (the work of the artist).

In view of some such angle of vision, the depredations of ISIS against anything that threatens their "control of the narrative" comes across as the panic of the child who has rejected his mother.  Maybe Judaism & paganism & Christianity, the whole Syrian melting-pot out of which Islam emerged in the first place (in about the 7th century) comes across as a subconscious feminine threat, from the vewpoint of fundamentalist (Saudi, Salafist, ISIS) Islam.  I don't know, maybe ISIS is frightened of the Jewish mother against which it has gone to irrevocable war.

Judaism and Christianity have also fostered similar strains of iconoclastic rejection of art and images. After all, one of the Ten Commandments prohibits the making of any "graven images" of Yahweh.  The idols of the pagans, in the eyes of monotheism, are regarded as wooden follies of darkened minds.  Scriptural Puritanism rejected medieval Catholicism on similar grounds.  ISIS simply takes this direction to its "logical" conclusion : all art is verboten, all art is from the "infidel".

I wonder what images they see when they sleep at night, if they are able to sleep at night.  Do they ever see their mothers in their dreams?  Or perhaps they glimpse fleeting snapshots of the mothers of the "kaffir" young women they have enslaved and violated?  Maybe they don't need to sleep.  They can thrive, momentarily, on their canned & indoctrinated daydreams of paradise.  Livin' the propaganda dream, courtesy of their cynical Ba'athist warlords.  (Ba'athism, by the way, modeled its modus operandi on Stalinism.  Stalin was one of Saddam Hussein's heroes.)

My own particular confessional tradition has to do with the Incarnation, the appearance of God as Man, in the body, in one particular place & time - so I am inexorably committed to the idolatry of physical timebound mortal earthly existence & all its consequences.  This does not put me in good stead with the extreme iconoclasts of whatever theological persuasion.  I would rather stand with Khalid al-Asaad, devoted as he was to some local piles of classical statues & pillars & broken ancient ruins.  His devotion & his death reminded me of some lines of another fanatic old codger, Ezra Pound (from Canto LXXXI) :

What thou lovest well remains,
                                                  the rest is dross
What thou lov’st well shall not be reft from thee
What thou lov’st well is thy true heritage
Whose world, or mine or theirs
                                            or is it of none?
First came the seen, then thus the palpable
        Elysium, though it were in the halls of hell,
What thou lovest well is thy true heritage
What thou lov’st well shall not be reft from thee

8.17.2015

Don't ask me

Not much to say about this, except that it's part of a series, and that Stephano and Nunzio are father & son from Sicily (my regular haircut here in Providence).  "Agnes" is Agnes Eizenberger, from Vienna, my Uncle Jim's onetime companion.  (Also thinking of another icon-maker & diagram artist, Agnes Martin.)

VIENNA VEINS

Klimt was a kind of crooked wicket
out on a creaky limb
in Cricket City (rim
of Rimini, Parisian rivulet).

Gold.  Vienna veins of Ravlin
violins (we were there,
Agnes).  Do not compare.
It’s only an American Robin

Redbreast, hooded, yodeling...
he’s calling out your name.
Not Stephano (fair game
for Fame) nor Nunzio (clipping

the locks that flood across your face)
– though they are near.  The Boot
strides on.  The man is moot.
Your Crown is Everwhirr – mesh-lace

of spy-veil, ambling the source...
a poverty of materials
in a land of burials
& sunshine (Italy, of course).

Klimt limns the anguish in your eyes.
Through vales of Solomon
or Sheba, all the broken
kingdoms, poppy-fields (Grandpappy’s

ripe Epiphany).  Pain circulates
through straitened means
somehow – corny Earth-scenes
beyond our ken (Thanksgiving plates).

8.17.15

Gustav Klimt, Portrait of Adele Bloch-Bauer (1907)